Chapter Twenty-TwoCLARA’S HOUSE, BEVERLY HILLS, CALIFORNIA,
March 6, 1929
“Got a blind date comin’ over tonight,” Clara told me as she powdered her nose. “Some frienda Joe Schenck’s from New York who headlines at George White’s Scandals. Name’s Harry Richman. Get Frances to put the dogs out, willya? I don’t want ’em makin’ a fuss.”
Joe Schenck was a muckety-muck at United Artists. Supposedly, Harry had come out west on tour and was staying with Joe.
“Daisy, this’s Harry. Harry, this’s my best friend, Daisy. She’s my secretary too,” she said when she introduced him that first night.
Harry was one of those oily lounge lizard types who wore more grease in his hair than a plate of Maw’s fried chicken.
“Charmed,” he said, kissing my hand. I wanted to go bathe in Lysol.
Since it was their
