Excerpt from Big Red by Jerome Charyn, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"My boss in the basement of the Writers' Building."

"I'm your boss," he insisted, and then licked his lips with his serpentine tongue. "It was Louella. She said you were reliable. I could trust you not to be a rat."

He meant Lolly Parsons, Hollywood's premier gossip columnist and bitchiest bitch, with her wattles, her notorious triple chin. She had her own booth at the Brown Derby on North Vine, where she could snub you or greet you according to her own whimsical delight. The chef had to prepare a special grapefruit pudding for Louella, who was finicky about her weight. She lost a little of her allure after she became Hearst's toad. Lolly had massacred Welles' first film because she insisted that Charles Foster Kane was modeled after the Chief, as the newspaper tycoon was called, and that Citizen Kane was a parody of Hearst and his mistress, Marion Davies. But it was the Chief himself who had wrecked Marion's career, trying to turn a comedy star with a stutter into a cross-eyed tragedienne, who couldn't really play Elizabeth Barrett Browning or Marie Antoinette. And Lolly was too thick to understand that Kane's megalomania was more about Welles, the Boy Wonder, who had played the Shadow on the radio—Lamont Cranston, a vigilante with a deep-throated roar—than about William Randolph Hearst, a reclusive pasha with a girlish voice. Still, I moonlighted as one of Lolly's stringers. I fed her tidbits from time to time, and she would toss a crumpled ten-dollar bill into my lap while she sipped her vodka martini and spooned her grapefruit pudding.

"Shucks," I said, playing up to the Janitor, "has Lolly ruined my reputation?"

He ignored my remark. "Louella has assured me that you're reliable, and I have an assignment for you, Miss Rusty. I don't like the Boy Wonder and what he might do to Rita's career. So I recommended you to Rita. You see, my redhead needs a secretary."

"But why would Miss Hayworth ever want me?" I asked, growing more and more suspicious.

"Jesus," Harry Cohn said, "you can spell, can't ya?"

I stared right at the Janitor. "You don't really want a speller, sir. You want a spy."

He laughed again. "I can tell that we'll do wonders together. The job pays a hundred and fifty a week—more than some of my writers get."

"And all I have to do is become Miss Hayworth's gal Friday and report back to you about her and the Boy Wonder? I don't even have to think about it. I'll take the job!"

I didn't intend to spy on Rita or the Boy Wonder, but I was as grand a liar as anyone in Hollywood, and I had taught myself to be selective about details. Half-truths never hurt a soul.

"I'm delighted," he said, stifling a yawn with his fist. "Rita is expecting you."

Yet the manner of my compensation was full of mischief, to say the least. It seems that Rita and perhaps Orson would pay part of my salary, but the Boy Wonder was broke. And the lion's share would come from the Janitor himself. It was pretty obvious. I was working for him. That was Columbia Pictures in 1943.

Cohn put me right into his planner. I would report back to him every Wednesday afternoon at four—without fail—unless I was presented with other instructions. His blue eyes fluttered, and he looked a little insane. It wasn't hard for me to realize that he was in love with Rita, and he couldn't bear the idea that she was with Orson Welles.

"You won't fail me, will ya, kid?"

"Mr. Cohn, I never fail."

I heard an odd sound, like a cricket crying. His door opened, and I knew I was dismissed.

A resurrection had occurred during my time with Cohn. I had risen, the kid from Kalamazoo. Cohn's secretary and her assistant leapt up the moment I reappeared.

"We'll be in touch, Miss Redburn," his secretary said. "Welcome to the executive club. I'm Sally Fall, and my assistant is Josephine."

I didn't acknowledge their sudden interest. I walked away from those barren white walls and returned to the tunnels. I felt much cleaner among the cockroaches and the rats.

Excerpted from Big Red by Jerome Charyn. Copyright © 2022 by Jerome Charyn. Excerpted by permission of Liveright/W.W. Norton. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.