The Hollywood Trilogy by Don Carpenter

right down through my socks. “We’ll pick you up,” I said to the girl, and hung up.
    Jim came out and handed me my beer. He smiled at Karl.
    â€œGot a little piece of pussy stashed away here at the hotel, huh?”
    â€œLittle bit of the old Texas poontang,” I said. “What the hell’s her name?”
    â€œSonny Baer,” Karl said. He spelled it out while Jim and I looked at him blankly. “It’s her real name,” he said. “You know those Texas people and their names. Rip Torn. Sissy Spacek. Candy Clark.”
    â€œAnd now Sonny Baer,” Jim said. “She must be a real asshole.”
    â€œKarl probably wants to put her in our picture,” I told Jim.
    â€œHell, I’m for it, if it gets Karl laid,” Jim said.
    â€œMaybe we ought to call Schwab’s for a reservation,” Karl said.
    â€œHey, it’s a drugstore, man, you don’t call for reservations,” Jim said.
    After we finished our beers I went into the bathroom and got a couple of joints out of my shaving kit and we drifted down to the sixth floor.
    Sonny Baer was dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans. She had bushels of honeycolored hair, big deep blue eyes and a grin that cut the stunning effect of the rest of her and made it clear that Sonny Baer, whatever else, was no asshole. She grinned at me and shook my hand and said, “I see all of vour movies at least twice.”
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    Those eyes had never left mine, not even once, to look at Jim or Karl. “I love your movies. They’re funny.”
    â€œWhat about my movies?” Jim asked.
    Sonny said, “Oh, are you in the movies?” and won my heart forever. Jim laughed and shook her hand.
    â€œBoy, you got great tits,” he said, grinning and glinting.
    â€œGive me a couple of minutes, okay?” she said, and went into the bathroom. Karl reached for the telephone and took it into Sonny’s breakfast nook, and Jim turned on the television set. Jim and I watched a rerun while Karl talked in a low voice and made notes. Finally he came back in to where we were, looked from one of us to the other as if he wanted to say something, gave up and sat down and watched about thirty seconds of a commercial, then got up and went into the back of the apartment, then came out again, sat with us for another thirty seconds at least, and then went out onto Sonny’s balcony, which overlooked the front of the hotel and Sunset, the same view as from my front terrace.
    We were well into another rerun when Sonny came out, looking about the same, and we all jammed up at the door trying to open it for her.
    â€œWait a minute,” she said. We all stopped and looked at her.
    â€œDoes anybody have a number? I’d really liked to get stoned.”
    I pulled out a joint and lit it, and Jim shut the door. It only took a minute for the three of us to smoke up the joint—Karl didn’t smoke anything anymore, because, he said, it made him lose his feeling of control. Now he just waited patiently. Karl up in my apartment was one thing, he could never handle us somehow, but he didn’t get where he was by being a jerk, and now, with an audience, it was more like the public Karl, smooth, darkly handsome, cool as ice. Karl was a real snooker player, and I should have known there was more to this whole Mickey Mouse morning than getting a part for his girlfriend.
    â€œThis is great dope,” Sonny said. “What is it?” I could hear that Texas burr coming on a bit stronger now.
    â€œMaui Zowie, the best marijuana in the world,” I said, “and it hasn’t even hit yet, give it another five minutes . . .”
    â€œHot damn,” she said. “They got nothing like this in New York.”
    We all got into the elevator, and I pushed B for basement, but Sonny pushed L for lobby. “I want to check my mail,” she said.
    We waited and held the elevator door while she talked