I took my Coke and wandered over to a booth where many writers had parked themselves. I had a nodding acquaintance with most of these guys—and they were all guys. “There’s a new agency in town,” I announced. An expectant hush fell over the crowd; if I am not mistaken, the very fans overhead stopped in their revolutions. “Yes, boys, I have hung out my shingle. The Granville Agency is new and independent, and I’m taking on writers.”

“On your back?” asked Art Luke with a moody laugh. Art doesn’t usually make jokes. He was older than the rest; he had grown up in a Mormon enclave in Mexico and fought in the Pacific. He wrote hard-boiled films: lots of jaded detectives and gorgeous dames.

“Granville’s Folly,” scoffed Maurice Allen, an acerbic, displaced New Yorker who hated Southern California. “You’ll never make it work.”

“Don’t be so sure. I know everyone in this town.”

“A girl agent?” scoffed Jimmy Ashford, a pale young man who came from a family of walnut growers in the Valley and feared having to go back. “That’ll be the day.”

“A woman. My name is Roxanne Granville, and I have more panache in my little finger than you have sperm count in your left testicle.” I waited for the laughter to die down. “I’m open for business. I’ll be back here tomorrow at noon and every day this week just to collect your scripts. I’ll read them all.”

Charlie Frye wandered in, tanned, blond, a little disheveled as usual, handsome in his surfer way. I had met him at the lunch counter my first week with Rakoff/Holtz. He was writing dialogue on a napkin.

“Roxanne’s just telling us she’s opening her own agency,” said Jimmy.

“I quit Rakoff/Holtz.”

“You sure they didn’t fire you?”

“Here’s what happened.” I lowered my voice in the manner taught by L’Oiseau d’Or, so that my words seemed musky and important even before I spoke them. “I went to a fortune teller the other night. She looked like Ava Gardner’s going to look in thirty years. She held her hands over a crystal ball.” I formed a tent with my fingers and closed my eyes. “‘Ma chère,’ she said, ‘you are not meant to labor in the service of others. You are a true original. You are an independent. You are destined to represent the writer of the next Casablanca, and to do that you must be free.’ Honest, guys, that’s what she said, in French. I offer you my rough translation.”

“I got a script right here in my front pocket, Roxanne,” said Jimmy.

“Keep it there, along with your hands and your dick,” said Charlie. “Roxanne, read my Coast of Fortune. It’s the best!”