The actor’s name was Glenn Duveen, and he spent most of his time lying on their queen-sized bed smoking marijuana and listening to tapes from his collection of old radio shows. Duveen had been around Hollywood long enough to know that there is nothing an actor can do after a certain point except wait for the telephone to ring. It was through Glenn Duveen that Jody met the producer who was finally after all these years to put her into a movie. One winter evening they went to a small party at the house of a record producer, well up into the hills above Laurel Canyon. The place was noisy with people, mostly in their twenties or thirties and dressed in expensive-looking eccentric clothes. Lots of cocaine was being passed around, and after Jody had gotten a noseful she drifted outside to the garden, which was separated from the house by a high privet hedge with an iron gate in its middle. Jody went through the gate to a narrow lawn surrounded on three sides by trees and shrubbery. At the far end there was a white wrought-iron love seat, placed so that when Jody sat down she could see the lights of Los Angeles below, between two cuts of canyon.
