You think gossip columnists knew the dirt in old Hollywood? They were amateurs. Hedda Hopper, Louella Parsons — they only wrote what the studios allowed. The real witness was the cat on the lot. Black fur, green eyes, tail like a cigarette trail. He saw everything. He wasn’t on the payroll. No one fed him except the grip who liked to sneak scraps from the commissary. He was just there, perched on rafters, weaving between cables, sleeping in director’s chairs, when the real director stumbled off set to throw up gin. The cat saw producers pawing at ingénues in dressing rooms. He saw directors melt down in bourbon-soaked rants, screaming about art in the middle of a picture that was already doomed. He saw stars rehearse their fake smiles in mirrors before cameras rolled, the grin tightening like a noose once the makeup dried. Every morning, he slinked across the soundstage like he owned it, winding between tripods and boom mics, silent as the secrets he carried. The sound men called him b...