“Not anymore.” Luke swirled the contents of his bottle, then took a swig. He wrinkled his brow as he swallowed, as if the drink were bitter. “I used to be with Marty Lustbader at Paradigm. A tiny guy, five-foot-zip, but tough as rocks. He was the reason I got A Bullet Affair. It was down to me and Timothy Olyphant, but Marty worked his magic, nudged the producers in my direction. It was good to be on his roster. Felt like a goddamn hammer to the gut when he cut me loose.”

Kitty inhaled, letting the night chorus fill the silence between them. She peeled one corner of the bottle’s label, the moisture making it lift easily. Horns sounded distantly. Luke shifted and the hood voiced a metallic pop.

“Why?” he asked. “You want an introduction?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Kitty drew one knee to her chest and looked at Luke. “I just want a chance, you know. I didn’t move to L.A. to be a delivery girl.”

“You have any acting experience?”

“I modeled in my teens—ball caps for Lids and outerwear for Banana Republic. And I enrolled in summer classes at a performing arts school in Lexington, but had to give it up after my daddy was sent to prison. Mama took on a second job and I had to help look after my little brothers.”

“Doesn’t get any easier,” Luke remarked. “Your first year acting—or trying to get paid work—you feel like you’ve run a marathon. Then you turn around and see you’ve actually moved about ten yards. And the clock is always ticking. There’s always someone younger, prettier, hungrier, ready to take your place.”

“I’m not afraid to put in the time,” Kitty said. She shrugged and peeled more of her beer label away. “Anyway, just thought I’d ask. And hey, so you know, that’s not the reason I saved your life.”

“Didn’t think it for a second.” Luke grinned and clinked his bottle against hers. “Shit, you’d be better off getting a job at Chateau Marmont or Spago. Someplace like that. Smiling your smile as you serve those big-league producers their smashed avocado toast.”

“First thing I tried when I got to town,” Kitty said, and it was true. She’d had a stack of résumés printed off and hit every landmark in Hollywood. There were no takers. “Those places are tough to crack. It’s all favors and referrals.”

“Well, my name’s worth shit in this town, and my referral is worth even less.” Luke peeled off his own beer label, rolled it into a ball, and flicked it from the tip of his finger. “But I might be able to work something out. I know a guy, Denny Chick, a makeup artist. Does a lot of horror movies. You ever see It Came from the Dumpster?”