The unattributed quoters, of which there were two, were not that hard to figure out. The first, the “Lupo Associates Insider,” was obviously Ben Fleck. Ben, no doubt relishing a chance to take a whack at me, described me as a “shark with Brylcreem” who was “insanely secretive, to the point of forbidding his assistants to even talk with other agents.” The latter I found amusing, the former, inscrutable—I don’t put anything in my hair, much less Brylcreem. I suspected Ben didn’t actually know what Brylcreem was. I had Miranda send him a tube with my compliments.
The second was a “strongarmed client” who described Amanda as a “shrieking virgin” and myself as a “fucking overlord of ego,” and then went from there. It was pretty clear that Van Doren got more than he expected from Tea Reader, since by the end of it, even he noted that it seemed this particular client “was on her own personal vendetta against the universe, and Tom Stein happens to be the closest moving object.”
Be that as it may, Van Doren took Tea’s grudge against Amanda and ran with it, taking a bat to the poor girl. Van Doren dug up the Mexican soap star, who complained, through an interpreter, that Amanda had found her no work in the big Hollywood productions. The actor who revived her at the marathon described how they met, which made Amanda appear both sickly, for passing out in the first place, and then flaky, for representing the first passing jogger who happened to administer mouth-to-mouth.
Ben Fleck then reappeared in his Lupo Associates insider guise to make dismissive comments about the practice of bringing up agents from the mailroom (Ben got his job through nepotism: his stepfather was a senior agent before keeling over, corned beef in hand, at Canter’s Deli), and mentioned, darkly, that I had come up from the mailroom myself. Obviously we mailroom types were looking out for each other, like frat brothers or Templars.
Amanda read the story and burst into my office, flinging The Biz onto my desk and then collapsing into the chair, moody. “I want to die,” she said.
“Amanda, no one reads The Biz,” I said. “And those that do generally know enough to realize that it’s full of shit.”
“My mom reads The Biz,” Amanda said.
“Well, all right, almost everyone knows it’s full of shit,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. Next week they’ll find some more naked pictures of celebrities and they’ll forget all about it. Don’t be so upset.”
“I’m not upset, I’m pissed off,” Amanda said, whispering the words pissed off like she was worried about being punished. I wondered again how she ever managed to become an agent. “I know who talked to The Biz. I know who that unnamed source is. It’s that bitch Tea.” She stumbled over bitch, and then she gave me a bitter smile. “You know, I just got her a part in that new Will Ferrell film, too. A good part. Guess it doesn’t matter.”
“I’m sorry, Amanda,” I said. “I shouldn’t have unleashed Tea on you unawares. I should have let you know she’s a high-riding bitch. It’s my fault.”
“No, it’s all right,” Amanda said. “It’s okay. Because I know something Tea doesn’t know.”
“What’s that?”
“That she got a part in a Will Ferrell movie.”
“Amanda,” I said, genuinely surprised. “You star. And here I was beginning to worry about you.”
Amanda smiled like a five-year-old who had gotten her first taste of being naughty and realized it was something she would enjoy doing. A lot.
Amanda ended up getting the best of it; the worst of her problems were over with Tea right then. My problems with my clients had just begun. For the next week, I was in Agent Hell.
“Mind the light,” Barbara Creek said.
The light she was referring to was a huge klieg light, which lay on the set of her son’s sitcom, Workin’ Out! The light casing was heavily dented and the lens was shattered and strewn like jagged jewels across the floor, nestled up to the weights and exercise equipment that made up the health club locale set.
“I’m guessing that light’s not supposed to be on the set,” I said.
“Of course it’s not,” Barbara said, and then raised her voice so everyone on the set could hear her. “It’s on the set because some damned fool UNION light hanger doesn’t know how to do HIS DAMN JOB! And he wouldn’t HAVE a JOB unless HIS DAMN JOB was protected by his DAMN UNION!” Barbara’s voice, a commanding boom in normal conversation, reverberated through the set like the aftershock of a particularly nasty quake. From the corners and the rafters, members of the crew glared down at her. Something was telling me this was not going to be a frictionless set.
“Shouldn’t someone come and pick this up?” I asked.
“Hell, no,” Barbara said. “It’s staying where it is until the union president gets here. I want him to see what sort of job his IDIOT UNION BROOM PUSHERS”—once again Barbara pitched her voice to the cheap seats—“have been doing around here. No one here is going to do a DAMN THING until he gets here.”
That much was true. There were forty people on the set, mostly crew, ambling around aimlessly. The cast seemed to be missing, with the exception of Chuck White, who played Rashaad Creek’s best friend on the show. Chuck was working out on one of the set decorations.
“How long have you been waiting?” I asked.
“Six long, unproductive hours,” Barbara said. “And I’m going to keep waiting, and everyone here is going to keep waiting, until the union president gets here. Anyone who leaves before he gets here is fired, UNION OR NOT.”
Directly behind Barbara, one of the cameramen gave her the finger.
“But I didn’t ask you here to talk about the lights, Tom,” Barbara said, strolling over to the audience seats. “I want to talk to you about the future of Rashaad’s representation.”
I followed Barbara. “Has there been a problem, Barbara?” I asked.
Barbara took a seat on a bleacher. “Not as such, Tom—here, sit down a minute,” she patted the seat next to her, “but I have to tell you, I’m hearing some very disturbing things.”
I took a seat. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that article in The Biz,” I said.
“It might,” Barbara said. “You know, that reporter Van Doren gave Rashaad and me a call. Asked us if we’ve been noticing if you’ve been acting strangely lately. And then he told us that you had dropped so many of your clients. As you might imagine, we found this very disturbing. I found it very disturbing.”
“Barbara,” I said, “you really have nothing to worry about. Yes, I transitioned a number of my less important clients, but I certainly have no intention of doing that with Rashaad. He’s on his way up, and I intend to keep him going there.”
“Tom,” Barbara said, “are you on drugs?”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you on drugs?” she repeated. “That reporter mentioned something about a health spa and sulfur treatments. To my ear, that sounds like rehab. You know how I feel about those drugs. I won’t have them anywhere near my boy. You know I had everyone here on the set take a urine test before they could work here. If they had the slightest hint of anything in their system, they’re gone.”
After Workin’ Out! was green-lighted, Rashaad threw a little party for himself and thirty of his most geographically immediate friends at the Four Seasons hotel in Beverly Hills. One of Rashaad’s “pals” arrived with more cocaine than was in the final scene of Scarface. But then, Rashaad wasn’t the one having to pee in a cup.
“I’m clean, Barbara,” I said. “The last time I smoked anything illegal was my junior year in college. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“Then what is wrong, Tom? I—” she stopped as someone approached us. It was the assistant producer of the show. “What do you want, Jay?” she asked.
“Barbara, we really have to get a move on. Another forty-five minutes and we have to start paying overtime. And we still haven’t shot half of the episode. We’re going to be here all night if we don’t start now.”
“Then we’ll be here all night,” she said. ??
?Nothing’s happening until that damned union man gets his lazy ass over from Burbank.”
“Barbara, we have to get this show in the can. We’re already two days behind schedule.”
“I don’t give a damn about the schedule,” Barbara said, building up a head of steam. “What I give a DAMN about is that my son’s show is being held hostage by MORONS WHO CAN’T SCREW IN A LIGHT BULB. And if these boys think they’re getting overtime, they are seriously mistaken, Jay. It’s their fault we had to stop. If anything, at this point, they ought to pay me.”
Jay the assistant producer threw up his hands. “You’re the boss, Barbara.”
“That’s RIGHT,” Barbara said, looking around. “I AM the BOSS. You’d all do VERY VERY WELL to remember who’s signing your DAMN PAYCHECKS. Now leave me alone, Jay, I’ve got to talk business.”
Jay split. Barbara turned back to me. “Do you see what I have to put up with around here? Now I know why Roseanne was so hard on her crew. You have to be. These folks are nothing but a bunch of lazy assed slackers. Do you know, that light almost killed me. Another two feet and it would have landed right on my head.”
“That’s awful,” I said.
“Now, enough about this,” she said. “What’s your problem, Tom? Something’s up with you, and it has us worried. How can you be my son’s agent if you’re falling apart over there?”
“I’m not falling apart, Barbara,” I said. “The Biz piece had nothing to it. Everything is fine. Really.”
“Is it?” Barbara said. “I wonder. I’ve been thinking about where my son is at, and I truly wonder if this is where he should be at this juncture of his career.”
“Well, hell, Barbara,” I said. “He’s got his own show on a national network. I say that’s pretty good for a twenty-three-year-old.”
“At twenty-three, Eddie Murphy had made 48 Hours, Trading Places, and Beverly Hills Cop,” Barbara said, “and his show was on a real network.”
“Not everyone can have Eddie Murphy’s career,” I said.
“See, this is what I’m worried about,” Barbara said. “I think Rashaad can have Eddie’s career. You think he can’t.”
“I didn’t say that,” I said. “But now that you mention it, I don’t want Rashaad to have Eddie Murphy’s career. It includes Harlem Nights and The Adventures of Pluto Nash, too, you know.”
“But this is all academic, isn’t it?” Barbara said. “Because the fact is, Rashaad’s not even in film at all. All he has for himself is one little show on one little network.”
I started to reply, but there was a rap on the railing. We both turned to see Rashaad, in a hooded sweatshirt, surrounded by his lackeys. Someone had apparently forgotten to tell Rashaad that gangsta went out when Notorious BIG got perforated in Los Angeles.
“Say, yo, ma,” Rashaad said. “The boys and I are going to get something to eat. You want we should, you know, bring you something or something?”
Rashaad finished in the top fifth of his private boarding school, with a verbal SAT of 650. He majored in English at the University of California, Berkeley, before dropping out in his second year to become a standup comedian. Back then, his name was Paul.
“Rashaad, honey, where are your manners?” Barbara said. “Say hello to Tom.”
“Hey, yo, Tom,” Rashaad said. “What’s the word?”
“The word is ‘abrogate,’ Rashaad.” This was an inside joke between us, my reminder to him that I remembered his GPA. He’d ask me what the word is, and I’d give him the most obscure one I could think of at the moment. Then he’d give me the definition back in street talk.
Except this time he looked surprised and shot his mother a quick look. Barbara gave him an almost imperceptible shake of her head. He turned back to me. “Good to see you, Tom. I’ll catch you later.” He and his stooges slunk out, followed enviously by the eyes of the trapped crew. I watched him until he slipped out of the studio.
“So, Barbara,” I said. “Who did you get to replace me?”
“What?” Barbara said.
“After you decided that you were going to can me,” I said. “You must have had someone in mind to get your son’s career into high gear. I can’t imagine you’d fire me without having someone else already lined up.”
“I didn’t say you were fired, Tom,” Barbara said.
“‘Abrogate—to annul, or repeal,’” I said. “Your son knows what it means, of course. That’s why he looked so surprised when I used it. It’s sort of funny, because I didn’t use it to mean anything—it was just the first word that came into my head. But his reaction says to me that you didn’t really call me over here to express your concerns about your son’s career. You had me come over here to fire me. Right?”
“I’m looking out for the best interests of my son,” Barbara said. “I don’t know what it is you’re going through at the moment, Tom, but you need to work out those issues, and my son can’t wait for you to do that.”
“Really?” I said. “Did you actually ask Rashaad if he wanted to drop me? Or did you just tell him after the fact? For that matter, did you ask him if he wanted to wait for the union boss, or if he wanted to just get someone to sweep up with a broom? It is his show, after all.”
Barbara bristled. “I’m the producer. And I’m his manager. These things are my job—to look after this show and to look after him. I don’t make any apologies for that, Tom, not to you or to anybody.”
“One day, you might have to make an apology to him, Barbara. But I bet you didn’t think about it that way.”
Barbara glared at me but said nothing.
“So,” I said, “who did you get to replace me?”
“David Nolan at ACR.”
“He’s not bad,” I said.
“I know that, Tom.” Barbara said. She got up and walked back towards the set. She began yelling at the assistant producer before she even got off the bleachers.
I sat there for a few moments, watching her go. One of the crew came over.
“Hi,” he said. “You wouldn’t have been talking to her about when we could leave, right?”
“Nope, sorry,” I said. “I just came to get fired.”
“Wow,” he said. “Some guys have all the luck.” He started off.
“Hey,” I said. The guy turned. “Next time, don’t miss.”
He grinned, gave me a salute, and went backstage.
The next day, on the way to the Pacific Rim set, I got a phone call on my cellular. It was Joshua.
“Ralph and I are going on a hike,” he said. “Ralph smells something interesting out back of your house, and I’m worried about him if he goes alone. He’s pretty old.”
“Joshua,” I said, “think about what you’re saying, here. If Ralph has a little doggie stroke, it’s not like you’re going to be able to rush to the nearest street and flag down a passing motorist. Why don’t you guys wait until I get home? Then we can all go together.”
“Because I’m bored, and so is Ralph, and you’re no fun anymore,” Joshua said. “Ever since that article came out. It’s like living with a cardboard cutout of a formerly interesting person. Remember the good old days, when we’d have fun? It was just three days ago. Boy, those were times. Let me tell you.”
“I’m sorry, Joshua,” I said. “But I need these guys.”
“Tom, I respect and admire you greatly, but I think you may have your priorities slightly out of order,” Joshua said. “You’re representing an entire alien culture. I think you shouldn’t sweat the occasional television actor.”
I pulled into the set and waved at the security guard, who let me through. “Thanks for the tip, Joshua. But I’m already here. Might as well go for the save.”
“All right, fine,” Joshua said. “We’ll try to be back before you get home, then.”
“Joshua, don’t go. It’ll only be a couple of hours. Really.”
“La la la la la la la,” Joshua said. “I’m not listening. Bye.”
“At least take a phone,” I ye
lled, but he had already hung up. Which was just as well. I didn’t know how he would carry a phone, anyway. Probably the battery would leak into his insides. I parked, got out, headed towards the set.
Pacific Rim was nominally supposed to take place in Venice Beach, but the majority of it was filmed in Culver City. One day a week, the cast and crew decamped to Venice Beach for location shots. Today was one of those days. It made for an interesting set, if only because the vast majority of extras were in bikinis and Rollerblades. On one end of the set, a blocked-off section of the Venice boardwalk, an assistant director was blocking a shot with a pair of buxom Rollerbladers—apparently Rollerblading was harder than it looked. On the other end, Elliot Young had his script out and was conferring with the director, Don Bolling. Their conversation became more intelligible, as it were, the closer I got.
“I don’t understand what I’m doing here,” Elliot was pointing to a page in the script. “See, look. I’m running after the girl, screaming, ‘Helen! Helen!’, right? But Helen’s dead. She was killed in the aquarium scene on page five. Isn’t that a continuity problem?”
“Elliot,” Don said, “I know that Helen gets killed on page five. The reason you’re running after this woman, screaming Helen’s name, is because you think she’s her. And, as it happens, it’s not Helen, but it is her identical twin sister. Which you would know, if you ever bothered to read the script before we shot it.”
“But don’t you think that’s confusing?” Elliot said. “You know, this identical twin sister thing.”
Don let out an audible sigh. “Yes, I do. That’s the point, Elliot. It’s called a plot twist.”
“Well, that’s just it,” Elliot said. “It’s a plot twist, but now I’m having a hard time following the plot at all. I want people to be able to follow what I’m doing on the show when I’m doing it.”
“All right, Elliot,” Don said, “what do you suggest?”