know what I meant." He rubbed his
red cheeks with both hands. "I'm sorry I said that. I should
have said something to him."
"Look, this is his bar on his street in his
town. The way he sees it, he's got squatter's rights." I got
tired of my own explanation halfway through it. "Let's forget
it, O.K.?"
"Yeah," Moon said without conviction. "It
was just the way he talked about Quentin's body--the pleasure he got
out of it." Jack stood up. "We better get going. Helen's
expecting us at the Belle Vista at seven-thirty."
We walked out to the street. "I'll get you that
one hundred dollars in the morning," Jack said. "I'll cash
a check at the desk."
Although I was getting tired of his indignation, I
said, "All right."
The doorman hailed a cab for us. Jack told the
cabbie, "The Belle Vista." And he didn't say another word
on the way over.
By the time we pulled up in front of the hotel, Jack
had grown up again.
"Why'd you call him Seymour?" he asked me,
as we stepped out of the cab.
I told him the story of Seymour's career in movies
and he laughed.
"Christ, that's typical. I wonder how many lives
people run through before they end up in this city? Three, four? It's
like Hindu hell. If you can't make it in Butte or Des Moines, you
live your next life waiting for a casting call in Studio City. And
when the karma dries up, you're reborn as a cop or a parking lot
attendant in Westwood." He turned to the doorman--a handsome
Chicano kid in livery, standing in front of a long, canopied bridge.
"You want to be in movies, don't you?"
The kid smiled. "You bet."
Jack smiled back at him. "Well, I guess we all
do," he said. "After all, I wasn't born to be the executive
producer of 'Phoenix'. It's guys like Frank Glendora who have the
luck. They want one thing and they get it. The rest of us keep riding
the wheel."
Moon tipped the kid a quarter and we walked across
the bridge, over a gully of flowers, and through a pair of French
doors into the hotel lobby. The lobby was nothing more than a short
breezeway with a second pair of French doors propped open on the far
side of the room. A prim woman in a floral print dress was sitting at
a desk beside the second pair of doors. She stood up when we came in.
"Can I help you?" she said pleasantly.
"We're here to see Helen Rose," Jack said.
"Tell her it's Jack Moon."
"I'll ring her room."
While the woman was phoning Helen Rose, I walked over
to the second pair of doors and took a peek at the hotel grounds.
There was a small cobbled court behind the lobby, with long buildings
surrounding it on three sides. The buildings were in the Monterey
Revival style stucco, lath, and concrete, with low, hipped roofs of
red clay tiles and wrought-iron trim on the doors and windows.
Stone walkways angled off the court, running past the
spare white buildings and back into the grounds. The walks were
narrow, tree-lined, and heavily ornamented with shrubs and flowers.
The place had the look of a private garden. And the smell of a
garden, too. The mixed fragrances of the flowers were like a taste on
the tongue--a sweet, thick, maraschino flavor of oleander, jacaranda,
and bougainvillea.
"It's pretty, isn't it?" Jack said over my
shoulder.
"Yes."
"It's like a conservatory out there. They even
have name tags on the trees and flowers."
"Mr. Moon?" the woman at the desk called
out. Jack and I turned around.
"Miss Rose would like to talk to you. You can
take it on the phone in the corner."
Jack walked over to the corner booth and I went up to
the desk. The woman smiled at me. She had a pretty, slightly
aloof-looking face that fit beautifully into that pretty, exclusive
garden spot.
"Do you like our hotel?" she said.
"It's lovely."
"Yes," she said with pride. "It
affords our guests a measure of privacy that's unusual in this city.
I mean, of course, outside of a private residence in Bel Air."
"You must meet a lot of famous people."
"A few," she said mildly, as if she weren't
interested in pursuing the
red cheeks with both hands. "I'm sorry I said that. I should
have said something to him."
"Look, this is his bar on his street in his
town. The way he sees it, he's got squatter's rights." I got
tired of my own explanation halfway through it. "Let's forget
it, O.K.?"
"Yeah," Moon said without conviction. "It
was just the way he talked about Quentin's body--the pleasure he got
out of it." Jack stood up. "We better get going. Helen's
expecting us at the Belle Vista at seven-thirty."
We walked out to the street. "I'll get you that
one hundred dollars in the morning," Jack said. "I'll cash
a check at the desk."
Although I was getting tired of his indignation, I
said, "All right."
The doorman hailed a cab for us. Jack told the
cabbie, "The Belle Vista." And he didn't say another word
on the way over.
By the time we pulled up in front of the hotel, Jack
had grown up again.
"Why'd you call him Seymour?" he asked me,
as we stepped out of the cab.
I told him the story of Seymour's career in movies
and he laughed.
"Christ, that's typical. I wonder how many lives
people run through before they end up in this city? Three, four? It's
like Hindu hell. If you can't make it in Butte or Des Moines, you
live your next life waiting for a casting call in Studio City. And
when the karma dries up, you're reborn as a cop or a parking lot
attendant in Westwood." He turned to the doorman--a handsome
Chicano kid in livery, standing in front of a long, canopied bridge.
"You want to be in movies, don't you?"
The kid smiled. "You bet."
Jack smiled back at him. "Well, I guess we all
do," he said. "After all, I wasn't born to be the executive
producer of 'Phoenix'. It's guys like Frank Glendora who have the
luck. They want one thing and they get it. The rest of us keep riding
the wheel."
Moon tipped the kid a quarter and we walked across
the bridge, over a gully of flowers, and through a pair of French
doors into the hotel lobby. The lobby was nothing more than a short
breezeway with a second pair of French doors propped open on the far
side of the room. A prim woman in a floral print dress was sitting at
a desk beside the second pair of doors. She stood up when we came in.
"Can I help you?" she said pleasantly.
"We're here to see Helen Rose," Jack said.
"Tell her it's Jack Moon."
"I'll ring her room."
While the woman was phoning Helen Rose, I walked over
to the second pair of doors and took a peek at the hotel grounds.
There was a small cobbled court behind the lobby, with long buildings
surrounding it on three sides. The buildings were in the Monterey
Revival style stucco, lath, and concrete, with low, hipped roofs of
red clay tiles and wrought-iron trim on the doors and windows.
Stone walkways angled off the court, running past the
spare white buildings and back into the grounds. The walks were
narrow, tree-lined, and heavily ornamented with shrubs and flowers.
The place had the look of a private garden. And the smell of a
garden, too. The mixed fragrances of the flowers were like a taste on
the tongue--a sweet, thick, maraschino flavor of oleander, jacaranda,
and bougainvillea.
"It's pretty, isn't it?" Jack said over my
shoulder.
"Yes."
"It's like a conservatory out there. They even
have name tags on the trees and flowers."
"Mr. Moon?" the woman at the desk called
out. Jack and I turned around.
"Miss Rose would like to talk to you. You can
take it on the phone in the corner."
Jack walked over to the corner booth and I went up to
the desk. The woman smiled at me. She had a pretty, slightly
aloof-looking face that fit beautifully into that pretty, exclusive
garden spot.
"Do you like our hotel?" she said.
"It's lovely."
"Yes," she said with pride. "It
affords our guests a measure of privacy that's unusual in this city.
I mean, of course, outside of a private residence in Bel Air."
"You must meet a lot of famous people."
"A few," she said mildly, as if she weren't
interested in pursuing the
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