Clops looked pained. “I don’t think that’s true. There are whole magazines about us.” He held up a copy of Aces to prove his point.

Goathead stuck a nicotine stained finger under the title. “A. C. E. S.,” he spelled. “Aces. You see a magazine called Joker?!, you dumb shit? No.”

“Would you sit still?” the make-up man grumbled, trying to glue on Goathead’s horns. Despite the legs and hooves of a goat, the joker lacked horns, and Corman wanted big horns on his satyr.

Clops shook his head. “I think women pick men because of what’s on the inside, not on the outside.”

“Oh, God you are such a goober,” Goathead said. “And like how often are you getting any?” Clops flushed again and ducked his head. “Never? Right?”

The make-up man made a moue of distaste. “You’re done. Go away.” He made shooing motions with both hands, and Goathead went clattering away on his cloven hooves. Finn reflected that they were going to have to refinish the ancient wood floors after eight weeks of his and Goathead’s hooves.

The terribly sweet boy who was doing Finn’s make-up smoothed the foundation over his nose, and reached for the powder. “Did you hear about the commotion over on the Lieutenant set?” He punctuated every word with a little gusting breath.

Finn knew it was stupid. It was just a movie. But it was his dad’s movie, so he felt his stomach clench down into a small tight ball. “What?”

“Somebody broke into the production offices last night.”

Finn blinked. He had been prepared for a dead star, a fire on the set, lost film. “Was anything taken?”

“They don’t think so. The files drawers were all open, and they found the petty cash box by the open window, but all the money was there.”

It was an odd enough occurrence that Bradley decided to talk to his dad when the Argonauts broke for lunch.

There was a cafeteria on the Warner’s lot where extras, day players and the below-the-line people went to eat. The food was plentiful and cheap. You would often see writers in there, which said something about the self-image of Hollywood writers.

Then there was The Warner’s Restaurant. Table clothes, linen napkins, wines and gourmet food. This was where the powerful “did lunch.” Finn swung on down the street to the entrance to that restaurant. Steps led up to the etched glass doors. The doors opened out, and he had to lower his hindquarters down a step to make room for the swing of the door. Eventually he was inside. They had just repainted the place in azure blue and cream with pale blue upholstery on the furniture. Beneath the scent of fresh cut gardenias in a vase on the maitre d’s desk there was the tang of newly dried paint.

Tony, the maitre d’, grinned. “Hear you been slumming over at the cafeteria.”

Finn slapped his gut beneath the Hawaiian shirt. “I couldn’t take too many more gourmet meals and keep my boyish figure. Dad here?”

Tony indicated the direction with a cock of his head. “Corner right.”

“Thanks.”

Finn minced his way between the tables, exchanging hellos with various actors, directors, producers and studio heads. He had practically grown up on this lot, and in fact been the focus of a law suit between Disney and Warner’s in the late fifties. Warner’s had used Finn in some of their promotional material, and Disney had screamed infringement of trademark, citing Fantasia. Since Finn had been two at the time, he wasn’t sure how it had all been resolved. He just knew it was a favorite dinner tale of his father’s.

His dad was eating with Ester Flannigan, the most perfect of personal assistants. There was a slight frown on his long, lantern jawed face, and he seemed to be talking more than he was eating. Which meant Ester was taking shorthand instead of eating. Finn came up behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and gave her a kiss one wrinkled cheek. “Doesn’t the union have something to say about working through lunch?”

Benton Finn looked down at their virtually untouched plates and gave Ester an apologetic smiles. “Sorry, we’ll finish this after lunch.”

“What’s got your shorts in a twist?” Finn asked as he swiped a cherry tomato off his dad’s salad plate. He bit down and savored the tart/sweet explosion. He swallowed and added, “The break in?”

“So it’s all over the lot, is it?” Finn asked.

“I don’t know. It’s at Corman’s.”

“It’s all over the lot,” Ester broke in. “Jenny called to ask about it, and she’s over in the bungalows.”

“Why is this a deal?” Finn asked. “Nothing was stolen.”

“Because everything on Lieutenant has to go smoothly and if you look close enough at any production you’ll find problems, and Coppola will use it,” Ester said in sing song voice while Benton glared at her.

Finn gave his dad a look. “Wow, you are being paranoid.”

“Coppola wanted this movie, and Bernie told me Coppola told the Chairman I didn’t know how to pull something new and fresh out of Kelly. Kelly doesn’t need to be new and fresh. She just needs to be Kelly.”

“You’ve directed her in three other films. These other guys don’t know how to work with someone from that generation,” Finn soothed.

Ester closed her eyes briefly, then mouthed to Finn wrong thing to say.

“Meaning what?” Benton asked low and cold. “That I’m also from that generation so I know how?”

“No, that you’re a gentleman and Kelly is a real lady,” Finn babbled, and hoped his dad would accept this statement of the public’s view of Kelly even though everyone in the industry knew she slept with every hot young star who came along. “These young… er, new guys don’t know how to work with someone like that.”

Benton looked mollified. “You’re sure right about that. These new guys are punks. They have no respect for the institutions…”

Finn cocked a back foot for greater comfort and settled in to listen. He also helped himself to the sole almadin on his dad’s plate.

Finn heard the sharp clatter of high heels on concrete, and suddenly an arm was slipped beneath his. The redhead from the Lieutenant set had attached herself limpet-like to his side.

“Hi.” The word emerged on a puff of coffee scented breath. “Sorry I had to run off back there. By the way, I’m Julie.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Bradley said.

He waited to see if Red would ask for his name, but apparently she had discovered that the joker with the pony’s body was the director’s son, and she wasn’t bright enough to realize that she needed to pretend that she hadn’t. Finn had long ago stopped being angry over these sudden shifts in attitude from eager young starlets. What he hadn’t totally resolved was whether to laugh or cry about them.

“So, are you in the business?” she asked as she tried to adjust her steps to match Finn’s length of stride.

“No, not really.” He watched the glow of interest in her eyes die. “I’m in medical school.” A touch of interest returned. So we’ve established what motivates you, Julie. Looks like… money. Which is probably good because you sure can’t act.

“So, how do you like it out here as compared to the Bronx?” Bradley asked.

Julie pouted. “Oh, pooh! I’ve been working so hard to lose the accent.”

In your dreams, baby.“And you have,” Finn said diplomatically. “It’s more intuition. Native Angelinos are few and far between.”

“So you were born like… here,” the girl suddenly amended.

“Yeah, born at the Hollywood Presbyterian hospital. Went to Hollywood High. And I expressed my wild card moments after birth. Which was good, because if it had happened in the birth canal I would have killed my mother, and that would have really sucked.” He smiled at her brightly. She blanched at the image his words had elicited. Which showed she had some imagination.