CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
When I got to the studio entrance off Melrose, there was a guard shack with a rent-a-cop standing beside it beneath a gilded metal archway. I showed him my license and told him I wished to see Davit Hovnanian at Neon Flamingo Productions.
“You have an appointment?” the security guy said.
“Not exactly,” I said. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to chat with him.”
“I’ll have to call first,” the guard said. “Wait here.” It wasn’t looking promising.
I sat in the car and drummed my fingertips on the steering wheel while the guard was inside the shack on the phone. He came back in less than a minute.
“The secretary says Mr. Hovnanian is not in the office today,” he said. “Maybe call ahead for an appointment next time.”
“The secretary might be able to he
