A little later, as Ambrose was leaving, he inquired about the chances of Harry Galen.
Don't bother Griesheimer, was Lawrence's advice. It isn't worth it. He won't take him. He's no good at all for us. What we want out here is real writers, like yourself.
Philip Lawrence already knew so much of his history that Ambrose had found it easy to confide in him regarding his dubious dinner engagement with Imperia Starling, an engagement which Lawrence had advised him to keep.
She won't eat you, he had said. She can't. She won't do anything silly after what she did to you in Santa Fe. You might sue her, you know. Might as well stand in with her. Schwarzstein is pretty important out here. He'll probably make you an offer and then you can get Griesheimer to double it. I'll send one of the studio cars with you and tell the chauffeur to wait for you.
It was this last detail that convinced Ambrose he would be comparatively safe. So, at a quarter after eight on Friday evening, he found himself on the familiar drive leading to Imperia Starling's Beverly Hills bungalow. It was not, however, without trepidation, not without an acceleration of his normal
