Dreams from Bunker Hill Read Online Free PDF Page B

her.
    “Thanks,” I said. She raced ahead, out the front door, down the steps to the street, where her car was parked. I got in beside her, and the car lurched as she threw it into gear.
    “I appreciate what you did,” I said. She flung me a bitter glance.
    “Jailbird!” she said. We did not speak as she drove up Temple Street and turned onto Bunker Hill. She parked the car in the empty lot next to the hotel.
    “I didn’t commit a crime,” I explained. “I was booked for playing chess, that’s all.”
    She looked sullen. “And now you have a prison record.”
    “Oh shit,” I said.
    We got out and crossed to the hotel. We went through the office into her living quarters. She stepped into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. Clouds of steam rose and drifted into the living room.
    “You’re going to take a bath,” she said. “You’re going to cleanse yourself of all that jailhouse scruff and dirt and filth, the lice and fleas and bedbugs.”
    I dropped my clothes around my feet and she gathered them like dead animals and tossed them into the laundry hamper. The water was warm and soapy, and I sank to my neck and let the goodness of heat sink in. Mrs. Brownell bent over me with a washcloth and a lump of fels naphtha soap. She lathered the washcloth and began to scrub me. The washcloth ground into my ears until I screamed.
    “Dirt,” she said. “Look at the dirt! Aren’t you ashamed?”
    She plunged the washcloth into my crotch and I screamed again.
    “Get out,” I said. “Leave me alone.”
    She flung the washcloth into my face. “Jailbird!” she said. “Convict!”
    She turned and left me alone. I dried myself off, got into my shorts and walked into the kitchen. She was at the stove, cooking my breakfast, her back to me. Skilled ass man that I was, I quickly detected the contraction of her buttocks—a sure sign of rage in a woman. Experience had taught me great caution in the face of such dramatic change in the derrière and I was quiet as I sat down. It was like being in the presence of a coiled snake. She brought ham and eggs to the table and slammed the dish in front of me. The telephone rang. I heard her answer it.
    “For you,” she said.
    I picked up the phone. The caller was Harry Schindler, the movie director. He was an old friend of H. L. Muller. He had obtained my address from Muller, and was anxious to talk to me.
    “What about?”
    “Have you ever written for pictures?”
    “No.”
    “That’s fine,” Schindler said. “Would you like a job?”
    “Doing what?”
    “Writing a screenplay.”
    “I don’t know how.”
    “Nothing to it,” Schindler said. “I’ll show you. Meet me at Columbia Pictures tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
    I went back to Mrs. Brownell’s living room and sat down. She had obviously overheard the telephone conversation.
    “I may have a job in the movies.”
    “At least you’ll be clean,” she said. I noticed her derriere. It was still contracted. I ate quickly and went back to my room.

Chapter Six
    Next morning Mrs. Brownell gave me directions and I took the Sunset bus to Gower Avenue. The studio was down the street half a block. I took the elevator to the fourth floor and found Schindler’s office. His secretary sat at her desk reading a novel. She was blonde, with her hair severely coiffured, drawn back to a knot at the nape of her neck. She had golden eyebrows and her eyes were pure topaz, hostile, not friendly.
    “Yes?” she said.
    I told her my name. She rose and moved to Schindler’s office door. Her dress was green velvet. Instantly I was aware of her sensational ass, a Hollywood perfecto. She moved like a snake, a large snake, a lustful boa constrictor. I was very pleased. She knocked on Schindler’s door and opened it.
    “Mr. Bandini,” she announced.
    Schindler rose from his desk and we shook hands.
    “Sit down,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
    He was a short, bullet-shaped man with a crew cut, an unlit cigar in