Death by Sarcasm

Eighteen

Her eyes grated open, like stone doors in an Egyptian tomb. Mary stared at the ceiling for several minutes, rewinding the film of last night, watching it in reverse order. She didn’t like what she saw.

Mary pushed back the blankets and sat up. Her head hurt and her stomach ached. She walked out to the kitchen and made coffee, then stood with her head hanging down while it brewed. Extra cream and extra sugar went in to bolster her recovery. She sat at the kitchen table and a little yellow note caught her attention.

10 A.M. Margaret Stewart.

It was signed Whitney Braggs. And there was an address scribbled next to Margaret Stewart’s name. Mary looked at the clock.

She had forty-five minutes to shower, dress and get out to Beverly Hills.

Great.

Mary started for the shower and slipped off her robe, then froze.

She had on her pink pajamas. She thought for a moment, and then a horrifying through nearly drove her to her knees.

Had she put them on herself?

Or had Braggs?

Suddenly, her head hurt even worse.

Margaret Stewart’s face was so taut from plastic surgery that Mary worried it would snap and fly across the office like a Frisbee. She had the urge to go over and plunk out a rhythm on it like a tribal drum. Didn’t the woman have a constant headache? It gave Mary a headache just looking at her, which was laid on top of the one she already had from last night’s fling with Jack Daniels.

“That was quite a group,” Ms. Stewart said. Mary guessed the woman’s age to be seventy-ish, and thought the voice matched the skin: tight and unforgiving. Mary glanced around the office. Black leather, polished chrome, black-and-white photography. Typical power agent office.

“Yes, dysfunction in large numbers.” Mary said. “Always the hallmarks of a good time.”

They’d already done the necessary introductions and had started in on the history of Brent Cooper and his gang.

“They certainly took the party with them,” Ms. Stewart said. “And it was always a big party.”

“In what way? Drugs? Gambling? Monkeys in lingerie?” Mary asked.

“Lingerie, yes. Monkeys no. At least, no monkeys at the parties I went to. I’m sure at some point, animals were involved.”

“Anything criminal going on?” Mary said. “Anything that would make someone come back later and start killing people?”

Margaret Stewart shrugged her shoulders, then nodded at Braggs. “Why don’t you ask him? He was there.”

Braggs shook his head. “Not like you,” he said. “I had gigs, flew around, didn’t see those guys and gals for months at a time. You were there constantly.”

“Besides,” Mary chimed in. “You probably knew everyone. And you most likely knew them better than he did. Braggs here, from what he tells me, just hung out and partied. He was probably busy de-flowering the female population of Beverly Hills.”

“It would be arrogant of me to agree with you, but I must confess that’s a fairly accurate statement,” Braggs said.

“I’m thinking they confided more in you,” Mary said to Ms. Stewart. “You know, crying to the agent about all of their problems and issues. That’s the stuff we need to know about.”

“That’s very perceptive, Ms. Cooper,” Margaret said. “But I was their agent not their babysitter and I did not perform confessions. They didn’t tell me everything because if they had problems, they certainly didn’t want anyone to know about them, especially their agent.”

“Yes, I’m sure all actors and actress prevent their agent from witnessing their neuroses firsthand,” Mary said. “Come on, Margaret. This is L.A. Agents know where all the bodies are buried. Or at least who put the bodies where. And they’re good bodies because it’s L.A. and everyone works out.”

“Here’s what I meant,” Margaret Stewart said. “I just said they didn’t come and blab all of their war stories to me. Yeah, I heard some stories. Some were true, most of them were probably not.”

“Why don’t you tell us about the ones that were probably true? If there actually were any.”

The older woman pushed back from her desk and crossed her legs. She let out a long breath.

“That was a long time ago,” she said. “Let’s see. There was a core group. Brent Cooper was definitely one of the ringleaders. God he was a smartass. Arrogant, pushy, and a vicious mouth. You remind me of him,” she said to Mary.

“That’s one compliment I never get tired of hearing,” Mary said.

“Let’s see, there was also Harvey Mitchell,” Margaret said. “He was a star even back then. God, I had to turn away so much work for him. Even modeling agencies wanted a piece of him.”

“Harvey Mitchell?” Mary asked. “The host of The Night Talker?”

“The one and only,” Braggs said.

The Night Talker was a long-standing hit for NBC. Not quite the Tonight Show, but still a very powerful ratings earner. Harvey Mitchell was the silver-haired host. Interviewing stars, doing skits, and having a great time doing it. Making boodles of cash, too.

“There were so many of them,” Margaret Stewart said. “They floated in and out. Look, why don’t I just do this? When Mr. Braggs called me, I went into my archives and pulled my files for everyone I could think of. Including Noah Baxter’s. Obviously, there’s no longer anything sensitive in them. Half of the people are dead or disappeared.”

She gestured at a chair near a filing cabinet. There was a box full of faded yellow folders, thick with papers inside.

“Like I mentioned before,” Margaret said. “People came, people went. Men, women, kids, animals. Everything that could have possibly gone on among prosperous entertainment people in Los Angeles during those days definitely went on. So you can guess most of what was occurring on a daily, and nightly, basis. Why don’t you just look through all that, and then if you have any questions, call me. It’s not like I have time to sit here and tell you about every last thing, plus, at my age, I’d probably get most of it wrong. So just take the stuff, look it over and call me if you have any more questions. Okay?”

Braggs walked over and picked up the box.

Mary stood. “Thank you Ms. Stewart. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I most likely am going to call you again. I always have questions to ask. It’s one of my character traits that makes me irresistible to both sexes.”

“Brent Cooper. Reincarnated,” the older woman said and turned back to her computer as if they’d already left.

“Ouch,” Mary said on her way out.