It had been going on like that for fifteen minutes since I arrived. Tap-dancing valentines, a midget in a clown suit, a scantily dressed bodybuilder, two very young boys with leather and bad skin, and a hard-edged black hooker who looked like Jimi Hendrix. A creep wearing a motorcycle cap like Marlon Brando in The Wild One kept staring at my naked toes. Foxy Elite was in the corner suite on the second floor of a piss-yellow building on Cahuenga, two blocks from Vine at the intersection of Selma. It was the kind of block with lots of neon cocktail signs that don’t work and an auto-body shop with a big hungry dog in a fenced yard. What made this block distinctly, quintessentially Hollywood were the number of custom-photo labs doing posters and album covers.

The bondage nurse jostled my knees on her way to the door.

I was waiting for Bob Alton, the agent. He represented theatrical, voice-over, juvenile and modeling. I knew this because I had picked a copy of Hollywood Print out of a rack of bookie sheets and postcards at the local newsstand.

“Am I going to be able to see Mr. Alton soon?” I asked.

The two boys with bad skin smirked at each other.

I had already declined to fill out an agency application form and had flipped through the tattered movie magazines.

“Did I tell you I was here about Cathy Vega?” I waited for this to make an impression, since Cathy Vega seemed to be the only one of their stable with a legit career.

The receptionist toyed with a pink bonbon from a box in front of her before popping it into her mouth. A second and third followed before the interminable chewing was interrupted by the buzz of the intercom.

“You may go in now,” she said, licking her fingers.

Bob Alton was posed behind a desk littered with folders and black-and-white photos. The blinds were half drawn. The lighting was careful. There were a couple of Warhol prints on the wall. A Pomeranian with a red bow on top of its head growled mechanically and immediately went back to sleep on a somewhat soiled white sofa.

“Good to see you,” he said, partially extending his arm so I had to lean across the desk to shake hands with him. He had on mascara.

“An honor.” A once-in-a-lifetime. Where else in Hollywood could you see an agent without an appointment?

He leaned back, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingertips pressed together in front of his chest, in an attitude of relaxed attention. He was wearing a pale pink silk shirt. His hair brushing his collar was dyed brown and frosted in front. Whatever age he was pretending to be, he was at least fifteen years older.

“What can I do for you?”