Date: Sun, 24 May 1998 10:20:54 -0700 From: "J. Hall" Subject: Re: INT: Goldman Pictures When my secretary, Mrs Felterhauf, left, I opened the office bottle of pre-war hootch and poured a couple of long fingers into a Beech-Nut mug and wondered why Marlowe didn't want to take this case. We were both dead broke, and Goldman wasn't. Not with sixteen hundred theaters showing "When She Was Bad". Bette Davis had never been more of a bitch, and the rubes loved it. Loved her. Goldman was literally Midas, the Gold Man, and he hadn't had a flop since raiding Fox and Warners in '46. The Herald said he was the richest man east of Denver, and I didn't doubt it. When Phil had called, I was sorting through a stack of faded wanted posters, lost dog ads, and the other assorted detritus a private investigator had to burrow through for a living. I tossed aside a crayoned portrait of a schnauzer named Ralfie, sorry kids, he's probably being served with bok choy down in Chinatown. I held the phone with my shoulder and put a leg up on an open drawer and laughed. But not too hard. "Fifty a day, plus expenses? Just to keep an eye on this little sister? What's the dope, she steal Arthur Godfrey's chimp?" A neat pile of bills, cream paper and fresh ink sat unopened on my desk along with a flyer from Schelerian's Deli announcing they were serving real Argentinian corned beef on Tuesdays. Poor Ralfie. Marlowe snorted. "Name's Lareine Hinton. Ever hear of her?" "Nope. Should I?" "Not unless you know Tony DeLauro's sex life inside out." DeLauro. I thought he was in Joliet, and said so. "Out," Marlowe grunted, and I could hear a woman's murmur in the background over the hum of the phone. "You available?" I made uh-hum noises, the trickle of bourbon licking fire down my throat. "She's testing at Goldman tomorrow morning, and DeLauro might not want one of his 'nieces' to take that kind of test. Pretty redhead, nice gams, rack on her like an elk. He's propriatery about his trophies, and Goldman knows it." "She's testing with Goldman personally?" I croaked, a little Lucky Strike smoke mixing with the bourbon turning my voice into a dry rustle of rusted iron. "Goldman always tests his new ones personally, you know that." I swallowed and nodded, then exhaled a yes. "How long is the job, Phil?" I asked, wondering if I'd have to get my Crosley out of the garage down on Alvarado, mentally playing through the script where I bartered my secretary, my mother and my cat to Shoemaker to liberate it after his body work on those machine gun holes was finished. If it was finished. "Just take a cab, Jeff," he muttered. I guess I'd been thinking out loud again. "And yeah, she can act, she's been hiding from DeLauro's boys for a year. She won't be able to hide much longer. You better pack something." We discussed ex-wives, lawyers and bills for a few more minutes and I hung up, night had fallen while I'd been listening. In the morning, I caught a cab to Goldman Studios. I packed alright. My .45 and a pocket full of slugs. She was standing there as I pulled up.