I turned round to a young man, thin as a bamboo pole, elegantly
tailored, who yawned to advertise gold inlays. I explained while he
looked skeptical, bored and knowing simultaneously. "Who would tha
flummox, bah goom?" he inquired.
"Ay?"
He took a pack of playingcards from his pocket and riffled them
expertly. "Who you kidding, bud?" he translated.
"No one. Ask anybody here if this wasnt a dead lawn yesterday and if it
hasnt grown this high since morning."
He yawned again and proffered me the deck. "Pick any card," he
suggested. To avoid rudeness I selected one. He put the pack back and
said, "You have the nine of diamonds. Clever, eh?"
I didnt know whether it was or not. He accepted the pasteboard from me
and said, peering out from under furry black eyebrows, "If I brought in
a story like that, the chief would fire me before you could say James
Gordon Bennett."
"Youre a reporter?"
"Acute chap. Newspaperman. Name of Gootes. Jacson Gootes, _Daily
Intelligencer_, not _Thrilling Wonder Stories_."
I thought I saw an answer to my most pressing problem. One has to stoop
occasionally to methods which, if they didnt lead to important ends,
might almost be termed petty; but afterall there was no reason Mr Jacson
Gootes shouldnt buy me a dinner in return for information valuable to
him. "Let's get away from here," I suggested.
He fished out a coin, showed it to me, waved his arm in the air and
opened an empty palm for my inspection. "Ah sho would like to, cunnel,
but Ahve got to covah thisyeah sto'y--even if it's out of this mizzble
wo'ld."
"I'm sure I can give you details to bring it down to earth," I told him.
"Make it a story your editor will be glad to have."
"'Glad'!" He pressed tobacco into a slender pipe as emaciated as
himself. "You don't know W R. If he got a beat on the story of Creation
he'd be sore as hell because God wanted a byline."
He evidently enjoyed his own quip for he repeated several times in
different accents "... God wanted a byline." He puffed a matchflame and
surveyed the field of Mr Barelli's effort. "Hardworkin feller, what?
Guess I better have a chat with the bounder--probably closest to the
dashed thing."
"Mr Gootes," I said impressively, "I am the man who applied the
inoculator to this grass. Now shall we get out of here so you can listen
to my story?"
"Sonabeesh--thees gona be good. Lead away, amigo--I prepare both ears to
leesten."
I drew him toward Hollywood Boulevard and into a restaurant I calculated
might not be too expensive for his generosity. Besides, he probably had
an expenseaccount. We put a porcelaintopped table between us and he
commanded, "Give down." Obediently I went over all the happenings of
yesterday, omitting only Miss Francis' name and the revealing wording of
the ad.
Gootes surveyed me interestedly. "You certainly started something here,
Acne and/or Psoriasis."