In the next weeks, I had a fascinating time observing my producer and through him the men in this community. Charlie was exceptionally well dressed—he bought his ties by half-dozen lots of each color or design—and rather handsome in a soft, yielding way, his body suited to bed and armchair. He ran a successful agency, and this gave him prestige in the community and power over young actresses. Still he was full of complaints about his love life—if you can call it that. “Now it’s Uncle Charlie,” he griped, referring to the response young women were increasingly giving him. “I say, ‘How about me?’ and they laugh. There just aren’t any real women anymore. High school girls!” He would spend long hours on the telephone, holding a little black book in his hand, trying number after number. I remember a scene in the “game room” late one afternoon, when three men of recognized glamour, Pat De Cicco, Raoul Hakim, and Charlie, all constant presences in gossip columns that celebrated their successes with women, each with a telephone and each with his little black book, were calling girls one after another, razzing the ones who wouldn’t or couldn’t and razzing the ones who did accept. Either way, the frequent response as they hung up was: “Why do I bother?”