It shouldn't be a surprise that Hollywood's an illusion. But people still get fooled. The tourists come here expecting to find the place where movies are made, when almost all the real movie business has moved out to the San Fernando Valley. Paramount and Pinnacle are the only studios left. But who knows that, even after they're told? This is Tinseltown. Tourists think the action must be here.
They look at the sun-bleached, dusty storefronts, they cruise the supposedly storied intersection of Hollywood and Vine, and there's nothing there. The Brown Derby restaurant used to be there, and maybe, in the old days, an occasional movie star really did have dinner in the giant hat. But Hollywood's city limits are not the place to look for celebrities.
But illusions have staying power. Sometimes even after tourists see the real Hollywood, they go on believing that they saw what they expected. Or they believe that it was right around the corner, that they were close, but somehow missed it.
Hollywood is a dreamscape. Everything is transformation and everything is fluid, up until the day when you're discovered. If that big break comes, everything changes. Then you wear the illusion you've made for yourself like armor that's welded on. In Hollywood, you'd better be careful about what you dream.
The illusion I was weaving as I sat in Geoffrey Laska's office at Pinnacle was a tricky one. I was trying hard not to actually lie, but there were certain turns I didn't want the interview to take. The tactic I settled on was bluster.
"Get this straight," I said. "I don't know any tabloid writers, and I hope to keep it that way." As angrily as I could manage, I ground out a second lipstick-stained cigarette. Unfortunately, the ashtray in Geoffrey Laska's office was the size of a dinner plate, and anything I did to it was going to seem small. "And I resent the implications of your question."
I dug a pack of Trues from my purse.
From behind his enormous desk, Laska smiled very slightly. If I was surprising him, he didn't show it. "All I said, Ms. Frost, was that I thought you must have some interesting stories to tell about your profession. It wasn't a question at all."
"But it was," I said, pointing a fresh cigarette at him and leaning forward as if my indignation might launch me from the couch and out of Laska's office. In fact, it was going to be a struggle to get to my feet from that overstuffed monstrosity. Everything in Laska's office was king-sized and plush, as if the man needed constant reminders that he was the Big Guy at Pinnacle Studios. Big office, big couch, big desk, and a carpet so deep I was glad I wore flats. Heels on a rug like that would be as tricky as walking a highwire in the Santa Ana winds. I'd have broken an ankle, at least.
The thought echoed in my head for a moment. Walking a highwire in the Santa Ana winds. Not a bad line. I should write it down, file it away.
"I was merely commenting--" Laska started to say.
"You were fishing," I told him. "You were asking me whether I'd be willing to spill the details of past cases. What do you think the 'private' in private investigator means? If you doubt my integrity personally, then look at it this way--even a call girl knows better than to part with the secrets of her clients. It dries up business. Or do you ask hookers, too, about their 'interesting stories'?"
His face reddened. If you can make a studio exec blush, that's a real accomplishment. So far, so good. I finally had him off balance, and the conversation would go where I steered it. I still didn't have the job, still didn't even know what the job was, but I hadn't let Laska get to the questions that I didn't want to answer.
"So far, we've done nothing but talk about me," I said. "If you've got some work that needs doing, why don't you spill the beans so I can get started?"
Laska steepled his fingers. We had talked entirely about me, and I had said exactly nothing. Would he like that, or would it put him off? Should I change how I was playing this?
No, I thought. Play it as it lays. Only luck could have brought me this interview. The ink was barely dry in my yellow pages ad, and if Laska had done any checking at all, he'd know that. So, obviously, he hadn't checked.
A man like Laska does it all on instinct. He tapped his fingers together, staring at me with a gaze that said, What have we here? Who are you really?
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