He clapped them on the shoulders again and moved away. Simon’s eyes followed him towards the bar with interested expectations, but Orlando Flane had disappeared.
“There,” said April cold-bloodedly, “goes one of the prize-winning swine of this town.”
With Flane still on his mind, Simon said, “Who?”
“Ufferlitz, of course. Dear Byron.”
Their drinks came belatedly, accompanied by menus, and there was an interruption for the ordering of dinner. From the wine list, Simon added a bottle of Bollinger ’31.
“On Byron,” he said, as the waiter removed himself. “Everyone tells me something about him. He was a stick-up man in New Orleans, but his pictures make money. He’s a retired union racketeer, but he pays his slaves. Take it away.”
“How much does he pay them?”
The Saint’s brows levelled fractionally.
“He hasn’t shown me the payroll yet,” he admitted. “But two literary gents named Kendricks and Lazaroff told me his checks were okay.”
“Listen,” she said. “Those two clowns used to be rated one of the best writing teams in Hollywood, even though they nearly drove every producer nuts that they worked for. But last year they went too far. They got in a beef with Goldwyn, and he fired them. So they bluffed their way into his house when he was out and filled all his clothes with itching powder and left ink soap in all the bathrooms. The Producers’ Association banned them and they haven’t worked since — until Byron hired them. How much d’you think he had to pay them when they were in a spot like that, and why wouldn’t they be goddamn glad to get it?”