Date: Fri, Oct 30 at 9:47 PM
From: Evelyn Abbey
To: Dave Cyrus
Subject: Re: Dan Printz
Dave, it kills me to have to say this, but a colleague is angling to sign Dan, and I couldn’t in good conscience use this to snag him. It would be a huge, huge favor to me if you would extend the same offer to him. His name is Carter Aaron. He’s new to P&D and we were lucky enough to land him in the merge—he’s spectacular. I would owe you big time.
His email is [email protected].
Evie
* * *
Date: Fri, Oct 30 at 9:59 PM
From: Dave Cyrus
To: Evelyn Abbey
Subject: Re: Dan Printz
Are you going soft in your old age?
I’m teasing. Sure, I’ll reach out to Carter. Drop me a line when you want to grab a drink.
Dave
chapter twelve
carter
You have got to be kidding.
I stare at my phone, mouth open and toothpaste running down my chin until the screen fades to black. After spitting into the sink, I bring up the email again. Unbelievable. Dave Cyrus wants to talk to me about Dan Printz.
I type out a quick reply telling him I’m definitely up for a chat and include all of my contact information. Hollywood Vine has the largest distribution of any Hollywood daily; going after Dan with this kind of thing in my back pocket could almost guarantee landing him. Landing him and getting this kind of press is exactly what I need right out of the gate. It could literally change everything.
Evie was right; it’s time to make my move.
I’ve done every bit of research I can on Dan Printz. I know he wants to feel like he’s the one calling the shots, despite surrounding himself with an entourage of school friends who influence almost every one of his decisions—a constant battle and, I’m guessing, a cause of some of the drama he’s rumored to be having with his current agent. He regrets his biggest role to date, portraying a time-traveling vigilante, but is smart enough to never, ever allude to that during interviews. I know who he’s dated, what kind of music he likes, and that he still can’t distinguish between your and you’re on Twitter. Last year he slept with his costar’s now-ex-wife, and when he was twenty he spent a week at a Vegas brothel. However, he’s never late, always respectful in interviews, and never a problem on set.
Some of that might seem unimportant, but I don’t make money if my clients aren’t busy working—an impossible task if the actor in question is a nightmare and nobody wants to be around them.
It’s Saturday, but I’m still the new guy in town, which means that, while the office might technically be closed, there’s no such thing as a day off—not even if it’s Halloween. Especially given Dave’s email. I need to get on this Dan Printz thing now.
A glance at my watch shows it’s just after nine, and I’ll have plenty of time to get in a quick call to Dan before brunch with a VP of development at Paramount. Normally I’d have Justin set up a phone call, but this doesn’t feel like it can wait. The line rings once before being answered by a gruff voice.
“Dan Printz’s phone,” it says.
“This is Carter Aaron—”
“Aaron, hey. This is Caleb, Dan’s manager.”
“Caleb, I remember you. We met in New York. We had drinks at that little place—”
“—in Brooklyn, right! I remember. I kicked your ass at pool that night.”
“You did, you little hustler. Still not sure I’ll ever be man enough for a rematch.”
“That’s right,” he’s saying. I can hear him clapping on the other end of the phone and I know I’ve hit my mark. Caleb heavily influences a lot of Dan’s decisions, and having him on my side is another point in my favor.
“Listen, Caleb, I was wondering if I could talk to Dan.”
“He’s on set right now, reshoots and shit, but I’ll tell him you called. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear it.”
I silently fist-pump into the air.
“I appreciate it. Let him know I’m available all weekend, no need to wait till Monday.”
“Sure thing. You stay out of pool halls,” he says, laughing at his own joke.
I smile as the line disconnects.
? ? ?
Forty minutes to drive six miles on a Saturday? Someone help me.
There were just as many cars on the road in New York, but there we had buses and the subway; we could walk. Everything was interconnected and taking public transportation was nearly always easier than driving. Within the LA city limits there are 181 miles of freeway and over 6,000 miles of surface streets—I know, I Googled it—and yet I still sit in traffic wherever I go.
Which of course means I’m in traffic on Sunset when my phone rings through the Bluetooth. I jump, clamoring to answer and hoping it’s the call from Dan I’ve been waiting for, only to see my mom’s name flash on the screen.
I answer only because it’s better than putting it off until later.
“Hi, Mom.”
“How are you, baby? Are you in your car?”
“I am. I’m meeting someone for breakfast, and stuck in traffic. In fact, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to talk. I’m expecting a call and it’s kind of important. I might have to switch over.”
“On a Saturday?”
“On a Saturday,” I say, knowing what comes next.
“You know you wouldn’t be working Saturdays if you had a normal job.”
I ignore this, reaching up to rub my forehead.
“Is the call from Jonah?” she asks.
I pause, confused for a beat. “No, why would he be calling me?”
She’s silent in response, and too late I realize what she’s thinking—Because he’s your brother and you live in the same city, not to mention I specifically told you to call him—but instead she says, “I haven’t heard from him in a week and he’s not answering his phone. It goes straight to that obnoxious message.”
This makes me smile, because his bare-bones voicemail greeting really is horrible: “Yeah, it’s Jonah. You know what to do.” It does me good to know that it makes even our own doting mother want to punch him in the throat.
“I’m sure he’ll call you back when he can,” I tell her. “You’re the one always reminding me how busy he is.”
“This is different,” she says, voice tight. “He’s terrible about visiting, but he always answers my calls. I’ve called four times without hearing back from him, and now the phone’s not ringing at all—it just goes straight to voicemail. Your father is so worried about him.” In the background I hear my Dad shout, “No, Dinah, I’m not!”
I take a deep breath. “Mom, what do you want me to—”
“I want you to call him,” she cuts in, “and if he doesn’t answer, I want you to drive up there and make sure he’s okay.”