The young man shrugged and smiled. "Pardon me, but nevertheless I
recognized you. Here on business?" He was unembarrassed and unabashed.
"Merely to see Hollywood," replied Clayton. "I have heard so much about
it that I wished to see it."
"Got a lot of friends here, I suppose."
"No one knows me here."
"Perhaps I can be of service to you," suggested the young man. "I am an
old timer here--been here two years. Nothing to do--glad to show you
around. My name is Reece."
Clayton considered for a moment. He had come to see Hollywood. A guide
might be helpful. Why not this young man as well as some one else? "It
is kind of you," he said.
"Well, then, how about a little lunch? I suppose you would like to see
some of the motion picture celebrities--they all do."
"Naturally!" admitted Clayton. "They are the most interesting denizens
of Hollywood."
"Very well! We'll go to the Brown Derby. You'll see a lot of them
there."
As they alighted from a taxi in front of the Brown Derby, Clayton saw a
crowd of people lined up on each side of the entrance. It reminded him
of the crowds he had seen at the station welcoming the famous Balza.
"They must be expecting a very important personage," he said to Reece.
"Oh, these boobs are here every day," replied the young man.
The Brown Derby was crowded--well groomed men, beautifully gowned
girls. There was something odd in the apparel, the ornaments, or
the hair dressing of each, as though each was trying to out-do the
others in attracting attention to himself. There was a great deal of
chattering and calling back and forth between tables: "How ah you?"
"How mahvellous you look!" "How ah you?" "See you at the Chinese
tonight?" "How ah you?"
Reece pointed out the celebrities to Clayton. One or two of the names
were familiar to the stranger, but they all looked so much alike and
talked so much alike, and said nothing when they did talk, that Clayton
was soon bored. He was glad when the meal was over. He paid the check,
and they went out.
"Doing anything this evening?" asked Reece.
"I have nothing planned."
"Suppose we go to the première of Balza's latest picture, Soft
Shoulders, at the Chinese. I have a ticket; and I know a fellow who can
get you one, but it will probably cost you twenty-five smackers." He
eyed Clayton questioningly.
"Is it something that I ought to see if I am to see Hollywood?"
"Absolutely!"
* * * * *
A glare of lights illuminated the front of Grauman's Chinese Theater
and the sky above, twenty thousand people milled and pushed and elbowed
in Hollywood Boulevard, filling the street from building line to
building line, a solid mass of humanity blocking all traffic. Policemen
shouldered and sweated. Street cars were at a standstill. Clayton and
Reece walked from The Roosevelt through the surging crowd.
As they approached the theater Clayton heard loud speakers broadcasting
the arrival of celebrities who had left their cars two or three blocks
away and forced their way through the mob to the forecourt of the
theater.
The forecourt of the theater was jammed with spectators and autograph
seekers. Several of the former had brought chairs; many had been
sitting or standing there since morning that they might be assured of
choice vantage spots from which to view the great ones of filmdom's
capital.
As Clayton entered the forecourt, the voice of Freeman Lang was filling
the boulevard from the loud speakers. "The celebrities are coming
thick and fast now. Naomi Madison is just getting out of her car--and
there's her new husband with her, the Prince Mudini. And here comes the
sweetest little girl, just coming into the forecourt now. It's Balza
herself! I'll try to get her to say something to you. Oh, Sweetheart,
come over here. My, how gorgeous you're looking tonight. Won't you say
just a word to all your friends of the air? Right over here, please,
dear."
A dozen autograph pests were poking pencils and books toward Balza,
but she quieted them with her most seductive smile and approached the
microphone.
"Hello, everybody!" she lisped. "I wish you were all here. It's simply
mahvellous. I'm so happy to be back in Hollywood."
Clayton smiled enigmatically, the crowd in the street roared its
applause, and Freeman turned to greet the next celebrity. "And here
comes--well, he can't get through the crowd. Honestly, folks, this
crowd is simply tremendous. We've officiated at a lot of premières, but
we've never seen anything like this. The police can't hold 'em back.
They're crowding right up here on top of the microphone. Yes, here he
comes! Hello, there, Jimmie! Right over here. The folks want to hear
from you. This is Jimmie Stone, second assistant production manager
of the B.O. Studio, whose super feature, Soft Shoulders, is being
premièred here tonight in Grauman's Chinese Theater."
"Hello, efferybody. I wish you was all here. It's simply marvellous.
Hello, Momma!"
"Let's go inside," suggested Clayton.
* * * * *
"Well, Clayton, how did you like the picture?" asked Reece.
"The acrobats in the prologue were splendid," replied the Englishman.
Reece looked a little crestfallen. Presently he brightened. "I'll tell
you what we'll do," he announced. "I'll get hold of a couple more
fellows and we'll go to a party."
"At this time of night?"
"Oh, it's early. There's Billy Brouke now. Hi, there, Billy! Say, I
want you to meet Mr. Clayton, an old friend of mine from London. Mr.
Clayton, this is Billy Brouke. How about a little party, Billy?"
"O.K. by me! We'll go in my car; it's parked around the corner."
On a side street near Franklin they climbed into a flashy roadster.
Brouke drove west a few blocks on Franklin and then turned up a narrow
street that wound into the hills.
Clayton was troubled. "Perhaps your friends may not be pleased if you
bring a stranger," he suggested.
Reece laughed. "Don't worry," he admonished; "they'll be as glad to see
you as they will be to see us."
That made Brouke laugh, too. "I'll say they will," he commented.
Presently they came to the end of the street. "Hell!" muttered Brouke
and turned the car around. He turned into another street and followed
that for a few blocks; then he turned back toward Franklin.
"Forgotten where your friends live?" asked Clayton.
On a side street in an otherwise quiet neighborhood they sighted a
brilliantly lighted house in front of which several cars were parked;
laughter and the sounds of radio music were coming from an open window.
"This looks like the place," said Reece.
"It is," said Brouke with a grin, and drew up at the curb.
A Filipino opened the door in answer to their ring. Reece brushed in
past him, and the others followed. A man and a girl were sitting on the
stairs leading to the upper floor. They were attempting to kiss one
another ardently without spilling the contents of the cocktail glasses
they held. They succeeded in kissing one another, paying no attention
to the newcomers.
To the right of the reception hall was a large living room in which
several couples were dancing to the radio music; others were sprawled
about on chairs and divans; all were drinking. There was a great deal
of laughter.
"The party's getting good," commented Brouke, as he led the way into
the living room. "Hello, everybody!" he cried. "Where's the drinks?
Come on, boys!" and he started for the back of the house, doing a
little dance step on the way.
A middle-aged man, greying at the temples, rose from a divan and
approached Reece. There was a puzzled expression on his face. "I don't
believe--" he started, but Brouke interrupted him.
"It's all right, old man!" he exclaimed. "Sorry to be late. Shake hands
with Mr. Reece and Mr. Clayton of London. How about a little drink?"
and without waiting for an answer he headed for the kitchen. Reece and
the host followed him, but Clayton hesitated. He had failed to note
any exuberant enthusiasm in the attitude of the greying man whom he
assumed to be the master of the house.
A tall blond, swaying a little, approached him. "Haven't I met you
somewhere before, Mr.--ah--"
"Clayton," he came to her rescue.
"How about a little dance?" she demanded. "My boy friend," she
confided, as they swung into the rhythm of the music, "passed out, and
they had to put him to bed."
She talked incessantly, but Clayton managed to ask her if she knew
Rhonda Terry.
"Know Rhonda Terry! I should say I do. She's in Samoa now starring in
her husband's new picture."
"Her husband! Is she married?"
"Yes, she's married to Tom Orman, the director. Do you know her?"
"I met her once," replied Clayton.
"She was all broken up over Stanley Obroski's death, but she finally
snapped out of it and married Tom. Obroski sure made a name for himself
in Africa. Say, that bunch is still talking about the way he killed
lions and gorillas with one hand tied behind him."
Clayton smiled politely.
After the dance she drew him over to a sofa on which two men were
sitting. "Abe," she said to one of the men, "here's a find for you.
This is Mr. Potkin, Mr. Clayton, Abe Potkin, you know; and this is Mr.
Puant, Dan Puant, the famous scenarist."
"We've been watching Mr. Clayton," replied Potkin.
"You'd better grab him," advised the girl; "you'll never find a better
Tarzan."
"He isn't exactly the type, but he might answer; I've been noticing
him," said Potkin. "What do you think, Dan?"
"He's not my idea of Tarzan, but he might do."
"Of course his face doesn't look like Tarzan; but he's big, and that's
what I want," replied Potkin.
"He hasn't a name; nobody ever heard of him, and you said you wanted a
big name," argued Puant.
"We'll use that platinum blond, Era Dessent, opposite him; she's got a
lot of sex appeal and a big name."
"I got an idea!" exclaimed Puant. "I'll write the story around Dessent
and some good-looking juvenile, bring in another fem with 'It' and a
heavy with a big name; and we can use Clayton in long shots with apes
for atmosphere."
"That's a swell idea, Dan; get in a lot of sex stuff and a triangle and
a ballroom or cabaret scene--a big one with a jazz orchestra. What we
want is something different."
"That ought to fix it so that we can use this fellow," said Puant, "for
it won't make much difference who takes the part of Tarzan."
"How about it, Mr. Clayton?" inquired Potkin with an ingratiating smile.
At this juncture Reece and Brouke romped in from the kitchen, each with
a bottle. The host was following, expostulating.
"Have a drink, everybody!" cried Brouke. "The party's goin' stale."
They passed about the room filling up glasses with neat bourbon or gin;
sometimes they mixed them. They paused occasionally to take a drink
themselves. Finally they disappeared into the hallway looking for other
empty glasses.
"Well," demanded Potkin, after the interruption had passed, "how about
it?"