Chapter ThirteenCALIFORNIA TRUST COMPANY, LOS ANGELES,
February 1928
“Good morning, ladies. I’m Mr. Benjamin O’Dell, the manager of the bank. Miss Bow, I can’t tell you what an honor it is to have you in our establishment. I’m such a fan of your films.”
“Really? Thanks!” Clara said, snapping her gum. “Which ones?
“Why, Mantrap is my favorite. And Dancing Mothers.”
“I liked those too,” she said.
O’Dell had watery blue eyes, a weak chin, and a fondness for Lilac Vegetal. He wore a gray serge suit and a bad toupée—one of those cheap J.G. Japp numbers—that looked like a sad possum Paw had shot out near Sassafras Holler when I was four.
We’d hopped in the Kissel that morning and sped downtown, then told the lady at the front desk we wanted to start an account. I’d worn my nicest mocha-br
