Every several nights for a summer and early fall in the 1960s, Ray Bradbury would take the escalator up to the third floor of May Company's Wilshire Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue store in Los Angeles.

Bradbury's dark novel ``Fahrenheit 451'' was being made into a film and he was famous for ``The Martian Chronicles,'' but the writer's concern this night was another piece of literature he had created or, rather, was in the process of recreating. He got off the escalator and headed for the toys and sports departments, looking boyish in jeans, T-shirt and tennis sneakers.

May Company was a hive of interesting activity in those days. Laurence Olivier was starring in the movie house (one of those grand old places with balconies and chandeliers) across Wilshire in the film version of ``Othello.'' It must have been inspiring because actors reciting Shakespeare while trying on clothes at May Company was common. ``Put out the light and put out the light'' was heard ushering forth from the men's dressing rooms more than once, and not just at closing.

And the screen siren Hedy Lamarr was making almost daily visits to the landmark department store _ up and down the May Company escalators, passing through linens, children's, women's and housewares like clockwork. She was everywhere, wearing a trench coat, carrying a large shopping bag, a radiant smile pasted on her face, a kind of ``Hi, boys, how are you doing? Sorry, I've got to be moving on.'' Sometimes she actually would say something, but the sales people would just stare, paralyzed not so much by celebrity as by her faded beauty _ but considerable nonetheless _ and distant, sorrowful eyes.

And behind her would come the store detectives, peering from behind pillars and displays as she lingered over blouses or women's shoes (Abe in women's shoes let it be known she had her eye on a pair of red slippers). But usually, because she moved so swiftly, like a wisp, the detectives huffed and puffed behind her, finding it difficult to be discreet when breathing heavily. People who knew what was going on thought, ``She loves putting them through their paces, running them up and down those escalators from floor to floor,'' but then you'd see the fear suddenly appear in her face and wonder why she would subject herself to the anxiety of being arrested.

Once through the building, or momentarily tiring of the game for the day, she usually exited the back way onto the parking lot that paralleled Fairfax Avenue. But if detectives lost sight of her for a moment, if they thought they had seen her slip something into her large bag but then had lost sight of her for even a split second _ for that split second that would allow her to ditch the stolen item _ well, then they wouldn't make the bust.

(May Company, Wilshire. Now LA County Museum of Art)

If they did make the bust, it would be outside the store, but if they did and there was not a stolen item in the shopping bag, it would go badly for the store, the sort of false arrest case lawyers would jump at. She was so elusive it seemed they would never feel comfortable arresting her and instead watched, biting their lips, frustrated as she headed for her car with her shopping bag day after day.

On this particular evening Ray Bradbury crested the escalator to the third floor as Hedy Lamarr got on the adjacent, descending escalator. If one could have frozen the moment: a celebrated writer in jeans ascending; a tragic figure, considered by some the most beautiful woman in the world, descending. The Austrian-American actress had not only starred in ``Ecstasy,'' the scorching sexy 1933 Austrian-Czech film, she had also co-patented an idea that would lead to cellular phone technology and . . . well, she was nothing if not talented and brilliant, and here she was, used up and sadly eccentric at best.

Bradbury knew this about Hedy Lamarr, and he recognized her going down as he went up, but at this particular moment he was concerned about his play ``The Wonderful Ice Cream Suit,'' which was to open soon at the Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. There was a problem: he hadn't completed the play's adaptation from one of his own short stories and it was consuming him that he was having trouble doing this.

Peering down the aisle that led to the sports department he saw Charles Rome Smith, leaning on a counter, adjusting his black horned rim glasses. Roughly handsome, tall and angular, needing a haircut and bubbling with energy, it was hard to miss him. Charles Rome Smith, chatting with a customer, saw Bradbury coming and waved nonchalantly at the earnest author. And he registered that Ray Bradbury looked more worried than usual. He sighed, for he knew hell hath no fury like a blocked author, but the sigh carried with it an affectionate smile.

* * * *

For seven years Charles Rome Smith had been a cast member of the New York production of Brecht's and Weill's ``Threepenny Opera.'' When the show traveled to Los Angeles, he came with it, but as a producer, not a performer. Those performing days were becoming less frequent, but being a producer did not necessarily mean you had money. In fact, Charles Rome Smith had little money, which he found unpleasant.

What he did have was talent and the Pasadena Playhouse had hired him to stage ``Dark of the Moon, '' a mystical folk drama about a Smoky Mountains witch boy and his girl, the tragic Barbara Allen. And then Bradbury asked him to direct ``The Wonderful Ice Cream Suit,'' the stage adaptation of his own short story ``The Magic White Coat.'' It was giving Ray Bradbury, who had successfully adapted Herman Melville's ``Moby Dick'' into a popular film, fits, and he wasn't happy about that.

For Charles Rome Smith theater work was his passion, but it still didn't pay the rent and take care of other expenses _ theater money in LA was nothing like movie money in LA. But Charles Rome Smith had friends at May Company (he charmed everyone) who kept a job open for him at the store whenever he came to Los Angeles; Charles Rome Smith slipped into the job easily, managing the department if required, assisting customers, making out invoices and wrapping toys and sporting goods with the natural grace he imbued a line from Shaw or Wilde or Brecht.

The department store allowed Charles Rome Smith to keep a work schedule that gave him time to drive to Pasadena and work on ``Dark of the Moon'' as well as get his head together with Bradbury's on ``The Wonderful Ice Cream Suit.'' So he kept, of course, irregular hours at May Company Wilshire, as it was known.

He worked as hard at the department store as he did blocking actors and staging scenes, but when it was quiet Charles Rome Smith was not adverse to pulling out a play script and making notations or tossing a brand new football, plucked off the shelves, back and forth with a fellow employee. When he could he slipped into the stock room for a smoke or headed up to the company cafeteria on the top floor for a shot of caffeine to keep himself going the sixteen to twenty hours he worked daily. And when Hedy Lamarr came through sports and toys he smiled at her and she usually slowed to look at him and smile back before moving on.

There was one meeting in which Hedy Lamaar and Charles Rome Smith actually spoke for a minute or two, which seemed an eternity because of the hovering detectives, plainly visible behind the store's square support columns, not that it bothered Hedy or Charles Rome Smith. Was Charles Rome Smith advising her she was being shadowed? Certainly she knew. Maybe he was trying to convince her to cut it out, the adventure and/or loot wasn't worth the possible consequences. When they parted, she patted Charles Rome Smith affectionately on the shoulder, smiled at one of the detectives peering from behind a pillar, and continued on her rounds. Charles Rome Smith turned back toward sports, his shoulders slouched and his face blushing.

Another salesman in our department, Chester, worried about Hedy Lamarr as much as Charles Rome Smith did . Like Lamarr, Chester was a European immigrant and, as she had done some years earlier, he wanted to become a naturalized American citizen. She was someone he looked up to, despite her current lamentable state, because she came to the new country and made a success.

When Lamarr came through sports and toys followed by the detectives, Chester quietly rooted for her not to be caught and not to steal anything from sports, which had always seemed unlikely. Whereas Charles Rome Smith knew nothing of Lamarr's great technological invention, Chester was up to speed, although it still eluded the rest of us, even when Chester tried to patiently explain.

Lamarr and the composer George Antheil, he told us, did something concerning radio controlled missiles and signals jumping from frequency to frequency. This was in 1942 and Antheil and Lamarr patented it as the ``Secret Communication System,'' and it was brilliant and by the time the Navy used the idea in secure military communications, the patent had run out so neither the composer nor the star ever made a dime from it.

* * * *

Ray Bradbury had closed the distance between himself and Charles Rome Smith and the two artists held their sports department conference over a table of Los Angeles Rams football jerseys and helmets. The author was politely sulky and repeated a refrain from the previous few nights to Charles Rome Smith as Chester looked on. ``Fahrenheit 451's'' depiction of book burning registered powerfully with Chester as one who had observed Hitler's book burning and survived World War II _ Chester was in awe of Bradbury.

``I can't get an ending I like,'' Ray Bradbury said to a thoughtful Charles Rome Smith, while glancing politely at Chester who kept a discreet but nosey distance. `` Not that I like, I take that back _ an ending that works. I don't know what to do. I'm going to have to back off and think about it for a while.''.

``Think about it for a while? Ray, we've cast the show _ we have actors waiting, we have a theater,'' said an alarmed Charles Rome Smith, who chewed it over for a few moments. ``I'll tell you what. I have a little more time now that `Dark of the Moon' is set and running in Pasadena, so why don't I use that time to do a little rewriting on the piece myself? You know, fiddle with the end.''

Bradbury blinked, seemed stunned. For a moment he was speechless. ``But you're not a writer,'' he finally said.

``It's theater,'' said Charles Rome Smith, lightly waving off Bradbury's concern. `` I know what works.''

Again a long silence. ``It's not your play, Charles,'' Bradbury said, in a kind of sorrowful yet consoling way he had.

``I'll tell you what,'' said Charles Rome Smith. ``I'll do it and have it here the night after tomorrow _ I work on `Dark of the Moon' tomorrow night so we can't do it then You can look at what I do and if you don't like it, fine. We'll toss out my version.'' He put heavy emphasis on the ``my,'' which seemed to irritate Bradbury who, after all, had just pointed out to Charles Rome Smith that it was his, Ray Bradbury's, play.

``Well . . . well . . . OK, '' said Bradbury, who could barely conceal his unhappiness, but liked Charles Rome Smith too much to create a scene. When the top of Ray Bradbury's head disappeared down the escalator Charles Rome Smith turned to Chester and, smiling triumphantly, said, ``Cover for me, I'm going for a smoke.''

A certain tension and anticipation pervaded sports and toys the next day and a half as the sales people, and there were several shifts, wondered how the great writer would react to Charles Rome Smith's contribution to ``The Wonderful Ice Cream Suit.''

It all came crashing down on the second afternoon, however, when Hedy Lamarr was finally arrested just outside the back door of the May Company, on her way to the parking lot that runs parallel to Fairfax Avenue. The detectives had tracked her all the way out that afternoon and, convinced she had not been able to ditch her loot, grabbed her in front of dozens of people entering and exiting the store. They found a pair of unpaid-for red slippers in her shopping bag, and every news outlet in Los Angeles carried the story. Lamarr, some witnesses told papers, went quietly. From other accounts, she was quite dramatic. Still a few others had her hysterical.

Whatever the truth, the mood in the store that evening, and for some days to come, was morose. No department was spared, from perfume to furniture, for she had regularly visited them all. There would no longer be the delightfully tense distraction of Hedy Lamaar being trailed by perspiring detectives.

The upcoming escalator did not attract our attention as it had, though Charles Rome Smith, clutching his just-written ending of ``The Wonderful Ice Cream Suit,'' watched it, waiting for Ray Bradbury, and so, eventually, did the rest of us that evening in sports and toys, taking our cue from Charles Rome Smith _ because we knew, while we wouldn't be seeing Hedy, it was almost as interesting to see Bradbury. He was, after all, a great writer and Charles Rome Smith had this grin plastered across his face, promising something.

And appear Bradbury did, cresting the escalator with his jaw jutted out a smidge, a manuscript under his right arm. Ray Bradbury walked up to Charles Rome Smith and, with a so-brief glance at the papers Charles Rome Smith was holding, handed him the manuscript.

``There, it's ready to go, ending and all. I finished it a few hours ago and I feel very good about it,'' Bradbury said, raising a hostile eyebrow at the papers Charles Rome Smith was holding. Charles Rome Smith said nothing and quietly slipped his papers into his inside sport coat pocket. Then he opened Bradbury's manuscript to the final pages and, after reading a few minutes, looked up at Bradbury and the several sales people and said, ``Brilliant! Wonderful, Ray!''

``Thank you, but I'd like to see what you wrote,'' said Bradbury.

``I know you would,'' said Charles Rome Smith with a gentle smile.

None of us ever did.

* * * *

Coda _

Hedy Lamaar went to trial on shoplifting charges and was acquitted. In 1997 the Computers, Freedom and Privacy conference honored Lamarr for ``blazing new trails on the electronic frontier.'' She finally received her due. She died on January 19, 2000.

Bradbury's ``Fahrenheit 451'' has been elevated to the status of a classic, and is currently the book being used in the National Endowment for the Arts' ``The Big Read,'' an event now being held across the United States. The book is so well known Michael Moore used a derivation of the title for a documentary film, ``Fahrenheit 9/11.'' Bradbury, who continues to write in Los Angeles, was furious and gave Moore hell over that. ``The Wonderful Ice Cream Suit'' has been produced often as play and film _ it has continued to have an amazingly fruitful life despite, or maybe because of, Bradbury and Charles Rome Smith's psychological joust.

Chester became a U.S. citizen, and hopefully led a happy life.

Charles Rome Smith and Bradbury enjoyed an incredible 40-year artistic collaborative relationship. They co-founded the Pandemonium Theatre Company, many of their productions being Bradbury plays, including ``Fahrenheit 451.'' Smith also got around to a revival of ``The Threepenny Opera.'' Charles Rome Smith died of lung cancer on August 16, 2004 in Sunland, California. He was 77.

May Company Wilshire ceased operating as a department store in 1993. The building is now an annex to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

Wilshire Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue are still there.

:Copyright Steve Hauk