“T’m from Georgia,” she said. “Just outside of Savannah.” “So?” “T’m just saying, I didn’t fall off a turnip truck. I was scouted by a guy from Paramount back home.” I found it somewhat intimidating—maybe even threatening—that someone had flown out to woo her. I had made my way to town through my own blood, sweat, and tears, and Celia had Hollywood running to her before she was even somebody. “That may be so,” I said. “But I still know what game you're running, honey. Nobody goes to Schwab’s for the milk shakes.” “Listen,” she said, the tone of her voice changing slightly, becoming more sincere. “I could use a story or two. If I’m going to star in my own movie soon, I need some name recognition.” “And this milk shake business is all just a ruse to be seen with me?” I found it insulting. Both being used and being underestimated. Celia shook her head. “No, not at all. I wanted to go get a milk shake with you. And then, when we pulled out of the lot, I thought, We should go to Schwab’s.’” Celia stopped abruptly at the light at Sunset and Highland. I realized at that point that was just how she drove. A lead foot on both the gas and the brake. “Take a right,” I said. “What?” “Take a right.” “Why?” “Celia, take the goddamn right before I open this car door and throw myself out of it.” She looked at me like I was nuts, which was fair. I had just threatened to kill myself if she didn’t put on her blinker. She turned right on Highland. “Take a left at the light,” I said. She didn’t ask questions. She just put on her blinker. And then she spun onto Hollywood Boulevard. I instructed her to park the car on a