“Great job, Jake.” Fishbach added. “Kitty, I think we’ve got us the making of a new star; if we can only convince Stern.”
When I heard the name Stern, my stomach started to churn. What was he talking about? Why did Stern need convincing? I had just gotten started in the movie business. Was my job already in jeopardy?
As if she sensed my concern, Kitty took my massive pinky finger in her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
XXXX
Ahuga, ahuga.
As promised, the next morning, Zion Meyers, one of the talent scouts who discovered me on the Santa Monica Pier, was outside my boarding house honking.
When he dropped by the set on the Thursday before, Meyers had made the date. “To celebrate wrapping A Corn-Fed Sleuth, we’ll go to Musso and Frank on Hollywood Boulevard. It’s a hot watering hole for the film crowd. Be ready at twelve-sharp on Saturday.”
I had been eagerly awaiting my Hollywood outing ever since Meyers mentioned it. Whenever I wasn’t busy working, all kinds of fantasies of the sites and celebrities I would see ran through my head. So when it came time to go, I bolted out of the apartment and ran down the stairs. As I flew out of the front door, I realized I had forgotten my sweater again and turned to go back and get it.
Ahuga, ahuga.
Meyers honked the horn on his new sapphire Packard again.
The heck with the sweater, I thought, and hurried to the curb and got in the car.
“Hey Jake, how’s tricks? I’m sure glad we talked your Pop and Mom into letting you stay,” Meyers said as we pulled away.
“Me too!” My knees were pressed, better said smashed, up against my chest. I could barely fit in the tiny front seat.
“Before lunch, I wanna take you on a little tour of Hollywood.” Meyers drove east down Sunset toward Western. As we passed Vermont, he looked over at me and then back at the road. “Jake, they’re really charged up about you at the studio.”
I sensed the excitement in his voice. “What about Stern?” I asked modestly, unsure whether or not I should bring up what had been troubling me since I heard Fishbach’s comment the day before.
“Why do you ask?”
“Yesterday afternoon, Fishbach said something about Stern needing to be convinced about me. Is there a problem?”
“It’s no big thing. Don’t worry, sport. There are some conditions to the deal, but we’ll talk about that at lunch.”
I felt queasy. I hated when anyone said “Don’t worry” or “We’ll talk about it later.” Based on my experience with doctors, whenever I heard those words I would cringe and wait for the other shoe to drop. I also wondered what deal Meyers was talking about.
“Don’t worry, sport,” Meyers repeated. “I’ve got a contract right here for your next flicker.” Meyers tapped the breast pocket in his blazer. “It’s a formality; just waiting for your John Hancock.” As we crossed Figueroa he looked at me again. He took his right hand off the steering wheel and patted my forearm as if to congratulate me. “They wanna call it A Howling Success. I say, strike while the iron is hot!”
Meyers was still looking at me. The traffic had stopped suddenly because a farmer in a small truck full of flowers four cars in front of us had a flat.
Ka-Pow!
Meyers smacked into the back end of an elegant, fresh-from-the-showroom-floor, ebony Pierce-Arrow Touring car. Luckily, we hadn’t been driving too fast. It was just a fender-bender, so nobody was hurt. That’s why Meyers and I were both shocked at what happened next.
The two cars in the crash pulled to the curb. The driver of the Pierce-Arrow, a muscleman of a chauffeur, flew out of the limo. When he surveyed the damage to his limousine, he ripped his black-billed cap off his head, threw it down in the street, and stomped on it with his boots. Wounded-grizzly-bear-mad, he glared at us. Then with both fists ready for war, the chauffer charged Meyers’ side of the car.
“Get out of there, you little weasel!” he demanded.
If Meyers’s window hadn’t been shut, I’m certain the chauffer would have punched my new friend where he sat. Meyers turned pale. He tried to sink under the dashboard to escape from the danger. “Stand up, Jake!” Meyers, now huddled on the floor, spoke in a demanding whisper.
I couldn’t understand why he wanted me to stand up. What did it have to do with me? The chauffer pounded more violently on the window. Then he began to pound on the roof.
“Please, stand up!” Meyer’s terrified tone let me know that he was no longer demanding, he was begging.
Still confused, I didn’t move. When the chauffer saw his quarry stall, he put his boot on the door of the car and tried to pry it open. Luckily, Meyers had locked it. I wondered if the enraged limo driver would pull the new Packard’s door right off its hinges.
Meyers elbowed me again. “Stand up, you idiot! Can’t you see? This gorilla wants to kill me!”
Up until that instant I always thought of myself as peaceful. I still do. I’ve always seen myself as a lover, not a fighter. But when the gravity of that situation finally sunk in, I realized I didn’t have any choice. I opened the Packard’s passenger door and swung my legs out onto the pavement. Slowly, I unwound all four hundred pounds of me.
The chauffer stared up. I watched his clenched-for-battle jaw unhinge. Judging by the look of disbelief and terror on his face, he must have thought ten feet of titanic muscle and bone was glaring down at him from the sidewalk. Along with the blood, the enraged expression on the chauffeur’s face had drained, replaced by what I can honestly say was a look of pale panic. He spun around, fled to his wounded limo, jumped in and sped away, burning the rubber of his rear tires. I bet that poor fellow messed his pants in the process.
When I got back in the car, Meyers looked shaken. “Whew, that was a close call,” he said. “Thank you, Jake. I owe you big time!” He took a linen hanky out of the front pocket of his blazer and wiped his brow. I smiled to myself. Maybe there is something to this giant stuff, after all, I thought.
I believe that was one of the first times I was genuinely happy to be as big as I am. As you’ll hear, that was not the last time a bully who crossed my path got his due. Looking back on it, I think I must have experienced what a huge Great Dane puppy does after his first full-grown bark. But as pleased as I felt, I was still worried about Stern.
“If you don’t mind, Jake, let’s cut the tour short. I need a drink,” Meyers said.
At the next intersection, we made a U-turn and headed back to the restaurant. Prohibition had been in full swing for three years and I wondered where and how he’d get the hooch.
XXXX
With its bubbly crowd, mahogany paneled walls, and luscious menu, Musso and Frank would eventually become one of my favorite haunts. Although it was only a little past noon on a Saturday, the place was already jumping.
My friend took two long snorts from the leather covered flask he carried in
