“You and Karen lived together?”
“Three and a half beautiful years. So for old times’ sake Karen lays a guilt trip on Michael and I get a free meeting with him.”
“Will she do it?”
“She’s lying in bed at this moment thinking about it.”
“It sounds like a long way around to get there,” Chili said, taking his time. He couldn’t see Karen living with this guy, even if he wasn’t fat then. He could see her with Michael Weir. He said to Harry, “Well, if she doesn’t want to help you for some reason, maybe I could talk to Michael, get you your meeting.”
Harry said, “How? Threaten him?”
“I’m serious,” Chili said. “I think I could get next to him, talk about that movie he was in,
“How would you do that?”
“You want to discuss Michael Weir or Leo the drycleaner? All that dough he’s carrying around? Came here with four hundred and fifty thousand . . .”
Harry wasn’t saying a word now.
“You’re thinking,” Chili said, “what if I was to put you next to the drycleaner. Ask him what he’d rather do, invest his dough in a movie or give it back to the airline and do some time.”
Harry squirmed around in his chair saying, “It did cross my mind.”
He reached for the pack of cigarettes and tore it open to get at the last one.
“Except I know it would bother you,” Chili said, “the idea of using money Leo got the way he did.”
Harry said, “Well, you take my investors, if you want to get technical,” tapping the cigarette on the table, fooling with it, “or any investors. You don’t ask where their money comes from.”
“Which brings us to the limo guys,” Chili said. “You want ’em to leave you alone, be patient. The time comes to do the
Harry looked like he was afraid to move, hanging on every word.
“See, what I could do is talk to the limo guys along those lines,” Chili said, “make the point in a way they’d understand it.”
He reached over to take the cigarette from Harry’s fingers.
“You gonna smoke this?”
“No, it’s yours.”
Harry struck a match to light it.
“What would you say?”
“I’d tell ’em it’s in their best interest, till you’re ready for ’em, to stay the fuck off your back. Isn’t that what you want?”
“You don’t know these guys.”
“It’s up to you, Harry.”
Chili watched Harry’s gaze follow a stream of smoke. Harry the producer, with his forty-nine horror movies and his frizzy hair, looking at the offer. His gaze came back to Chili, his expression tired but hopeful.
“What do you get out of this?”
“Let’s see how we get along,” Chili said. “I’ll let you know.” He thought of something that had been on his mind and said to Harry, “The seven hundred-pound broad that seduces guys in her trailer—what exactly does she do?”
Karen felt the bed move beneath Harry’s weight. Lying on her side she opened her eyes to see digital numbers in the dark, 4:12 in pale green. Behind her Harry continued to move, settling in. She watched the numbers change to 4:13.
“Harry.”
“Oh, you awake?”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s late—I felt you wouldn’t mind if he stayed over.”
“Harry, this isn’t your house.”
“Just tonight. I put him in the maid’s room.”
“I don’t have a maid’s room.”
“The one back by the kitchen?”
There was a silence.
“I don’t get it.”
“What?”
“This guy—what’re you doing?”
“He’s got some ideas, gonna help me out.”
“Harry, the guy’s a crook.”
“So? This town he should fit right in.”
Harry rolled away from her, groaning in comfort.
“Night.”
There was a silence, the house quiet.
“Harry?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s going on?”
“I told you.”
“You want me to call you a cab? You and your buddy?”
She felt Harry roll back toward her.
9 
Chili asked Harry if he liked to sleep in. He said, “If you’re gonna sleep in and 1 have to sit around waiting, forget it. Anything I can’t stand is waiting for people.”
Harry acted surprised. He said it was only ten after ten. “I got back in bed and Karen wanted to talk.”
That stopped Chili.
He wanted to know if Harry was putting him on or what. He couldn’t imagine Karen letting this fat guy get in bed with her. But there was no way to find out if it was true.
He said, “Well, she was up, no problem. She dropped me off to get my car. I come back and have to sit here another hour.”
Harry said the limo guys never got to their office before ten-thirty eleven anyway. Then they’d discuss for about an hour where they were going to have lunch and take off. He said it didn’t matter what time you went to see the limo guys, you always had to wait.
Chili said, “Harry, we don’t go see them. They come see us. You want to make the call or you want me to?”
Now they were in Harry’s office: upstairs in a two-story building that was part of a block of white storefronts, on Sunset Boulevard near La Cienega. Harry turned on lights, wall sconces in the shape of candles against dark paneling, raised venetian blinds behind his big desk stacked with folders, magazines, scripts, papers, unopened mail, hotel ashtrays, a brass lamp, a clock, two telephones . . .
“Remember
Harry nodded out the window.
“They used a place right across the street for exteriors. I used to stand here and watch ’em shoot. Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., and Roger Smith were the stars, but the one you remember is Kookie.”
“I wanted blond hair just like his, with the pompadour,” Chili said. “I was about ten,” He watched Harry staring out the window. “What about the script?”
“That’s right,” Harry said, “you haven’t read it.”
“I don’t even know what it’s about.”
Going through the pile on his desk, Harry said he hadn’t been in the office much lately and his girl, Kathleen, had left him to work for the guy that owned the building, a literary agent who’d been working in Hollywood over fifty
