"You're not fool enough to give advice," I said.

"Precisely," said Wally, pulling out a pouch of Dill's Best and filling his pipe. "Exactly, precisely."

I grunted in understanding. Wally had gotten me on this job and assigned me to work with him on the detail guarding Selznick and the crew. Easy work. And I needed the money. I also wanted to meet Clark Gable. I'd only seen him once before from a distance when I tried to keep fans from Mickey Rooney at an M-G-M premiere at Grauman's Chinese.

I've been around Hollywood for all of my almost fifty years. Stars didn't impress me, except for Jimmy Stewart, Buck Jones, and Gable. I'd heard a lot about Gable, some good, some bad, and I wanted to know how much of it was true. But more important, I was getting paid.

The flames and smoke of the burning set were climbing high into the sky over Los Angeles, and Selznick was in near panic. He took off his helmet, brushed back his gray tight curls, and looked at Menzies.

"Bill," he pleaded.

"Action," Menzies said softly to his assistant, who relayed the order on his phone.

A guy in uniform, Confederate gray, wearing a beard and covered with make-believe dust moved next to us. The lot was full of these war-weary extras. Around like popcorn for when the assistant director needed a soldier or eighty soldiers with three minutes' notice from Selznick or one of the directors.

"Hell of a night," the man said.

I didn't look at him. I was watching Yak and Dotty Fargo race onto the burning set on their bucking cart.