Part 28 (2/2)
Had the Kookie look come back? Feldman wondered.
”Look, kid,” he said, not unkindly, ”as my secretary told you, I'm not taking on any more clients. I have a full roster right now. You'd really be much better off going to Talentmart, or one of those places.
They specialize in, you know, unknowns.”
”And as I told your secretary,” the young man said, ”I don't want to be an actor; I want to hire one.
One of your clients. This is strictly a business proposition.”
Business proposition my a.s.s, Feldman thought. Autograph hunter, more like. But he said wearily, ”Which one would that be? Lola Banks? Dirk Raymond?”
”Vance Maccoby.”
”Vance Maccoby?” For a moment he had to struggle to place the name.
”Vance Maccoby?” he said again. ”That b.u.m? What the h.e.l.l do you want with Vance Maccoby?”
”Mr. Feldman, I represent a group of overseas investors interested in independently producing a TV series for syndicated sale. We want Mr. Maccoby to star. However, we have so far been unable to locate him.”
”I haven't represented him in years. No one has. He hasn't worked in years. Not since . . . what was that piece of c.r.a.p called? Max Paradise? I don't like to speak ill of former clients, but the man was impossible, you know. A drunk. Quite impossible. No one could work with him.”
”We're aware of that,” the young man said. ”We've taken all that into consideration, and we are still interested in talking to Mr. Maccoby.
We think he is the only man for the part. And we believe that if anyone can find him, you can.”
The young man opened his briefcase and fumbled inside it. ”We would like,” he continued, ”to retain your services toward that end. And we are prepared to make suitable remuneration whether or not a contract should be signed with Mr. Maccoby and whether or not you choose to represent him as agent of record in that transaction.”
”Kid,” Feldman began, ”what you need is a private detectivea”” He stopped and stared at the bar-shaped object in the young man's hand.
”Is that gold?”
”It certainly is, Mr. Feldman. It certainly is.”
The young man laid the bar on the desk between them ”An ounce of gold?”
”One point three four ounces,” said the young man. ”We apologize for the unusual denomination.”
He held open the briefcase. ”I have twenty-four more such bars here. At the New York spot price this morning, this represents a value of approximately fifteen thousand dollars.”
”Fifteen thousand dollars to find Vance Maccoby?” Feldman said.
He got up and paced around the desk.
”Is that stuff hot?” he asked, pointing to the briefcase, feeling like a character in one of the more ba.n.a.l TV shows into which he booked his clients.
”Hot?” echoed the young man. He reached out and touched the gold bar on the desk. ”A few degrees below room temperature, I would say.”
”Cute,” Feldman said. ”Don't be cute. Just tell me, is this on the level?”
”Oh, I see,” said the young man. ”Yes, absolutely. We have a property which we wish to develop, to which we have recently purchased the rights from the estate of the late Mr. Kenneth Odell. There is only one man who can star in this show, and that is Vance Maccoby.”
”What property?”
”Stranger in Town,” said the young man.
”I knew it,” she said. ”I knew you would come back.”
”You knew more than I did,” Cooper said. ”I was five miles out of town and heading west. But something . . . something made me turn around and come back here and face the Kerraway Brothers.”
”You're a good man,” she said. ”You couldn't help yourself.”
”I don't know if I'm a good man,” Cooper said. ”I don't know what kind of man I am.” He stared morosely at the corpses strewn out on the ground around the ranch house. ”I just couldn't let the Kerraways take your land.”
He mounted his horse. ”Time to be moving on,” he said. ”You take good care of yourself and little Billy, now.”
”Will you ever come back?”
”Maybe,” he said. ”Maybe after I find what I'm looking for.”
”I think you found it already,” she said. ”You just don't know it yet.
You found yourself.”
”That may be so,” Cooper said. ”But I still gotta put a name to it.”
He rode off into a rapidly setting sun.
The video picture flickered, then resolved itself into an antique Tide commercial. Hurn cut the controls.
He turned to the strange young man in the too-tweedy jacket and the heavy horn-rimmed gla.s.ses.
”That?” he said, gesturing at the screen. ”You want to remake that .
. . garbage?”
”Not remake,” the young man said. ”Revive. Continue. Conclude. Tell the remainder of the story of the stranger Cooper, and of the reacquisition of his memory and ident.i.ty.”
”Who cares?” Hurn asked. ”Who the h.e.l.l cares who Cooper is or what he did? Certainly not the views.
Do you know how many letters we got after we canceled the series? Sixteen. Sixteen letters. That's how many people cared.”
”That is our concern, Mr. Hurn. We believe that we do have a market for this property. That is why we are making this proposition. We are prepared to go ahead with or without you. But certainly we would much rather have you with us. As the main creative force behind the original seriesa””
”Creative?” Hurn said. ”Frankly, that whole show to me was nothing but an embara.s.sment. And I was glad when they canceled it, actually. I wrote those scripts for one reason and one reason alone. Money.”
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