Free Dreams from Bunker Hill by John Fante Page A

applauded.”
    I glanced at her. Her round face was flushed with excitement. Words tumbled from her lips, unstoppable. No doubt about it, she was a dingbat. She lived in a world of names, not bodies, not human beings, but famous names. Nothing she said could possibly be true. She simply invented as she prattled on. She was a liar, a lovable liar, her mind bubbling with preposterous tales.
    She led me to her car—a bronze-colored Bentley.
    “Wow!” I said. She beamed at her sleek car.
    “It looks expensive,” I said. That pleased her.
    “I bought it from Wallace Beery,” she said. “Wally decided on a Rolls Royce, and I got it for a bargain.”
    She threw open the rear door and I peered inside. The seat was green velour. There was a stain in the middle, a brown stain. She smiled.
    “You’re looking at that brown spot, aren’t you? Claire Dodd did it. I took her home from a party at Jeannettte McDonald’s and she spilled a glass of wine on it. Poor Claire! So humiliated! She wanted to pay for getting it cleaned, but I wouldn’t have it. After all, what are friends for?”
    “Do you want me to call you?” I asked. She gave me her telephone number, and we shook hands.
    “Can I give you a ride?”
    “I have a car,” I said, nodding toward my Plymouth.
    “Isn’t that a Ford?” she asked.
    “Almost,” I said. “It’s a Plymouth.”
    “I used to own one. They’re very uncomfortable.”
    We said goodbye and I walked to my uncomfortable car.
     
    The script Cyril Korn had given us was by Harry Browne. It was the story of a range war—the struggle between cattle men and sheep men. The cattle men were the bad guys and the sheep men the good guys. Also featured was a tribe of hostile Indians who captured Julia, the heroine, and imprisoned her in the Indian village. When the sheep men and the cattle men learn of her capture they join forces and ride off to rescue Julia. After the battle in which Julia is saved, the cattle men and sheep men shake hands and the range war is brought to a peaceful solution.
    A couple of days later Velda van der Zee and I drove the Bentley out Ventura to Liberty Studios to meet the producer, Jack Arthur. I sat beside her as she handled the quiet magnificent machine. She liked the story, she said. It was a classic, a sure nominee for the academy awards. She visualized Gary Cooper and Claire Trevor in the leading roles, with Jack La Rue playing the part of Magua, the Indian chief.
    “Gary Cooper’s a friend of mine,” she said. “I’ll give him the screenplay. He has a high regard for my opinion.”
    “Sounds good,” I said.
    We pulled into the parking lot at Liberty Studios and walked down the hall to Jack Arthur’s office. Jack Arthur was a pipe smoker. He kissed Velda on the cheek and shook my hand.
    “Well,” he said, “what do you think of the story?”
    “Priceless,” Velda said. “We love it.”
    “It has possibilities,” Arthur said. “Are you ready to go to work?”
    “Of course,” Velda said. “How are the children?”
    “They’re fine, fine.”
    “You must meet Jack’s children, Arturo. They’re the most delightful creatures in the world.”
    Jack Arthur beamed. “You’ll need an office,” he said, reaching for the telephone.
    Quickly Velda said, “That won’t be necessary. We’llwork at my house.” She turned to me and smiled. “Is that all right with you, Arturo?”
    “Fine, fine,” I said.
    “Okay, then,” Arthur said. “I’ll get in touch with Cyril Korn and we’ll draw up the contracts. You people need anything, just holler.” He shook my hand. “Good luck, Bandini. Write me a smash hit.”
    “I’ll try.” Velda and I said goodbye and left.
    On the way back to town I said, “I didn’t know we were going to work at your place.”
    “I always work there.”
    “Where do you live?”
    “In Benedict Canyon. William Powell’s old house. You’ll love it.” She began to speak of Irene Dunne and Myrna Loy, but I was used to it