As Edna knew the boys weren’t getting enough to eat, she’d hired them to uproot the weeds that had lately began to encroach on the bungalows’ driveways.
"Do you know that my bosses handed A. I. Bezzerides a seven-year contract upon reading his first novel?”
“Ridiculous,” Ed huffed. “I could show that third-rater a thing or two about what real writing means.”
“No. Not Maxwell Anderson the playwright. Maxwell Perkins the great editor at Scribner’s."
"Paramount’s bringing him out to talk about their plans to produce The Great Gatsby.”
Johnny snorted. “I’m supposed to believe that rich brat Schulberg?"
"In a movie you just write, ‘We see Don Ameche.’ When you’re writing fiction, you have to describe a Dago with an oily grin and a mustache.”
“God damn it, Johnny! I’m not talking about cranking out swill for Spicy Detective Stories anymore! I’m talking about literature!"
“And she said to wear your outfit with the pin-striped linen jacket,” Kathryn Beaumont added.
The Nash stalled twice on Sunset Boulevard, but at last Ed arrived at Chasen’s only five minutes past eight. 
He sat in his car until the party that included William Wyler and Jimmy Stewart was safely through the door.
“What do F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Thomas Wolfe, and my gentleman friend have in common?” she asked. This was too much for Ed.
“Old Cunnel Perkins asserts that he will be thrilled to meet with your willing chattel as this old reprobate has promised him a fascinating experience stop. Your loyal acolyte Wm Faulkner.”
She rose from her seat to lean across the table and kiss him full on the mouth. Right there in Chasen’s.
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