Hollywood Crows Read Free Page A

without looking at them directly. There was the features director who, due to Hollywood ageism, complained that he couldn’t even get arrested at the studios. Ditto for three former screenwriters who were regulars at the table, as well as for a former TV producer. A dozen or more of these would come and go, all males, the average age being seventy-plus, far too old for the youth-obsessed entertainment business that had nurtured them.
    A formerly famous painter and sculptor, wearing a trademark black beret, wasn’t selling so well these days either. Nate heard him tell the others that when his wife asks him what he wants for dinner, his usual response is, “Get off my back, will ya?” Then the painter added, “But don’t feel sorry for us. We’re getting used to living in our car.”
    A former TV character actor wearing a safari jacket from Banana Republic, whose face was familiar to Nate, stood up and informed the others he had to leave and make an important call to a VP in development at Universal to discuss a script he’d been deciding whether or not to accept.
    After he’d gone, the director said, “The poor schlemiel. I’ll bet he gets a ‘Please leave a message’ recording from the VP at Universal. That’s who he discusses the project with — a machine. Probably has to call back a hundred and thirty-five times to get his whole pitch into the VP’s voice mail.”
    “I’ve suspected he’s calling the number for highway information when he pretends to be talking to HBO,” the painter said, clucking sadly.
    “He never was any good, even in his prime,” the director said. “Thought he was a method actor. They’d run out of money doing retakes. Twenty tics a take on average.”
    “If he had more of a name, they could paint him like a whore and let him do arthritis and Geico commercials, like the rest of those has-beens,” said the has-been TV producer.
    “And women?” one of the screenwriters said. “He thinks we believe his daffy seduction stories. Instead of another face-lift, the old bastard should have his balls stapled to his thigh to keep them from dropping in the toilet.”
    “He could do it without anesthetic,” said the oldest of the screenwriters. “At his age it’s a dead zone down there.”
    All of the geezers, who tended to talk over one another in multiple conversations, went silent for a moment when a stunning young woman paused to look into a nearby shop that sold glassware and candles. She wore a canary cotton jersey accented by hyacinth stitching, and $400 second-skin jeans, and stood nearly six feet tall in her Jimmy Choo lilac suede pumps. She had a full, pouty upper lip, and butterscotch blonde hair so luxurious it fanned across her shoulder when she turned to look at a glass figurine and then fell back perfectly into place when she continued walking. Her amazing hair gleamed when spangled sunlight pierced the covered patio and provided honey-colored highlights.
    The codgers sighed and snuffled and did everything but drool before resuming their conversations. Nate watched her walk out toward the parking lot. Her remarkable body said Pilates loud and clear, and he could see she wasn’t wearing a bra. There in Hollywood, and even in Beverly Hills, Nate Weiss had not seen many showstoppers like her.
    By then, Nate was ready to go back to work. It was getting depressing listening to the old guys railing about ageism, knowing in their hearts they’d never work again. He’d noticed that always around 9:30 A.M ., they’d get up one by one and make excuses to leave, for important calls from directors, or for appointments with agents, or to get back to scripts they were polishing. Nate figured they all just went home to sit and stare at phones that never rang. It gave him a chill to think that he might be looking at Nathan Weiss a few decades from now.
    Nate strolled to the parking lot thirty yards behind the beauty with the butterscotch hair, wanting to see what she drove. He