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away. And then when you don’t . . .” They smiled at each other. Angela slipped Sheila’s note into her pocket, feeling as though she might cry. “Mr. Goldstein will see you now,” she said. But what she wanted to say was “Thank you. You’re saving my life.”
    She moved in with Sheila a week after that conversation. Sheila came over to help her move her two boxes and one suitcase. She looked around the hotel room, her mouth in a little pout of disgust. “How long you been living here, Angela?”
    â€œThe whole time I been in LA.”
    Sheila hoisted a box under her arm. “Hmm. I stayed in a place like this too. Cried myself to sleep every night.” She looked at Angela. Angela was suddenly very aware of the chocolate-cream texture of Sheila’s skin, the large depths of her eyes. “I don’t cry anymore, though. You’ll stop too, you knock on enough doors. Come on.” They left without checking for things under the bed or in the drawers. Nothing left behind was worth keeping.
    The apartment wasn’t far from the hotel. Sheila drove like the first woman allowed into the Daytona 500. Angela clutched the door handle and didn’t speak. She kept looking at Sheila, who pushed the pedal to the metal as soon as the light changed and threw her cigarettes out the window like
she
was on fire. She talked the whole drive, offering to get Angela an interview at the Playboy Club where she worked. “The money’s good and there’s lots of movie types there. I been there two and a half years. It’s good.”
    â€œI’ll have to wear that little costume, though, huh?”
    Sheila looked at her quickly. “You sure as hell will. You’ll look good in it, though.” She glanced up at herself in the rearview mirror. “I do.”
    Â 
    Angela’s final interview took place at the large Mission-style house that Hugh Hefner rented to use when he was in LA; the mansion was still a few years away. She’d made it through the big cattle-call audition in town and Mr. Hefner’s brother, who ran the auditions, said, “Don’t worry. You’ve got what we need.” He patted her butt briefly and shoved a wrinkled slip of paper with a phone number and address on it into her hand. On the assigned day, Angela smoothed her very short red skirt over her hips and pushed the doorbell. It played the first few notes of “Take Five” by Dave Brubeck. A butler Bunny answered the door. She was heavily made-up and pushed-up, wearing the full Bunny costume augmented by a small white collar and a black bow tie. She led Angela from the brilliant white marble hall with the zebraprint rug to an anteroom with blood red walls and a black bearskin rug. She was kept waiting there for the better part of a half hour. The rug still had a head. Angela stared into its glass eyes. It had many yellow teeth. Finally, she was summoned in to see Mr. Hefner—or Hef, as his brother had told her he liked everyone to call him. Sheila had told her that he took great pride in briefly meeting as many of the Bunnies as he could before they were officially hired. She walked into the room and a tiny gasp escaped her. Her future boss sat before her in an enormous tub full of constantly bubbling water—she found out later that it was called a Jacuzzi and was the latest thing. With him were two naked, blank-looking blondes. He looked at her levelly. He had a very raspy voice. “So, Angela . . . that’s your name, right, Angela? You want to be a Bunny?”
    â€œYes, sir, I do.” She tried not to look at Hef’s penis, only somewhat obscured by the bubbles. One of the blondes idly ran a hand over her left breast, stopping to finger a large pink nipple.
    â€œWell, what makes you think you can do it?”
    â€œI’ve got a lot of energy, sir. And I like people.” She was trying to sound as she would on any other job