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“that’s right!”
    “Or you could make it the title,” suggested Sid.
    “Perfect!” shrieked Rex, and began shouting at the top of his voice, à la Olivier: “Lousy Little Cunt! Lousy Little Cunt! That’s the name of our picture!”
    People nearby looked around, startled not so much by the sentiment expressed as by its sheer volume and rage-like intensity. It seemed to herald violence of some sort; and he did actually wheel about then, and fling his empty glass in the general direction of Les Harrison—bad aim though, and it shattered explosively against a driftwood candelabra. “LOUSY LITTLE CUNT!” he bellowed.
    “Did someone call?” asked Teeny Marie shrilly, with a devastatingly sweet smile as she scurried up out of nowhere.
    Rex, who was prepared for a stout kick in the groin, or at least a reprimand, was not prepared for this—or perhaps was especially prepared for it—and dropped to his knees, grasping Teeny about the legs. “Oh, Teeny, Teeny,” he sobbed, “Why must everything in the world be governed by such total shits?” Then he collapsed at her feet, a quivering heap of Man-tanned muscle.
    Boris had regarded the entire vignette with an expression of bemused interest. He tended to think of most things in terms of pans, angles, close-ups . . .
    “Dig that,” he said, raising the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, boxed by his right into a rectangular semblance of a view-finder, focused on the curious image of the internationally famous film star crumpled at the feet of this crippled boss freak.
    “Forget it,” said Sid, “he ain’t gonna sign no release.”
    “Gosh, do you think he’s all right?” gasped Penny.
    “Sure,” said Sid, “nothing that a kick in the gourd won’t fix,” and he raised his foot to deliver a simulated stomp on the face of the fallen Rex.
    “Oh, my God,” screamed Penny, bursting into tears, “don’t, please don’t!” Not realizing, of course, that iron-in-the-soul Sid couldn’t care less, and, in fact, wouldn’t hurt a fly—especially a fly.
    Boris had to comfort the girl, drawing her close, smiling, whispering: “It’s okay, it’s okay—just a little Freudian equation being worked out.”
    And, natch, Sid didn’t really kick him, just pretended to, and Teeny fell on top of him, cradling his Man-tan head in her arms, closed-eyed and murmuring, “Oh my baby, my baby, my precious motherfucking baby.”
    Then his agent, Bat Orkin, arrived, all loyal efficiency to Rex but hip enough to be slightly embarrassed in the presence of Boris and Sid. “I’ll take care of him, I’ll take care of him,” he kept saying, hoping for Christ’s fucking sake there were no photographers present, giving a sly wink to B. and Sid as he began to hoist and drag Rex off the terrace.
    Penny was still upset—not really too upset perhaps, but did recognize the chance of expressing a bit of emotional sensitivity, and also, of course, not adverse to her cute sobbing being calmed and soothed away by boss B., and she sat down in his lap to be cuddled.
    “That loony fruit,” muttered Sid, “he’s as crazy as you are, B.—except he’s working. Excuse me, I gotta get a drink,” and he got up and trudged toward the bar.
    “I’ll take you home,” said Boris, very gently to the girl. “Where do you live?”
    “The Studio Club,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. She couldn’t cry as well as Rex, but somehow it was more engaging.

2
    S HE DIDN’T REALLY smoke pot, but she was afraid to admit it—so, after they were there, at Boris’s place, on a terrace overlooking the dark-blue twinkling lights of Hollywood (each light, natch, fraught with promise), and he, not really caring much one way or the other, lit a joint, took a couple of drags, and handed it to her, she had just enough presence of mind to accept it and say, “oh, groovy ” yet could scarcely repress surprise when, after passing it back (as she knew one was supposed to), he just smiled, and didn’t