“Me? Oh no, I’m not alone, I’m here with a whole group of people.” I looked around as if I’d lost them in the crowd.
“What kind of people?”
“We’re a traveling opera company, and we’ve been performing along the West Coast. Today was our last show, actually—we head home early in the morning.”
“Opera, huh?”
“Singing, dancing, performing, you name it,” I said with a laugh.
“Do you act?” he asked. “I only ask because I’m a studio executive and, well, you certainly look the part.”
I looked down at my Coca-Cola, trying not to beam at him. A studio executive? What exactly did they do? It had to be good, and what were the chances that I’d meet one, in real life, my last night in Hollywood? When I had myself under control, I looked up at him coyly and smiled. “You really think I look the part?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve got any talent, but you’ve got a famous face, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, I’ve got talent,” I said, and he laughed.
“Good, I like a girl with some charisma. If you’ve got that you’re halfway there.” He looked at my drink. “How’s that Coca-Cola treating you?”
“It’s delicious,” I said.
“Want me to spruce it up for you?” He raised an eyebrow, then took a silver flask out of his jacket pocket and poured a good amount of something into my drink and then into his. “Fill me up, will you, Joey,” he said to the barkeep, who looked around, then quickly took the flask along with some bills. I watched him go to the other end of the bar, turn his back to the crowd and refill it from an unlabeled brown bottle. A few moments later he came back and returned the flask under a napkin.
The man poured some more into our glasses, then raised his glass and looked at me expectantly. “What do you think?”
“I don’t even know your name,” I said, trying to buy myself some time. I’d had a sip of my father’s whiskey before, which tasted like fire mixed with a mouthful of dirt, and I’d sipped my mother’s gin fizz, which was decidedly more palatable, but I didn’t even know what this was, and I was worried I’d take one sip and spit it back out again.
“Richard,” he said. “But you can call me Ricky.”
It was rum, and as it turned out I liked rum with Coca-Cola more than I would have expected. After I finished the first one, Ricky bought me another soda and topped it up just the same. It was getting warm in that room, but the drink was making me feel energized, as if I couldn’t wait another minute before I got on that dance floor, so when Ricky asked me to dance I just about lunged at him.
He slipped his hands around my waist and danced with me, pulling me too close, but I let him do it anyway. I was in Hollywood for only a few more hours and then it would be back to regular old St. Cloud. I was dancing at the Cocoanut Grove in Hollywood with a studio executive—life didn’t get much more exciting than this.
“Hey, have you seen the view from the top of the hotel?” he said into my ear over the music.
“No,” I called out.
“Oh, you should, you can see theHOLLYWOODLANDsign from the balcony. I’m staying on the top floor, it’s the only way you can get a glimpse—if you’re staying here. Want to take a peek?”
I was reluctant to leave the dance floor behind, but I did want to see as much of Los Angeles as I could before I had to leave, so I let him grab my hand, navigate us off the frenzied dance floor, weave me through the tables and lead us out into the lobby of the hotel. The rum had hit me, and I felt wobbly on my feet. Everything seemed amazing: I couldn’t take my eyes off the long sparkling chandeliers, the artwork on the walls and the fabulously dressed women. I grabbed hold of Ricky’s arm so I could take it all in without falling over, and he whisked me into a shiny golden elevator.
“Have you ever thought about being in the pictures?” he asked.
“I’ve always dreamed of being on the stage,” I said. “I’m going to be a Ziegfeld girl, you know.”
“Really?” He seemed to think it was a coincidence. “I know people who know Florenz Ziegfeld.”
“You know him?” I squealed.
“Sure thing, babe,” he said, cool and calm as he brushed a piece of hair out of my eyes and tucked it behind my ear. “I told you, I’m a Hollywood man. I know a lot of people.”
“I just met him in San Jose; he said he might put me in his show. My father is waiting to get a seat on the New York Produce Exchange, and then we’re going to move to New York, though he’s been saying that for years. I have to get there.”
“Oh, you’d make a real pretty Ziegfeld girl,” he said, placing his hands around my waist, then sliding them down to my rear and pulling me in toward him. Even in my tipsy state, I knew he was getting way too familiar, and I didn’t like it. He could have been my father’s age, and the only other boy who’d got up close with me like that was Henry Dickerson at my final school dance—this was far more presumptuous.
“Hey, wait a minute,” I said, pulling away, flushed and a bit dizzy.
But he went on as if he hadn’t heard me.
