“Right.” He sighed after a moment with a great deal of control in his voice. He clapped his hands, stepping from where he was standing in front of the first row of chairs and into the center of the stage. “We’re going to take it again from the part where Diana finds the note and hurries out to meet you, Jim. Diana, get on your mark.”

With great deliberation, the blonde studied the floor, then moved six inches to her left.

He turned toward me. He was ruggedly handsome, like a cowboy in a cigarette ad. About five ten, 160 pounds, dark curly hair with some gray at the temples. Tan. The kind of guy who comes from New York and complains there isn’t any real theater in LA. Who has himself paged at the Polo Lounge. A ladies’ man. He gave me a nice warm smile, but his eyes narrowed in annoyance at my interruption.

“Yes?” He used a voice that made this question sound like an open invitation—Lunch? Drinks? Your place or mine?—�without really caring what the answer was.

I returned his smile as I stepped forward. “I came to see you about Cathy Vega.”

He did look annoyed.

“Lola Flier. I’m casting assistant at Mylar Productions,” I said, holding my hand out to him and wondering where these names came from. It would be Freudian and too expensive to find out. “We’ve been hearing some very exciting things about you and your productions.”

There were shuffling sounds and as much excited murmuring as can be made by four people.

“We just finished a run-through of a scene from the show we opened last night. Practice makes perfect, right kids?” Steve gestured magnanimously at his players.

There was a chorus of well-rehearsed laughter from the stage.

None of the papers had bothered to review the show.

“Please, go right ahead. Don’t let me interrupt.” I started to take a seat on one of the folding chairs in the second row.

“No, we’re breaking now. Seven o’clock, everybody. Diana, get us some coffee, will you?”

The blonde pouted and started to say something but clumped off the stage after the others.

“Mylar Productions? I don’t believe I’ve heard of it,” he said with a trace of tentativeness.

“Really?” I parried. “We’re a subsidiary of Gulf-Western.” You learn these kinds of phrases by just watching the evening news out here in LA, but it seemed to convince him.

“Cathy,” he purred, ready to be helpful now. “Yes, Cathy. A raw talent. A beautiful girl, but presentation, style—she got it right here in the workshop.”

I’ll bet she got it right here. Working under her director.

I smiled encouragingly. “We’re looking for a look that’s exotic.”

He nodded to indicate he understood the subtext. “Ethnic. Sure. That’s Cathy. Real little Mexican spitfire.”