Billy Woodfield
Written by
Jaron Summers (c) 2025
It’s been decades since Billy Woodfield thundered down the glitter-cracked sidewalks of Hollywood—all 325 pounds of swagger, scheming, and pastrami on rye. You could say a lot about Billy. Hell, people did.
He was a writer with a Pulitzer-worthy vocabulary, a photographer who made the dearly departed look ready for a comeback tour, and a hustler slick enough to pitch lifeboats as luxury seating.
He knew everybody. Frank Sinatra once borrowed his lighter—and a quote. That famous line: “Basically, I’m for anything that gets you through the night—be it a blonde, tranquilizers, or a bottle of Jack Daniels.” Pure Billy’s. Frank just said it louder and with better lighting.
Cary Grant gave him a solid gold money clip engraved: To Billy, my favorite magician – Cary Grant. They were great friends. One afternoon, Cary looked at him and said, “We’ve never bred, have we?”
“Nope,” said Billy, who was a dedicated heterosexual with a little black book that read like a casting call for Hotter Than Hell: California’s Most Wanted Call Girls. Fifty names deep, minimum.
Billy even ran a con on Howard Hughes and made it out with his kneecaps intact.
One night we’re at this party—picture cocaine in the fondue, caviar on the ceiling fan, and enough ego in the room to sink a studio. Some slick director with hair like AstroTurf and a leather blazer so tight it squeaked leans over and says, “Hey, who’s your friend?”
I go, “That’s Billy. Only man I know who spent an evening in a closet with Marilyn Monroe.”
The director’s pupils dilated like a guy who just found out he’d been greenlit.
“No shit?”
“Yeah. She was fucking dead at the time.”
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