Chapter TwelveCLARA’S HOUSE, BEVERLY HILLS, CALIFORNIA,
February 1928
“Sorry, Teet, you’ll have to call back tomorrow,” I said. “Clara’s asleep.”
Teet Carle was Clara’s publicist at Paramount. That wasn’t his real name. It was some nickname he’d been given. He was a pompous jackass who wore a pair of pince-nez and a big bow tie, and he was used to having Clara at his beck and call for still photos, ads for Max Factor, and Photoplay interviews. Even when she was exhausted from shooting for sixteen hours, she’d always done whatever he asked. Until I came along.
“I need her on the beach!” he said. “I’ve got a photographer here in Malibu! We’re waiting for her!”
“You’ll be waiting a while. She’s not coming.” I hung up.
I wasn’t waking Clara for some lousy snaps. She got little enough sle
