Chapter SevenParamount lot, July 1927
I was strolling into work at the salon when I caught sight of Clara and some of the crew in the alley between stages. They’d marked chalk lines on the pavement, and their contest was well underway. A pile of cash was sitting on the asphalt next to them.
“Come on, Eddie! You can do better than that!” Clara yelled.
“My mother shoots better than that, you buttercup!” another fellow called.
“I can do better than that after three days filming in Death Valley!” one of the cameramen said.
A stage hand named Eddie Barber drew his head back, summoned every bit of saliva he could collect, and hawked his second frothy wad of spit at the wall of Stage 2.
Floyd Newman, a second cameraman, made a mark where Eddie’s clump had landed on the asphalt.
“Clara’s tu
