The Little Men by Megan Abbott Page A

She
wondered how long they’d been here, and if
anyone even noticed them anymore.
    She was thinking all these things while Mr.
D. was still talking, his voice hoarse with logic
and finality. A faint aggression.
    He concluded by saying surely she agreed
that all the craziness had to end.
    You were a luscious piece of candy, he said, but now I gotta spit you out.
    After, she walked down the steep exit ramp
from the bar, the lanterns shivering in the
canyon breeze.
    And she walked and walked and that was
how she found the Canyon Arms, tucked off
behind hedges so deep you could disappear
into them. The smell of the jasmine so strong
she wanted to cry.
    â€œYou’re an actress, of course,” Mrs. Stahl said,
walking her to Bungalow Number Four.
    â€œYes,” she said. “I mean, no.” Shaking her
head. She felt like she was drunk. It was the
apricot. No, Mrs. Stahl’s cigarette. No, it was
her lipstick. Tangee, with its sweet orange
smell, just like Penny’s own mother.
    â€œWell,” Mrs. Stahl said. “We’re all actresses, I suppose.”
    â€œI used to be,” Penny finally managed. “But
I got practical. I do makeup now. Over at Republic.”
    Mrs. Stahl’s eyebrows, thin as seaweed,
lifted. “Maybe you could do me sometime.”
    It was the beginning of something, she was sure.
    No more living with sundry starlets stacked
bunk-to-bunk in one of those stucco boxes inWest Hollywood. The Sham-Rock. The Sun-Kist Villa. The smell of cold cream and last
night’s sweat, a brush of talcum powder between
the legs.
    She hadn’t been sure she could afford to
live alone, but Mrs. Stahl’s rent was low. Surprisingly
low. And, if the job at Republic
didn’t last, she still had her kitty, which was
fat these days on account of those six months
with Mr. D., a studio man with a sofa in his
office that wheezed and puffed. Even if he really
meant what he said, that it really was
kaput, she still had that last check he’d given
her. He must have been planning the brush
off, because it was the biggest yet, and made
out to cash.
    And the Canyon Arms had other advantages.
Number Four, like all the bungalows,
was already furnished: sun-bleached zebra
print sofa and key lime walls, that brightwhite
kitchen with its cherry-sprigged wallpaper.
The first place she’d ever lived that didn’t
have rust stains in the tub or the smell of
moth balls everywhere.
    And there were the built-in bookshelves
filled with novels in crinkling dustjackets.
    She liked books, especially the big ones by
Lloyd C. Douglas or Frances Parkinson Keyes,
though the books in Number Four were all at
least twenty years old with a sleek, high-tone
look about them. The kind without any people
on the cover.
    She vowed to read them all during her time
at the Canyon Arms. Even the few tucked in
the back, the ones with brown-paper covers.
    In fact, she started with those. Reading
them late at night, with a pink gin conjured
from grapefruit peel and an old bottle of
Gilbey’s she found in the cupboard. Those
books gave her funny dreams.
    â€œShe got one.”
    Penny turned on her heels, one nearly
catching on one of the courtyard tiles. But,
looking around, she didn’t see anyone. Only
an open window, smoke rings emanating like
a dragon’s mouth.
    â€œShe finally got one,” the voice came again.
    â€œWho’s there?” Penny said, squinting toward
the window.
    An old man leaned forward from his perch
just inside Number Three, the bungalow next
door. He wore a velvet smoking jacket faded
to a deep rose.
    â€œAnd a pretty one at that,” he said, smiling
with graying teeth. “How do you like Number
Four?”
    â€œI like it very much,” she said. She could
hear something rustling behind him in his
bungalow. “It’s perfect for me.”
    â€œI believe it is,” he said, nodding slowly. “Of
that I am sure.”
    The rustle came again. Was it