Opening monologue
Favors is a four character play set in Hollywood. Entertainment journalist Corinne Wilson has the galleys of a new autobiography by former studio head Vivian Carson. No one wants to get their hands on the manuscript more than Chris Daley - Corinne's ex-lover and Vivian's successor. And no one wants back into the Hollywood game more than Vivian. When two powerful Hollywood players want something from you what's a girl to do? Why beat them at their own game, of course, and with the help of her assistant Sharon that's exactly what Corinne aims to do.
ACT I
Scene I – A PARTY IN HOLLYWOOD
WE HEAR THE OLD RAMSEY LEWIS TRIO INSTRUMENTAL “THE IN CROWD”, SPOTLIGHT UP,
STAGE LEFT, WHERE CORINNE WILSON, AN ATTRACTIVE WOMAN IN HER 30s, STANDS WITH GLASS IN HAND, TALKING TO A ROOM OF UNSEEN PARTY GOERS. WE HEAR PARTY NOISES IN THE BACKGROUND.
CORINNE: My God, who are these people? Look at the hat on that woman – is someone here casting a remake of “The Flying Nun”? Me? I’m doing well – very well indeed. You saw the pieces in Vanity Fair. I couldn’t decide if I should have one done on me, or by me, so I opted for both. Look over there – there’s that adorable boy from the new Paramount movie. I saw eight screenings last week, can’t remember a title. Something about vampires. Narrows it right down. Anyway, he’s scrumptious. Of course I’ve fashionably given up on men and sex. Now it’s all about the food – fabulous chefs, tasting menus – better than sex and only an order away! Speaking of food, here come the hordes. So easy to spot the out of work, straight for the booze and buffet. Oh God, who is that? Just when I think I’ve seen everything. She must be 60, in spandex. And her face – did she come here straight from a chemical peel? I mean did she just leap off of a surgeon’s table and announce “I have a cocktail party to go to”? I just love these parties. People keep telling me they’re tired of them but I never am. Well, well, well – look what the cat dragged in. Everybody’s favorite movie maker - Christopher Daley - and that precious little day player he married – Buffy? Bitsy? Bambi? – Becky, that’s it. I knew it was one of those “y” names. So noble of her to give up her career to look after the that little one they adopted. Just when she’d gotten an episode of “Hannah Montana”. When she said “The Principal will see you now”, I thought to myself, “There’s a girl with real talent.” Lost to us now, perhaps forever. Ah well. I wonder if Chris has read Vivian’s book? Yes I do mean Vivian Carson. I just got the galleys. “Her rise to the top of the movie world, and fall to the bottom of a spiritual void, is told from the point of view of a woman who has finally found inner peace.” And some mescaline, if the book is as inaccurate throughout as the first few pages I read. Gives a whole new meaning to selective memory. Oh my God, look at that guy over there. Look at those pants. Why doesn’t he just hand out a snapshot of his penis on a ruler? It would be less obvious. Anyway, Vivian’s book. What a load. You could fertilize Ethiopia with it.
Savoy Tivoli
A crime fiction novel set in North Beach in 1980. An excerpt from Chapter One.
I walked up the steps of the Savoy Tivoli patio, pulled back the mist slick gate and stepped in over swept up piles of uneaten bread, crumpled napkins and bent cocktail straws. 2:30 am -Chairs were flipped on the tables - their occupants long gone, having been unceremoniously pushed to the sidewalk half an hour ago, leaving only Patrick – a busser with a Midwestern farm boy’s face and wardrobe of black pants, black t-shirts, black shoes, black socks and should the weather demand it, black sweaters – cleaning up the last of the evening’s mess.
He reached into the bus tub full of dirty dishes and pulled out a grimy Irish coffee glass which, upon standing, he dropped. We both took a moment to enjoy the satisfying crash. It was his usual greeting to me. I couldn’t remember when he started the practice, or why, but it never failed to amuse me - particularly when the place was crowded. He gave me a nod and went back to his work.
The Savoy has been hosting San Francisco bohemia since 1907 and that had led it to its status, in this year of 1980, as the favorite gathering place of punks and artists and a reliable scouting ground for the last remaining 5 or 6 straight men in San Francisco who didn’t work in the financial district or troll the Union Street fern bars.
I walked inside through the restaurant. Silver palm trees left from a theater set; round, scarred wooden tables; intermittent paint on classic spiral columns, silvered mirrors over the back bar, an oversized pool table with faded felt – all as familiar to me as my own living room.
I continued into the back. On the left three private wooden booths – one of which had my initials scratched into the corner by a little missed ex-boyfriend; on the right more of those old wooden tables that afforded a perfect view of who was headed in – those you wanted to see, or avoid.
This second bar was occupied. Franco had his back to me, wiping down bottles and putting them back on the shelves.
“We’re closed”. The man had eyes in the back of his head. Or was it the mirror behind the bar?
“What’s your point?”
He turned, dressed as usual in a faded Hawaiian shirt, fringe of gray hair fanned out around his round face - a momentary distraction from the lazy eye that wandered but never missed a trick - and regarded me with a paternal disapproval.
“You, officer, should know better than anyone that it is illegal in this state for me to serve a cocktail after 2 am.”
“You serve minors.”
“Only your niece.” He gave a sorrowful shake of the head. “And that was under duress.”
I unbuttoned my leather jacket and let it fall open, offering a show of my shoulder holster. “Considered yourself duressed again.”
The rocks glass appeared from beneath the bar, already blessed with a healthy pour of Laphroig to which Franco judiciously added 1 cube of ice. He pulled out another to match and we clinked glasses. The peaty warmth brought on a slight, pleasurable shudder. I settled in on my bar stool
“So, Barkeep, how was your night?”
“Entertaining. A group from Livermore found their way here. One of the guys was actually wearing a leisure suit.” Franco smiled, large.” Raif made them wait an hour for a drink.”
“Only an hour. He’s mellowing. Time was he wouldn’t have served them at all.” End of the day tired suddenly hit me and I knocked back the rest of my Scotch and stood to go.
“You know, Franco, I had a guy offer me 20 bucks last week to get your attention.”
“And did you?”
I pulled a 20 out of my back pocket and set it down on the bar.
‘See you tomorrow Franco.”
“’Night Zoe”
“Officer Harriott to you.” Franco waived off my impertinence with a wave and went back to closing up.
The grand old Savoy Tivoli sign pointed my way home down Grant Avenue, the cold waking up my scotch lazy senses. I walked in the drizzle past the railroad flats and shuttered stores. Down the street you could hear a Blondie song out an open window…”Fade away….radiate.”
I love this walk. I wouldn’t recommend it, as a general rule, for a woman alone at 3 am. But it’s one of the upsides of a job that comes with a gun.
