“I looked it up, she was born in ’28,” one girl was saying, as Finn stepped over the final power cord.

“That means she’s…” The brunette’s brow furrowed.

“Fifty-two,” said one of the blondes. She was tinier then her companions, and she reminded Finn of the figure in a music box, perfect in every detail. Then he got a look at her eyes.

A figurine constructed out of hard glass, he thought, as he waited for them to react to him. Jokers, even rich ones, learned to gauge a nat’s reaction before approaching too close.

“She’s got to be an ace,” mumbled the brunette around a mouthful of cookie.

“It’s illegal for them to be in professional sports,” said the redhead. “They should have done that in Hollywood.”

“Then Golden Boy couldn’t have had a career,” objected the zaftig blonde.

“Another good argument for banning wild cards,” murmured the petite blonde dryly. Finn swallowed a chuckle. This girl was quick.

“Kelly’s never said she’s an ace,” offered the brunette.

“Never said she isn’t,” countered the redhead.

“There’s a blood test that will tell if you’ve got the wild card,” mused the gimlet eyed blonde, almost to herself

The redhead picked a shrimp out of the melting ice and savagely chewed her way to the tail. “You’d think she’d want to move on.” The girl bit off the words with the same force she had shown to the shrimp.

Again the tiny blonde answered. “Why? Why would she? She’s been a star for thirty years. Every major role has been hers. Why quit?”

“So some of us could have a chance,” said the brunette.

“I wouldn’t do it,” said the gimlet eyed blonde.

“Yeah, but we all know you’d kill your mother for a part,” shot back the brunette.

The blonde gave her a look that clearly said, And what’s your point?

This time Finn couldn’t hold back the laugh. That did get their attention. The brunette and the zaftig blonde looked disgusted and walked hurriedly away. The redhead gave him a nervous smile, then made a show of checking the brooch watch which was part of her costume and hurried away. The tiny blonde held her ground.

He grabbed a plate and started loading up. “I’m sure you believed that watch really worked,” remarked the blonde.

Finn lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “Hey, at least she pretended to have an excuse.”

“You’re Mr. Finn’s son, aren’t you?”

“The one and only.”

“I’m Tanya.”

Finn shook the proffered hand. “I’m Bradley Finn. Pleased to meet you.”

“Well, I better go and walk off some of this,” she indicated the table“… spread.”

“It’s really hot out there. It’s not so bad when you’re down by the beach. I was at Santa Monica last night, and it wasn’t bad. It’s always worse in the valley. I’m a native Angelino and we know to avoid the valley.” Finn realized he was babbling. He tried to bite back the inane flow, only to have the worst of the inanities escape. “So, where do you live?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Bradley, I’ve got the right area code and an acceptable Beverly Hills address. The casting directors call.”

“I’m sure they do,” and he knew there was no way that line was going to come across as anything but a leer. Bradley cringed. He’d grown up talking to actresses. He wasn’t usually this gauche.

That’s because your gonads are talking, you dope. And she thinks you’re a freak so shut up!

She surprised him by saying, “I’ve never had a decent meal or good time in Santa Monica. Maybe I need native guide. Nice meeting you.” She gave a little wave with the tips of her perfectly manicured fingernails and walked away.

A freak whose daddy is a director, Finn’s cynical side amended.

Still, Finn figured he’d get her number. He was male and twenty-three, and she might be adventurous.

Finn came trotting down the sidewalk toward his Spanish bungalow apartment, and checked at the sight of the man standing in the shade of the trailing bougainvillea. It wasn’t that he looked threatening. No one that short could be threatening. It was more the fact that he looked like a garden gnome.

The man’s face was a full moon with the wide, surprised eyes of a child. A fringe of graying brown hair ringed a bald pate. An open necked shirt revealed a mat of graying chest hairs mashed flat by a tangle of gold chains. The barrel chest was supported on an even broader belly. Finn noted the Rolex watch and the expensive slacks, then boggled at the sight of the high topped red tennis shoes.

The man surged out from beneath the brilliant red flowers with the rolling gait of a sailor. “Harry Gold,” he announced, and Finn found a card thrust into his hand.

Shiny slick red paper with the name embossed in gold and the title PRODUCER beneath the name.

“I don’t have any input with my father on his projects,” Finn said automatically.

“I don’t want your dad… not that he isn’t a great director, but I don’t want him. I want you.”

“I have an agent.” Finn began sidestepping toward the safety of his front door.

“Of course you do. You’re a savvy kid, but I knew he wasn’t going to let me get near you,” Gold replied. “So I decided to talk to you myself.”

Far from being alarmed by this admission, Bradley found himself amused. He now had a pretty good idea of the kind of movies that Harry Gold produced. There was a bubble of laughter filling his chest. He forced it down, and propped his hindquarters on a nearby planter.

“That’s right, take a load off, though it’s gotta be easier with four than two,” Gold said. “Where was I?”

“Wanting to talk to me.”

“I don’t want to just talk to you. I want you to star in my next film. What do you think of that?” The little man’s chest puffed out like a satisfied pigeon’s.

The devil was in Finn prompting him to ask, “A speaking role?”

“Absolutely. That’s what makes you so perfect. You can talk.”

“Harry, do you make porno movies?” Finn asked.

The little man drew himself up. “I make male art films.”

Finn heaved himself back onto all four feet. “Thanks, but I’m not interested.”

“I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”

It was a ton of money for a porno flick. And you’d get some, said the bad Elmer Fudd who suddenly appeared on Finn’s left shoulder. He pictured his father and mother’s reaction. How would they ever know?

Because some teamster or grip would talk.

Finn hunched his shoulders, trying to dislodge his baser self. “Sorry, Harry, can’t do it.” He unlocked the door of his apartment.

“You’ve got to. You know how hard it is to train a real pony?” came the disconsolate cry as Finn closed the door.

“The frightening thing is that a woman would probably rather fuck a pony than a joker,” Goathead said the next morning when Finn finished telling them about his meeting with Gold. They were in the extras’ make-up area. Clops flushed to his eyebrow at the use of the profanity, and cocked his head significantly toward the joker woman seated near-by.

“What?” Goathead demanded. Clops cocked his head further this time and waggled his eyebrow. “Them? Hell, they don’t want to fuck a joker either,” Goathead said, upping the volume even further.

Finn sighed and looked up at the rafters. Goathead’s attitude was definitely starting to wear thin. On the other hand, Goathead had grown up poor in Detroit while Finn had grown up in Bel Aire, a child of privilege blessed with parents who had never treated him as different. He had had playmates and girlfriends…

And how many of them were with you because your daddy is a famous director? came the hateful little voice. They did always end up wanting to be “friends” and only one had ever put out, and Finn later heard she’d been busted in one of L.A. ’s more notorious sex clubs.