'Who's this Welles?' Pat asked of Louie, the studio bookie. 'Every time I pick up a paper they got about this Welles.'
'You know, he's that beard,' explained Louie.
'Sure, I know he's that beard, you couldn't miss that. But what credits's he got? What's he done to draw one hundred and fifty grand a picture?'
What indeed? Had he, like Pat, been in Hollywood over twenty years? Did he have credits that would knock your eye out, extending up to--well, up to five years ago when Pat's credits had begun to be few and far between?
'Listen--they don't last long,' said Louie consolingly, 'We've seen 'em come and we've seen 'em go. Hey, Pat?'
Yes--but meanwhile those who had toiled in the vineyard through the heat of the day were lucky to get a few weeks at three-fifty. Men who had once had wives and Filipinos and swimming pools.
'Maybe it's the beard,' said Louie. 'Maybe you and I should grow a beard. My father had a beard but it never got him off Grand Street.'
The gift of hope had remained with Pat through his misfortunes--and the valuable alloy of his hope was proximity. Above all things one must stick around, one must be there when the glazed, tired mind of the producer grappled with the question 'Who?' So presently Pat wandered out of the drug-store, and crossed the street to the lot that was home.
As he passed through the side entrance an unfamiliar studio policeman stood in his way.
'Everybody in the front entrance now.'
'I'm Hobby, the writer,' Pat said.
The Cossack was unimpressed.
'Got your card?'
'I'm between pictures. But I've got an engagement with Jack Berners.'
'Front gate.'
As he turned away Pat thought savagely: 'Lousy Keystone Cop!' In his mind he shot it out with him. Plunk! the stomach. Plunk! plunk! plunk!
At the main entrance, too, there was a new face.
'Where's Ike?' Pat demanded.
'Ike's gone.'
'Well, it's all right, I'm Pat Hobby. Ike always passes me.'
'That's why he's gone,' said the guardian blandly. 'Who's your business with?'
Pat hesitated. He hated to disturb a producer.
'Call Jack Berners' office,' he said. 'Just speak to his secretary.'
After a minute the man turned from the phone.
'What about?' he said.
'About a picture.'
He waited for an answer.
'She wants to know what picture?'
'To hell with it,' said Pat disgustedly. 'Look--call Louie Griebel. What's all this about?'
'Orders from Mr Kasper,' said the clerk. 'Last week a visitor from Chicago fell in the wind machine--Hello. Mr Louie Griebel?'
'I'll talk to him,' said Pat, taking the phone.
'I can't do nothing, Pat,' mourned Louie. 'I had trouble getting my boy in this morning. Some twirp from Chicago fell in the wind machine.'
'What's that got to do with me?' demanded Pat vehemently.
He walked, a little faster than his wont, along the studio wall to the point where it joined the back lot. There was a guard there but there were always people passing to and fro and he joined one of the groups. Once inside he would see Jack and have himself excepted from this absurd ban. Why, he had known this lot when the first shacks were rising on it, when this was considered the edge of the desert.
'Sorry mister, you with this party?'
'I'm in a hurry,' said Pat. 'I've lost my card.'
'Yeah? Well, for all I know you may be a plain clothes man.' He held open a copy of a photo magazine under Pat's nose. 'I wouldn't let you in even if you told me you was this here Orson Welles.'
