Flavor of the Month (33 page)

He tried to smile at the kid director. “I think I know what you’re looking for. Let’s go look at the girl,” he managed to choke.

Paul Grasso looked over the pink message slips scattered across his desk. Mostly creditors, and an ominous message from Benny Eggs, a “creditor” who broke legs. Nothing else, except for this one from Robbie Lymon. Paul wondered what that old queen wanted. A favor, no doubt. A. Joel cleared his throat, restive. Paul turned to the overweight woman in toeless high-heeled sandals who stood at the door of the Grasso and Associates conference room, tapping her foot nervously. “She’s in the can,” she explained to Paul, gestured toward the bathroom, and then shrugged. Paul looked down and noticed the chipped magenta nail polish on her big toe peeking out of the shoe, and the horny, yellowish toenail, complete with a visible sliver of dirt. He shuddered. What a pig. But he’d seen the girl, and she was a honey. Maybe the solution to young Eisenstein’s problems. He looked back at A. Joel, kid director.

“I think you’ll like her. She’s got something undefinable.” Yeah, the best ass and the flattest stomach in Los Angeles. Plus a perky pair of ta-tas. Face was okay. Only so-so, really. Pretty enough to get her voted prom queen, but less than average out here. Still, for a jeans commercial with no closeups, it was ass that sold. And for this soft-core crap that was passing as an ad, she’d be perfect. Too bad the little bitch was only fifteen. Or maybe less. The mother had the girl’s birth certificate, but Paul had been through
that
shit before. When they were underage, it made all kinds of problems with the L.A. County Bureau of Child Welfare. Try to arrange a tutor for a two-day shoot! Still, for this ad it was probably worth it. Anything to get the kid director, this A. Joel Whatever, off his back. Also get Benny Eggs off his back. And put a few bucks in the bank.

The girl walked in. She hung her head, but despite the lousy posture Paul couldn’t help but again notice the ass, the long legs, the nice pair of jugs. She had to have an eighteen-inch waist—nineteen tops. And this kid wasn’t fifteen yet. He prayed she was already fourteen. He shot a look at his client. At last, the little cocksucker was silent, staring. Grasso smiled to himself. Well, this would make a nice little fee. Yeah, he hadn’t lost his touch yet.

“Could I have a right profile?” he asked, and the girl slowly turned. Her hair, a medium brown, obscured her face, but the angle revealed the soft curve of her buttocks, emphasized by the taut stomach.

“So, Adrienne, could you look this way?” The girl said nothing, but she raised her head.

“Mrs. Godowski, I’m going to have to ask Adrienne to take off her shirt and slacks.” He’d informed the mother from the get-go.

“She’ll do anything you need her to, Mr. Grasso,” the woman told him in liquid tones, then turned to the girl. “You heard the man, Adrienne.”

Very nice, very maternal, Mrs. Godowski, Grasso thought, while Adrienne began unbuttoning her blouse. It was a cheap blue thing with a line of limp ruffles down the front. She shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the ground in a heap. She was wearing a red lace bra, an underwired job that served her tits up like grapefruits on a platter. Grasso eyed his client. So far, so good.

The girl kicked off her shoes with a practiced movement and put her hands up to the zipper of her tight white jeans. She pulled, and the only sound in the room was the metal noise of her fly opening. She began, ungracefully, to struggle out of them, but the zipper must have caught her underpants, for they slid off as well. From the waist down she was bare. There in the conference room, leaning with one hand against a file cabinet, she seemed unfazed, uncaring, revealed: her perfect flesh rose up in a white fountain from the jeans crumpled at her feet. There wasn’t a mar or a ripple to spoil the perfection of her ass, her thighs, her belly.

This
was what size fourteens in Tenafly, New Jersey, dreamed of looking like.
This
is what sold jeans. The girl looked blankly at the two men. Paul Grasso turned expectantly to his client, the kid director.

“She’s too old,” A. Joel Grossman said.

Sharleen juggled the plates along one arm down to her palm and grabbed the coffeepot with the other hand. She rushed from behind the counter toward the three police officers in the corner booth, her heart pounding.

“Okay, boys,” she said with forced cheerfulness, “pot roast and mashed for you, chili and onions here, and chicken-fried steak for the good-lookin’ one in the corner.” She placed the dishes all around and poured coffee, trying not to make eye contact. The men began to rearrange their mismatched orders without correcting her. Sharleen hoped that Jake didn’t notice she got the orders wrong again. North, south, east, west. Well, she’d never been good with maps. “Sorry, fellas,” she said quietly. Police just frightened her. She was as rattled as a china cup in a buckboard.

The young officer in the corner was staring at her, she realized. She ducked her head back down, but she knew he could still see her face.

“Haven’t I seen you someplace before?” he asked. She kept her hand from shaking and filled the last cup with coffee, then tried quickly to clean up the spill she made.

“You sure have, every time you been in here,” she joked.

“No, I mean before, outside of here.”

Sharleen felt her face go white, but dared herself to raise her eyes and look directly at him. Now she needed to spread a little grease to move him right along to another idea. “No, handsome, I don’t think so. I’d remember
you
.”

The other man at the table whistled and one stomped his feet. She turned to go, but the cop reached over and held her round her wrist. “Yeah, I seen you before. You’re wanted by every police officer in the state.”

Sharleen felt her hand turn cold. She tugged it away. “Me?” she said weakly. “I think you’re thinking of someone else.”

“No, I’m not, honey, I’m thinking of you. All the time. And so are all the other cops in Bakersfield. We all want you.” The other two officers began to laugh.

“He’s in love, honey,” the fat one told her. “Can’t you tell?”

Sharleen let her breath out. “Well, then, fellas, that makes two of us. I’m in love with my husband,” she said, and walked through the swinging doors to the back.

She leaned against the greasy wall inside the overheated kitchen. Carlos, the cook, looked up at her, raised his eyebrows, then looked away. She went to the sink, poured a glass of water, and drank it in a gulp. Get a hold of yourself, she thought. Forget about Lamson. It was already a long time ago and far away.

She walked back through the swinging door, pushing her damp hair up off her neck, and picked up a napkin at the counter to wipe away the perspiration, unaware that her upraised arms lifted her breasts and pushed them invitingly forward. As she lowered her arms, she noticed a man at the end of the counter staring at her. Oh, Lord, no more today, she prayed. Why am I such a target for trouble? She sighed, dropped her eyes, picked up a menu, and walked toward him.

She saw that he watched her as she approached. But he’s not like the other guys that come in here, she thought. This one was fifty, plain, with little eyes behind thick glasses, but he didn’t look used up the way most men his age did. Thinning hair combed straight back, deep, cultivated tan, a white linen jacket crumpled loosely over a gray silk T-shirt, white pants. He wasn’t a businessman, and he wasn’t a salesman. Sharleen couldn’t describe
what
the guy was, but she knew he was not your run-of-the-mill Bakersfield truck driver.

“Menu?”

“No thanks, I know what I want. Two scrambled eggs, no toast, no potatoes, sliced tomatoes on the side, black coffee.”

“Sure,” she said, and began to walk back to the grill to give Carlos the order. But she’d already forgotten it. She turned back to the guy quickly and noticed his eyes still on her. “How did you say you wanted your eggs?” she asked. With a tremor, she heard Jake sigh from behind the register. Jesus, in your mercy, make me a better waitress, she prayed.

When Sharleen had placed the food down before the new guy, she turned to filling the sugar pourers now that the diner had started to quiet down. The guy ate quickly and called out for more coffee. While she was pouring it, she noticed him reading the nameplate on her breast.

“Sharleen,” he said. “Pretty name. You an actress, Sharleen?”

Sharleen half-turned to him. She laughed. “Actress? Oh, no, not me. I’m just a waitress.” She put the coffeepot down on the counter and went on. “But I’ve worked in the rodeo once. Went all over the Southwest. That’s kinda like show business, isn’t it?”

The guy laughed, but not unkindly. “Yes, I suppose it is. But I meant, have you ever acted on the stage?”

She laughed again and turned back toward the kitchen. “Nope.”

“Never made a commercial, been in a movie?”

“Dream on.”

“Never even had your picture in a magazine?”

“Once some guy at the rodeo took my picture, but he never sent me one. I never done nothing like that.”

“Would you like to, Sharleen?”

Sharleen paused. She didn’t want Jake to get on her again about how she talked too much and didn’t pay enough attention to her job, but this guy was interesting. He was different. He talked different. Soft, like he was a money person. But best to be careful.

“What are you doing in Bakersfield?” she asked him. “Out looking for actresses?”

“As a matter of fact, I was, but I had car trouble. I’m waiting for a tow.” He turned, and she saw a white Mercedes convertible, one that Dean would give ten bucks just to touch, parked out in the dust. “But this must be your lucky day.”

“Yeah?”

“My name is Milton Glick, and I’m trying to cast actresses for a TV show. I think you might be right for a part. Interested?” He waited for it to sink in.

He must think she was dumber than Dean. Next he’d tell her he’d make her rich. “How much does it pay?” she asked.

Milton leaned back, but almost slipped off the stool. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “A lot,” he said. “More than you ever dreamed of.”

Sharleen stepped closer to him. “What do I have to do to get this job?” she asked, her head tilted slightly to the side, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Nothing,” he said, moving away from her, standing up to pay his bill. “All you have to do is come to this casting office next week and meet some people for an interview.” He continued placing bills down on the counter from his wallet. “No guarantees, but you really could get a part on a TV show.”

He handed Sharleen his card and said, “This is for real, Sharleen. And there are no strings attached.”

She accepted the engraved card and said, “Okay, Mr. Glick. If I decide I want to be a TV actress, I’ll give you a call.” She walked away quickly as Jake, frowning, started over to her.

“Do it, Sharleen,” Glick said to her retreating back, “if you want to be very, very rich.”

Jahne moved out of the Star Drop Inn with Pete’s help. Not into his place, though. She’d found an apartment to share with two girls. It had been a tiring move, and after she and he got her new bed in place and made up, she fell into it gratefully. She slept—alone, for Pete had an early call the next morning—the sleep of the justly tired.

The next morning Jahne opened her eyes, stared at the sunny, cracked blue ceiling, and smiled. Oh, yes. California. Her new place, off Melrose Avenue, to be precise. And the room in the apartment she was sharing with the two other actresses in the troupe.

It had all been so easy, but it was so very odd: everyone’s birthright on the whole planet since time began was a face, a body, and a name. She had changed all three. In a way that could never have been done before. It was audacious, painful, risky. But it had already paid off.

She smiled and stretched.
Everything
was different now. Not just her name and her face and her body, but everything. Each morning, she woke up with a smile on her pretty face. She jumped out of bed. Dressing was a pleasure. Everything, anything looked good on a beautiful girl who was five foot six and weighed 121 pounds. Jeans slid over her thin, long thighs. T-shirts clung to her perfectly rounded breasts. Looking in the mirror was a gas, but being looked at was even better.

Men stared at her. Her every movement seemed to fascinate and delight them. She’d taken to tossing her head, arching her back in a stretch, all those bits of body language that she used to despise in other, pretty women.

But it was irresistible now. It got such a reaction, how could she refrain from crossing her legs and pointing the toe, enhancing the leg line? Or just licking her now beautifully pouty lips? She knew how to play sexy. And she knew that now it played.

She also knew that women watched her. Not so directly, but they watched her just the same. Now she was actually in the contest, not just an observer. In fact, she might be a major contender, and they sized her up out of the corners of their eyes. Better hair, better nose, better breasts. She could feel their cataloguing, weighing, judging.

Always before, the Bethanies of the world had simply written her off, choosing to ignore her or befriend her, but in either case the choice was a condescension. Jahne didn’t mind if now some of the women hated her for no reason other than the potent one of her appearance. She felt it was an honor, an acknowledgment, and she’d live with it.

Because, for a woman, being beautiful—a real knockout, which she was—opened more doors than Aladdin’s lamp or a trust fund the size of Onassis’. Look at poor Christina, for chrissakes. Killed by her homeliness and her father’s and the world’s view of it. Too bad
she
hadn’t met Dr. Moore.

Best of all, the audition Pete’s sister had gotten her had been worth the trouble. It was a bit dicey, she knew, to bother with stage acting here in L.A., where the camera was king. But the Melrose Playhouse in West Hollywood was hip enough to have an audience that included agents, casting directors, and even a few producers and directors. And what could be better for her, a stage actress, than a Hollywood debut on stage? It wasn’t as if anything else had come her way.