What kind of fool name is that? Hatti Hoot glared down at her own signature. Each letter of it shot away in different directions as if trying to scuttle off the form in front of her. Sometimes she practiced other signatures, made up better names for herself, names that sounded elegant. Her favorite was Bette Hepburn. Real classy. It was Hatti’s theory that a good name goes a long way toward getting you a good life. Why else would so many film stars pull on shiny new names along with their shiny new smiles in front of the camera? Hatti Hoot. What kind of fool life was that gonna get her? She pushed the form across the counter to the woman on the other side, who glanced through it with a look on her face like she was sucking on a lime. Her mouth was tight and her eyes were narrow and sour. “Right, Mrs. Hoot.” “You’ll let me know if—” “Of course.”
