Kama Sutra Cadillac

Chapter One

"That girl's in trouble," Marta announced darkly. "Wait here."

The girl was slumped against a wall, head down, her long black hair unkempt around her shoulders, her worn blue jeans and spattered white blouse speaking of poverty and perhaps worse.

Hayward sighed but dutifully followed his housemaid's instructions, stopping beneath the awning of a tony sidewalk cafe. It was summer, and sunburnt tourists were sipping frosted Margaritas and crunching tortilla chips doused with a salsa so heavy with cilantro that he could smell it six feet away.

So much for a quick detour, Hayward grumbled to himself; if this takes more than a few minutes, the freeway will be jammed with Friday afternoon traffic and I'll never get home.

Desperate to puncture his leaden gloom, he'd succumbed to the sweet pull of nostalgia and stopped by the Pasadena Playhouse, where his career had started; but then Marta had spotted the girl.

The music burbling from the cafe was Beethoven's Pastorale symphony; as a child Hayward had watched Fantasia endless times and knew the music by heart. The tourists at the nearest table wore baseball hats and designer sunglasses, as if they sought to mimic a famously informal film director, and Hayward exhaled through pursed lips. We all have our Hollywood dreams, he thought distractedly; mine even worked for awhile.

But as he watched Marta rouse the teenage girl and gently question her, his mind was not on his past successes or Marta's irrepressibly kind heart, or his vow to make her happy just as she'd kept his mother happy in her waning days; it was on the paternity suit, the crushing settlement and his shiny new mortgage to fund it. He was less than broke now; his equity drained like an abandoned desert swimming pool, his new mortgage payments higher than his paltry income, and all this wreckage from one Cabernet-fueled mistake with a willing young actress.

You always push your luck, he castigated himself bitterly; but she was available and so why not? This is why not; either sell the house or lose it soon enough.

He'd given the distraught young actress the address of the house on Los Feliz, the one where her unfortunate condition could be remedied; and so he'd thought the matter closed. But seven months later comes the news that she'd given birth. With the DNA test, there was nothing to say; and so as he stood uneasily beside the jovially buzzing tourists, his mind was occupied with the drifting ashes of financial ruin.

His attorney had advised agreeing to child support, but Hayward had set a much higher standard for himself and his unwanted son; he'd offered a lump sum, virtually all his remaining equity in the Topanga Canyon house, so the new mother and child could live off the interest for decades to come. The way his finances were heading, Hayward reckoned this was a safer bet for the child than relying on his faltering income.

He'd keep paying Marta, of course, until the bitter end beyond the bitter end; even if he had to go back to being a waiter, he'd keep Marta. But now, she'd found another broken sparrow, and as she guided the dispirited young woman to his aged Mercedes, he sighed anew.

"She's got no one," Marta explained. "Her father was supposed to meet her here, but he hasn't come and he's not answering his phone. She hasn't eaten in two days."

Knowing it was generally enough, Hayward suggested, "Let's give her twenty bucks and take her to a shelter," but Marta shook her head. "Senor Hayward, she's afraid of being raped."

"Smart girl," he said laconically. She was medium height and slim, with nice hips and a pleasant face what little Hayward could see through her tangled hair.

"She's coming home with us," Marta announced. "She can stay in the extra bedroom and help me with the housework."

The last broken sparrow had soon sprouted a husband, and the couple had camped in his pool cabana for six months, only leaving after he'd secured the young man a caretaker position at an evangelical church. Suppressing his lack of enthusiasm, Hayward conceded, "Room and board, but only if she's single. I can't pay her."

"She needs food and a safe bed, not money," Marta exclaimed. After briefly describing her plan of action to the girl in Spanish, Marta guided her into the back seat of the white Mercedes and sat beside her as the girl broke into sobbing exclamations of gratitude.

"Is she single?"

"Yes, and I believe her."

"No boyfriend waiting to join her?"

"No. She's alone, and hungry . You know that tamales place off Colorado?"

"On my way," Hayward replied, and stifled his annoyance with Marta's rescue. Instead of dropping Marta off at her daughter's in South Pasadena for the weekend, there would be complications; as a result, the drive back to Topanga Canyon would be through rush-hour traffic. Both the inland route from the Valley or the trek to the Pacific Coast Highway would be slow, noxious Hell; getting to Santa Monica at that hour would be hopeless, and a new worry his elevated blood pressure gripped him. Stay calm, he reminded himself grimly; maybe if I can dump the girl and Marta at her daughter's in 15 minutes, I might just scoot down the 210 and hit the Valley by 3:20, 3:30 tops.

It wasn't just his native Angelos' inborn calculus to avoid congestion; he had a meeting with Stanton at 4 p.m., one which Stanton promised would end his financial woes and put him back in the green if the pieces fell into place. Hayward had been a third-tier industry player long enough to know that most projects fizzled for any of a hundred fatal causes; but every once in a long while, one came in, just like the no-name 20-to-1 horse sometimes nosed across the finish line at Hollywood Park, winning big for its unknown owner and jockey.

His big win had been the one-point share of teen-horror flick; he'd waived his fee, opting for SAG minimum, and put up all his savings for that one-percent share of gross. With a thin smile he recalled the producer trying to give him 3% of net instead, but Stanton had warned him there never was a net in Town never. The one-point had earned him several million dollars, back when that was actually an interesting sum of money, and he'd lived off that longshot win since.

But then his Mom had become ill, and he'd done his best, finding and paying Marta to live with his Mom and arranging for the best medical care in Westwood. He'd mortgaged his house, and when his mother had passed away, he'd invested the remaining cash in several independent film projects which had flamed out. His friend Stanton continued flogging him around Town, but there were just too many new faces and too few projects. He'd kept his hand in with occasional TV gigs and one-day dialog touch-ups of optioned screenplays, but they were displays of Stanton's loyalty, not contracts which paid the bills.

"Her name is Valentina," Marta announced, and Hayward went through his automatic mnemonic exercise of associating each new name he had to learn with a Hollywood star or starlet. Rudolph Valentina, he thought; got it.

"Buenos dias, Valentina," he said affably, and the girl glanced briefly up from her tear-stained state to acknowledge his greeting. As Marta grilled the girl in quiet sympathetic Spanish Hayward never tired of listening to Marta's Chihuahua inflection he drove through the pre-rush hour traffic to the small tamales shop just above the junior college on Colorado Boulevard.

Marta dashed into the gaily-painted yellow and red storefront, leaving Valentina in the back seat. Suppressing his irritation over the delay and the traffic nightmare ahead, Hayward turned around and asked, "Do you speak English?"

"A little," the girl replied.

"Good," he said. "Speak English, even with Marta. You'll learn faster."

The silence grew heavy, and after shifting uncomfortably, the girl finally ventured, "Thank you, senor."

"De nada," Hayward replied, and then glanced at the clock on the dashboard. If I can hit the 210 in 10 minutes, I might just make it. Despite his skepticism, Hayward's spirits rose at the prospect that Stanton's secret project might at least stall his unavoidable slide into bankruptcy. More out of politeness than interest, he's asked Stanton a few questions, and his answers had re-ignited Hayward's hopes.

Who's the producer?

Me, Stanton had replied.

You? With what money?

It's almost zero budget, Stanton said. It's all distribution.

How many points are in it for me?

Forty, Stanton had declared, if you recruit the talent.

Hayward's heart had leaped at this staggeringly lofty share of the income, for a standard cut was a point or two, five at the top end. Forty was an unbelievably rich piece of the gross. But 40 percent of nothing is nothing, Hayward had reminded himself. A thousand projects were launched but only a handful didn't sink beneath the waves of Hollywood hype and hope.

What's your cut?

Same as yours, Stanton had replied, and the distributor gets twenty. You and I will split the talent and crew expenses keeps the accounting simple.

Do I count as talent? Hayward had asked hopefully, and Stanton had chuckled. That's the idea. But this is outre, outre, outre, so it has to stay private.

How big is the cast and crew?

Small, Stanton had explained. One guy each for sound, camera and lighting, you and a female lead.

What is it, a play?

Definitely a drama, Stanton had replied mysteriously.

Despite his admonishment to stay calm, Hayward felt his internal pressure rise at the thought of the morning's other less welcome revelation. The new mother and his son, rather than disappearing into some shack in Malibu or Venice as he'd hoped, had moved into Topanga, courtesy of a sympathetic producer's wife, "to be close to the father."

The young woman was a petite blond, bright and sassy, and Hayward reckoned she was savvy enough to drop her depreciating 42-year old one-night stand for a younger catch as soon as her trawling net snagged one. But this reassurance rang hollow, for another possibility had plagued Hayward since morning: that Boise yes, like the city in Idaho, she'd offered at their first meeting with a toothy, knowing grin planned to milk the industry's sympathy as a single-mother actress stuck with a dead-end dad.

She'd certainly lost no time in positioning herself atop the heap; with the settlement signed, she was secure financially, and moving to Topanga gave her proximity to a generous slice of film industry elite. And even though the baby was only a month old, Boise had already shed every ounce of a first mother's fat. Breastfeeding had swollen her small bustline, and though Hayward had silently speculated that the change might increase her chances in auditions, she'd complained to him of sore nipples and a part lost in a prison-camp TV movie because she was "too big."

Marta returned with the tamales, and Valentina unwrapped one, she pulled her hair over her shoulders and eyed the crackling husks with an intense anticipation. As soon as the smooth cornmeal skin was exposed, Valentina grabbed the steaming tamale and hungrily tore off chunks to stuff in her mouth.

With her hair no longer obscuring her face, Hayward saw her clearly for the first time. And while he watched her chew a bite of tamale, gasp at the hot pork filling, and then swallow the mouthful whole, he fell immediately and inextricably in love with her.

For Valentina was more than pretty; she was radiant especially when wolfing down a pork tamale with unmatched zest. Her features were perfectly symmetrical, her skin warm and clear, her eyes large and luminous with long lashes, and her teeth straight and her mouth generous; and as he glanced down at her mud-speckled peasant blouse, he saw that she was shapely in the fine fashion of a long-legged young creature bursting with life's deepest forces.

Fools rush in, he reminded himself with a sigh; you could be her father. She wouldn't be interested, anyway. A darker concern came to him; acutely aware that 12-year old girls now looked like 17-year olds and 17-year olds looked like 22-year olds, Hayward asked Marta, "If she says she's eighteen but she's really only fifteen, we have to take her to Child Services."

Though not terribly proficient in Spanish, Hayward understood enough to know Valentina said "eighteen" with the emphasis of sincerity.

"Any I.D.?" he asked.

The girl extracted a folded paper from her back pocket, and dutifully offered it up for Hayward's inspection. The photo was of a much younger, pre-pubescent girl, but the dates indicated she was eighteen. It might be bogus, but perhaps not; either way, at least he had a defense should some relative suddenly appear and charge him with abducting an underage girl. You couldn't be too careful nowadays, Hayward reflected; he'd believed Boise's whispered assurances that she was protected, and that moment of wine-soaked trust had cost him what was left of his house.

"Her father waited until she was eighteen to send for her," Marta explained. "He was afraid she would become a prostitute."

Hayward had heard about the temptations faced by poverty-stricken families with pretty young daughters, and had seen underage girls selling themselves during a visit to an industry pal's summer place south of the border. His friend had indulged himself, but he had not; it was too desperate, too sad, and though he was as hungry for female companionship as any bachelor, his mother's strict upbringing had cemented his empathy.

Knowing that his sudden attraction might be as fleeting as the beat of a butterfly's wing loneliness and despair often wore the damask cloak of love Hayward took the gentleman's path.

"Can she stay with you this weekend?" Hayward asked, and Marta's eyes had widened in dismay. "Every bed and sofa is taken, Senor Hayward. You know that. No, you take her home."

Turning to Valentina, who was single-mindedly devouring her third tamale, Marta explained that she was to accompany Hayward home. Her eyes widening in fear, she listened to Marta's assurances with evident anxiety.

Glancing again at the dashboard clock, Hayward said, "I need to get on the 210 freeway pronto, so make up your mind." Marta's assurances continued right up until Hayward pulled into the cracked driveway of her daughter's bare-yard bungalow, and as she firmly closed the door she gave Valentina a final motherly squeeze.

"Take good care of her, Senor Hayward," she instructed, and Hayward dutifully nodded.

Hayward swung the Mercedes around and headed up Hill to the 210 freeway, which was predictably clotted with red brakelights.

With a grim understanding that it was destined to be a long drive, Hayward rolled up the Mercedes' windows and turned on the air conditioner. The transmission in the aging vehicle had given out last year, costing him a bloody fortune he could ill-afford, but any hope of buying a replacement had evaporated with the paternity settlement. He'd driven his classic, the pink '66 Cadillac DeVille, while the Mercedes had been in the shop, but he was loathe to risk his last valuable asset on the freeways of L.A.

Hoping to initiate a tension-defusing conversation, Hayward said, "Tell me about yourself, in English, and Espagnol when you run out of English. Okay?"

He didn't catch everything, but he understood enough: a harrowing border crossing, a run-in with some bad hombres, and now, no sign of her father, and no close relatives nearby.

Pulling his gaze away from the rear view mirror with some difficulty- he'd adjusted the mirror to reflect Valentina's face rather than the vehicles behind him Hayward expressed sympathy and then fell into silent turmoil. Falling in love with an 18-year old illegal would be extremely stupid, he told himself harshly; but the genie was out of the bottle, and he could not stop glancing in the rear view mirror at her. This has to be platonic, he told himself firmly; taking her to bed would be like lighting a powder keg; and she's probably horrified at the mere possibility.

The junction with I-5 was stop-and-go frustration, as usual, and Hayward reckoned he would need at least two traffic miracles to make the meeting by four. In pondering the problem of what to do with Valentina while he was with Stanton, Hayward turned as he often did to classic films for solutions. It seemed like a Henry Higgins moment, with Valentina in the Audrey Hepburn role; and so once he exited the freeway at 3:45 p.m. the Traffic Genie must have been hovering nearby, for the right lane magically cleared Hayward drove straight to the shopping center by Stanton's office.

It was the sort of bland, featureless conglomeration of "premiere retail" that he loathed; he could feel his inner spirit wither as he as he entered the air-conditioned sanitized shopping paradise, as if the green doors were cast of kryptonite.

It was why he'd left for Paris at 22; of course Paris had its own deformities of spirit, but at least each neighborhood shop had an identifiable character, as if each were a player in a Pagnol melodrama. But American malls were like computer-generated extras in a street scene; each was as faceless as the next.

Hurriedly consulting the mall's map, Hayward led Valentina into a hair salon. Choosing a Latina stylist, he instructed her to give Valentina a shampoo and trim, and to take payment now as he had to leave. His card had less than $500 left in available credit, and Hayward hoped it wouldn't be rejected; as the clerk ran the charge, she looked at Hayward with a deeply furrowed brow and he shifted uneasily.

"Weren't you in that horror movie on a tropical island?" the clerk asked, and Hayward slipped off his shades and smiled.

"You mean Doppelganger Island?"

"The one where everybody has to try to kill the copy of themselves before it kills them?" the clerk asked enthusiastically, and Hayward nodded. Valentina asked a confirming question of the stylist, and as the young woman explained Hayward's role in Spanish, Valentina's eyes widened.

"You're a movie star," she whispered breathlessly, and he shook his head disparagingly. "No, just a bit player." Handing the stylist a $20 tip in advance anything less would have looked miserly he led Valentina to a trendy young woman's outlet and rapidly sorted through a rack of dresses. Holding up a tight-waisted white sundress with spaghetti straps, he reckoned it was a close enough fit, and hurried to the bored clerk at the register to pay with his credit card.

He'd carried a $100 bill for years, for luck and an emergency, and now seemed like the right time to deploy it. Extracting the carefully folded bill, he added the remaining $20 bills from his wallet and handed them to Valentina along with the sundress. Motioning her to the changing rooms at the rear of the store, he instructed her to change into the new dress, get the shampoo next door and then buy herself another outfit with the cash.

As Valentina gazed at him with wondrously lustrous, wondrously grateful eyes, Hayward fell the tingling pull of desire; smiling wanly at her, he told himself, You're too poor to fall in love, and too old; take the Rex Harrison role and be happy you have that.

Instructing Valentina to wait for him in the store, he confirmed she understood with a few words of Spanish and then headed for his meeting.

To his credit, Stanton had maintained the wiry build he'd slimmed down to after his heart attack; Hayward had even suggested adding a few pounds, but Stanton had only rubbed the gray stubble atop his head and grinned with a convert's firm faith. "When you're flat on your back while an invisible elephant sits on your chest, you start thinking about the little things you'd miss if you die," he'd said.

Hayward had noticed other changes as well; Stanton seemed to have recovered the elfin sparkle which he'd lost in his manic production days. He'd given up the Century City suite in exchange for a modest office in the Valley in a building of accountants and therapists and taken to wearing collar-less Thai shirts and surfer jammies.

Sweating from his hurried walk in the hot summer Valley sun, Hayward welcomed the air-conditioned confines of Stanton's small office. The Santa Monica Mountains were visible through the haze, and Hayward thought of his embattled house just over the ridge, barely visible from the lookout on Mulholland Drive. Calming himself, he sat down at the low Japanese table across from Stanton and poured a cup of lukewarm green tea, a staple of Stanton's new health regime.

Gazing skeptically at his old friend, he asked, "What could we possibly do that's worth 80 percent of gross?" he asked

Stanton removed his round spectacles and cleaned the lenses on his plain white Thai shirt. "How much does it cost to distribute a movie a million times on the Internet?"

"Almost nothing," Hayward agreed. "But then the gross is zero, too."

"And what's the biggest seller on the Internet?"

"Pornography."

Stanton gave him an elfish grin and Hayward shook his head. "I'm desperate, but not that desperate."

Gesturing "slow down," Stanton said, "You know what's hot, and will stay hot?"

Ignoring Hayward's look of disgust, the producer paused for effect.

"Conception."

Hayward's expression faded into puzzlement. "You mean fertility?"

Stanton nodded. "You know how many women can't get pregnant? They want a baby, and even though they'll go to truly insane lengths to have one, they'd rather get pregnant the old-fashioned way."

"Which means what?"

Stanton clapped his hands enthusiastically. "The Internet is full of advice, but it's all so clinical. It's also full of porn, but it's got nothing to do with conceiving. You know how many women give up and adopt, and then three months later they get pregnant? These women are so stressed they couldn't get pregnant even if they were humped morning, noon and night by sixteen-year olds."

"So what can we bring to the party?"

"A passionate love story," Stanton replied. "And the tried-and-true bible of technique which has worked for ages."

Hayward shrugged, and Stanton's tone became more excited. "Don't you see it? The Kama Sutra demonstrated by beautiful people in love, demonstrated tastefully on your own home computer. It's not pornography, it's a fertility program. It's educational and inspirational. There's nothing tawdry about it."

Hayward's lack of enthusiasm was painfully visible, and Stanton continued with rising fervor. "Do you have any idea of how well pornography sells in the Bible Belt? And think about all the lousy porn that's out there. It's all male fantasy, blond bimbos with boob implants, bondage, and Asian girls in school uniforms. This would be targeted to women. The market's practically untouched. It's beyond galactic. The competition is zero-point-zero-zero."

Frustrated with Hayward's cool disappointment, Stanton said, "Don't you see the opportunity? The women would insist on their man watching the lesson with them, and what's not to like? He gets to watch amazing sex, and then go bananas with his lady."

Stanton leaned forward as if delivering the deal-clincher. "Look at the savings. The poor schmuck was looking at 25 grand in fertility fees and the humiliation of jerking off in a cup. Now it's all about doing his wife 25 different ways, for free."

Taking a sip of his green tea, Hayward said, "They can watch a bunch of moaning and thrashing all night long in any hotel room in America."

Stanton pointed a finger-pistol at Hayward. "The passion would be real. You seem to be on good terms with Boise. Do you think she'd be willing?"

A wry smile formed on Hayward's lips. "Before I gave her all the equity in my house, possibly. Now? I doubt it. And I'm not in love with her."

"You're an actor. Act in love."

Hayward considered his old friend closely. "Why bring this to me? There's plenty of younger guys. Is this just a favor to help out a desperate old pal?"

Twisting his hands as if solving an invisible mechanical puzzle, Stanton said, "Do I have to sing your praises? You're perfect for the part. You're 42, the same age as the target audience's husbands, only you look 34. You're in great shape, and I know you can do the work because, well, you knocked up a 20-year old."

Hayward's face did not register the compliment, and Stanton's voice softened. "Most importantly, I can trust you. This is the best idea I've had in decades, and I've got all the pieces lined up. A sexologist to make sure the advice is state-of-the-art, a crew we can absolutely trust, and a distributor with a brilliant marketing plan to saturate all the high-volume women's websites."

Although he knew it was wrong to mix love and commerce, Hayward could not stop thinking of making love with Valentina, and perhaps getting paid for doing so. Pushing the thought away, he asked, "What's the storyline?"

"I know it doesn't sound compelling, but remember our audience. The story is their story: a couple very much in love, unable to conceive, hoping to conceive. They're anxious, and so the story is them overcoming their fears, having fun with each other in bed. And at the end voila, she's pregnant, cue the rousing music."

Hayward shook his head skeptically. "It sounds so cheesy."

"It's not," Stanton declared. "I've already got Ronnie for the sound, and he'll put together a mix of Indian ragas and Western classical romance. Wolfe jumped at the camera work, just for the challenge of shooting sex in non-cheesy ways, and Guilford is on for editing. I'm telling you, this will be cheesecake, not cheesy."

Against his better judgment, Hayward asked, "Just for curiosity's sake what kind of money are you anticipating?"

"Finally," Stanton exclaimed. "Here's the beauty of the distribution channel. We're selling monthly subscriptions, all secure, all private, for forty bucks a pop. I already hired a marketing guy, and he says the price point is forty. $39.95 makes the sale, $49.95 looks pricey. Every week, we issue a new lesson. You want to watch it fifty times, be my guest, until your subscription runs out."

Stanton let Hayward absorb the revenue model and then continued in a bright marketing-patter voice. "But wait, there's more. For a few bucks, the customer can get a DVD of four lessons with bonus material, maybe some talking-head stuff with the sexologist and some extra footage. Once we get the revenue stream flowing, we pay a line editor to pull off some stills from the video and package a manual."

Hayward spun the tea cup slowly in his palm and said, "What's your conservative estimate?"

"About 10,000 subscribers, or $400,000 per month. The distributors get $80,000, our expenses are maybe $20,000 a month, and we split $300,000 a month."

It seemed beyond mere good fortune, and Hayward reined in his runaway calculations.

"What's to keep someone from copying each show and selling it for ten bucks on eBay?"

"Nothing except a neutron bomb."

"What's that mean?"

"It's a techie's wet dream," Stanton explained. "My son found this new technology under close wraps up in Silicon Valley. Each digital file detects the act of copying, and unleashes a virus which erases the cheat's hard drive. The industry doesn't want to piss off its customers by frying their PCs, but we have no such qualms."

Hayward shrugged and commented, "The expenses seem a little light."

Stanton pulled a page out of his notebook and said, "See for yourself. You'll need to rehearse a bit, but it's live video for 30 minutes, with light-touch editing. We pay the female talent five hundred bucks for two hours work and a half-day for three crew. A couple hundred for titles and a few bucks for sound. No packaging or shipping costs until we decide to do the DVD release."

"How many do we do a week? And what's the total run?"

"There's 23 basic positions which get worked into either 52 or 77 positions, with the maximum enchilada being 170 positions. That would be overkill, because after awhile the positions look alike. I was thinking four a week I've got some incredible herbal mixes to keep you energized, just in case with a 13-week production run, total 52 lessons. That should be enough to set us up for life."

Trying not to let his mind run away with the glorious possibilities of immense profit, Hayward said, "Any script?"

"No, the dialog is ad-lib. It has to be natural."

"It would be better if I did love her," Hayward said quietly, and the idea he'd tried to push aside exploded fully-formed in his mind: Valentina.

"And much better if she loved you," Stanton remarked. "Remember, it's all about the woman and her quest for pregnancy."

Hayward nodded distractedly, and Stanton said, "I've been thinking about potential female leads. The perfect lead would truly want to get pregnant."

"Too bad I don't anyone who happens to be in love with me and who wants to get pregnant," Hayward said acerbically.

"I was thinking of recruiting someone who is desperate to have a baby," Stanton explained. "Why take a chance with an anonymous sperm donor when you can make love with a handsome movie star?"

"Now you're dreaming," Hayward said sardonically.

"Not at all. There are probably hundreds of women in L.A. right now who would be willing to have your baby, because you're as good a donor as the next guy."

"Maybe."

Stanton's enthusiasm sputtered and died. "Do I sense you have someone in mind?"

"Maybe."

Sighing, Stanton said, "Tell me about her. And be honest."

"A young woman, mid-20s but looks 20," Hayward said, stretching the truth to breaking. "Hispanic, good looking."

"Of course," Stanton said acidly. " But you can't afford to fall in love again until this thing sells."

"I know," Hayward snapped. "But she's outside the industry, totally unjaded, and I haven't even touched her."

"What makes you think an unjaded young thing would be good in this? You've got it backwards, Hay. What we want is a either a woman who's bananas for you, or desperate to get pregnant and willing to do anything. It's got to be drilled into her life, not yours."

"So you're going to recruit a desperate 40-year old attorney from Westwood and I'm supposed to do her 52 ways while she tries to breathe tantrically. No thanks."

Softening, Stanton remarked, "I saw Boise the other day at Q.'s, and she's, well, very healthy up front now. Is she nursing?"

"Yes, but not happily," Hayward said laconically. "She complained that she lost a part because of it."

Refilling their cups, Stanton looked askance at his old friend. "Are you sure there's no spark left with you two?"

Hayward's resigned expression crumbled to the edge of sadness. "I wish I could say it had a storybook ending, but it doesn't. She's trawling for a bigger catch now."

"So, are you in or not?" Stanton asked.

"With a 40-year old Westwood attorney no. I'd rather be a waiter."

"In a little one-bedroom walk-up in Studio City?"

Hayward's tanned face hardened. "If it comes to that."

Stanton's frustration was evident. "You're pissing in your own bed, for what? This is a goldmine, and you're too good to do a good-looking lady just because she wants your sperm more than she wants you? I don't think you have that luxury."

"Just meet my prospect, okay?" Hayward pleaded, and Stanton frowned.

"Okay. As a favor. But I can already tell it won't work. You're gaga over her, but it has to be the other way around."

Arising from the low table, Hayward said, "Maybe she will be." It was absurd, fantastic, a dream, to hope she'd fall for him, but his mind had fastened on the hope like a well-pummelled junkyard hound; it was all he could do to remain calm as he entered the shopping center and greeted the radiantly grateful young woman who now dominated his every thought.

Copyright 2008-2025 Charles Hugh Smith all global rights reserved in all media. No reproduction in any media in any format (text, audio, video/film, web) without written permission of the author.