“Is it impressive?”
“‘Impressive’ doesn’t even do the bathroom justice. The place is fucking amazing. Seriously, you’ve got to see it, it’ll blow your mind. Some hotshot architect - Jax something – designed it. So there’s gonna be a rush for it as soon as news that it’s up for sale goes out. I’ll probably lose out on it to some asshole actor who won’t even live in it, but I’ll pull every trick I can to make it mine if I have to.”
“For a guy who hates the idea of settling down as much as you to talk like that, it must be nice,” Kyle laughs, draining his beer and reaching for his suitcase.
“A place like that is too good to waste on only one woman. Are you leaving already?”
“Yeah,” Kyle says, pulling out a bill and tossing it onto the table. “I’ll let you know when I get back.”
We clasp hands.
“Do that,” I say, “and make some free time while you’re at it. We gotta shoot some hoops or something.”
“Right on.” Kyle nods. “And…er…”
“Talk to Jessie. Yeah, don’t worry. I will.”
Kyle winks, points at me, then drags his luggage out of the bar. I watch him go, a weird sensation of melancholy passing through me. The bar’s still virtually empty, except for a couple of old dudes grumbling at the sports highlights on the TV in the corner.
For a moment I remember the night Jessie and I hooked up. It’s a weird memory, one I’ve pushed to the back of my mind, one that needs a little effort to bring to the fore. I think about how much Kyle trusts me, and how much that trust would turn to pointed hatred if he knew what we’d done.
“Another?”
I look up and see the bartender picking up the empty bottles from the table.
“No thanks. I just lost my buzz.”
3
Nate
I heard all the jokes about talent agents my first year of doing the job – after that, it was just variations on a theme. Everyone thinks it’s easy, and I lost my appetite for explaining why it isn’t a long time ago. One minute you’re the only buffer between the biggest egos this side of historical dictatorships, the next you’re in the position of crushing dreams. The talent expects you to be a leader, a parent, a confessional, and a teacher all at once. You’re the first guy people look for when they come to L.A. hoping to make it, the only guy blamed when they’re struggling, and the last guy to get any credit when they succeed.
I’m not saying talent agents aren’t assholes – I’m saying there’s a good reason we are.
Thankless as it is, though, I’m one of the best. I can spot talent from a mile away, can turn busboys into A-listers, and turkeys into blockbusters. I’m the guy directors call when they run out of casting ideas, the lifeline my actors tap when they’re thinking of writing a script or taking on a completely new role that could either make their career or tank it, and if I didn’t have a secretary I’d drown under resumes every morning. If I take you on as a client, you’ve either made it, or are about to go up a whole new level.
If I ever write a book about how I made it to the top it’ll be a short one. I can sum it up in two things: I love what I do, and I keep the bullshit to a minimum. In an industry where half the people are being taken advantage of, and the other half are trying to take advantage, that counts for a lot.
Or maybe I’m just good at being an asshole.
My office computer pings and I look up from the stack of scripts I’m working through. It’s an instant message from Chloe, the receptionist.
THE COUGAR HAS LANDED.
Shit.
It’s code, and not a very good one. The ‘Cougar’ is exactly that, fifty-three year old actress Dominique Ferreira. Five-feet-nine of ass, tits, and hair so shiny you can see your reflection in it. She looks like a cross between an Italian porn actress and an afghan hound, and I’m sure somebody has sampled her laugh for a kid’s cartoon villainess by now.
Of course, her real name is Jane Gerst, she’s from a podunk town in Ohio, and it took three divorce settlements for her to get a body like that. A couple of years ago she got a role as one of the lead detectives in a police procedural TV series. It wasn’t meant to last, but the show got renewed over and over again, not least because of her determination to squeeze into stiletto heels, low-cut blouses and short skirts that were two sizes too small for her, and which would have her arrested for indecent exposure in a real police precinct.
But legions of men in their fifties who still hadn’t figured out how to use the internet tuned in, making her, and the show, a regular on TV – and a constant presence in my office. These days the only work I do for her is book her gigs doing magazine spreads and daytime TV interviews, things which are more about keeping her ego satisfied than any kind of self-promotion.
My door opens – no knock, of course – and she bursts in, collagen-injected lips first.