“Yes. I drove out there once to see Norman, on their behalf, but he didn’t know me at all and, well, let’s just say I never went back. Anyway, I’ve got all I can do to haul produce six days a week for my brother.”

“Look, Thelma, quit that job and come work for me. I have my own agency now.” I took a business card from the glove box and handed it to her.

“There’s no address on it.”

“That’s because I have to work out of my home. I live in Malibu, up that way.” I pointed north. “I’m doing all right—well, truthfully, not great. I waste a lot of time trying to be organized. I’m not any good at keeping books, and I can’t type except with two fingers, and my calendar is a mess. I can’t pay you anywhere near what you earned at Empire, and I know I can’t pay you what you’re worth, but I can probably do better than your brother.”

“Whatever you’re paying, I’m in. I’m too old for hauling potatoes. Besides, I love bringing order to chaos. I had a lot of practice, working for Max.”

“That’s great! When can you start?”

“Tomorrow, at eight, and I’ll make the coffee!”

Is this the way fate works, then? Larry Sanford tries to jump my bones, I flee, and fate hands me Thelma Bigelow, secretary extraordinaire. I didn’t immediately tell her the bitter truth of my little agency. Larry was right. Though I worked hard, and my name was enough to get me invited to galas, to premieres, parties where I met important people, in nearly two years of being independent, my dream of discovering the writer of the next Casablanca seemed like a fatuous illusion. I would have welcomed a little nepotism. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was on some sort of weird blacklist, that maybe the other studios thought if Empire wouldn’t buy from the Granville Agency, why should anyone else? My writers relied on Poverty Row and television. Sad to say, the closest the Granville Agency came to a big studio contract was last year. A wonderful script of Maurice Allen’s generated extravagant enthusiasm from Paramount, lots of meetings, talks. Maurice did the changes they asked for. I had the pen inked up to sign, but the producers just sort of vanished, along with their promises. From that crushing disappointment, I learned what every agent and every writer knows: Nothing is real till money changes hands. Without Julia’s inheritance, I’d be broke.

•   •   •

The following Friday at our weekly lunch at the Ambassador, I told Irene about finding Thelma on PCH and hiring her on the spot. She looked pensive. “I wonder if it’s wise for you to hire Max Leslie’s secretary. She might be a Communist too. You never know.”