Part 5 (2/2)
I buzzed Miranda. She came to the door. ”Yes, Tom?”
”Miranda, would you call Alan Finley over at a.s.sociated Client Representation, and put him on the speaker when you get him?”
”Sure, Tom.”
”Thanks,” I said. ”Oh, one other thing. After you get Alan, would you mind bringing me Tea's file?”
”Not at all,” Miranda said. ”Do you want the whole file?”
”Just the clippings, please, Miranda.”
Miranda smiled slightly and glanced at Tea. ”Delighted to, Tom. Tea,” she said. Tea fairly snarled at Miranda as she closed the door.
”f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h,” Tea said. ”Did you see that look she gave me?”
”I must have missed it,” I said.
Miranda's voice clicked in over the speaker phone. ”Alan Finley at ACR, Tom,” she said, and left the line.
A male voice piped up. ”Tom? You there?”
”Ho, Alan,” I said. ”How are things over there at ACR these days?”
”The land of milk and honey, Tom. We're giving away Bentleys as party favors. You want one?”
Two weeks ago, an ACR internal memo made its way to Variety; in it, ACR's CEO Norm Jackson offered a Rolls Royce to the agent who stole the most A-list clients from other agencies in the next three months. Jackson first declared it a forgery, and then tried to chalk it up as an inside joke. n.o.body bit. Long-time clients were offended that they, by implication, were not A-listers, and started jumping s.h.i.+p. Clients in the process of being wooed by ACR stopped returning calls. Variety suggested that the second-place winner get Norm Jackson's job.
”I'll pa.s.s for now, Alan, but I hope you remember me during the holidays,” I said. ”Listen, Alan. Got a question for you.”
”Shoot.”
”I have a client who has recently become, shall we say, dissatisfied with the quality of representation she's receiving here. She's thinking of going over there.”
”Well, aren't you just the helpful one, Tom,” Alan said. ”Is it Mich.e.l.le Beck? You can send her right along. I'll get that Rolls after all.”
I laughed. He laughed. Tea glared at the speakerphone.
”Sorry, Alan. The client is Tea Reader. You know her.”
”Sure. I bought her CD. For the picture on the inside, mostly.”
Tea looked like she was about to say something, but I put my finger to my lips. ”Right,” I said. ”So are you interested? Want to take her on?”
”Jesus, Tom, you're actually serious?”
”Sure am, Alan. Serious as a heart attack.”
”She wouldn't happen to be there at the moment, would she?”
”Nope,” I said. That, at the very least, would keep Tea quiet for a few minutes. ”Just you and me. You want her?”
”f.u.c.k, no, Tom,” Alan said. ”I hear she's a harpy.”
Tea looked like she'd been slapped.
”I hear she drove her last agent insane. You knew him, right?”
”Yeah,” I said. ”We were podmates.”
”That's right. Cracked up like Northridge in a quake is what I heard. Became a moonie or a Scientologist or something wacko like that.”
”Buddhist, actually.”
”Close enough,” Alan said. ”No offense, Tom. I have enough clients who make me want to get religion, so I could be a.s.sured that there was a h.e.l.l for them to be sent to. I could look at Tea for hours. Wouldn't want to be in the same room as her, though. Certainly wouldn't want to represent her. How do you manage it, anyway?”
”Just a saint, I suppose,” I said. ”Well, look, Alan, you know anyone over there who might want to have her?”
”Not off the top of my head. I think everybody's perfectly happy to let you represent her for as long as you want, pal. I'll remember you in my prayers, if it will make you feel any better.”
”It does, it does,” I said. ”Thanks, Alan.”
”Sure, Tom. Be sure to let me know when Mich.e.l.le gets bored with you. Her, I'd put up with.” He hung up.
”Well,” I said. ”That was certainly instructive.”
”f.u.c.k you,” Tea said, and stared off out a side window. Miranda came in, dropped a file on my desk, and left.
”What is that?” Tea asked.
”This is your clipping file,” I said. ”Our clipping service scours the trades and the magazines for a reference to any of our clients and sends them on to us. So we always know what people are thinking about the people we represent.”
I separated the clips into two piles. One was very small. The other was not. I pointed to the smaller pile. ”Do you know what this is?” I asked.
Tea looked over, shrugged. ”No.”
”These are your positive notices,” I said. ”They're mostly about the fact that you're built like Barbie, although there's one here that says you were the best thing about that Pauly Sh.o.r.e flick you were in, with the further admission that that is a textbook example of d.a.m.ning with faint praise.”
I thumped the other, much larger pile with an open palm. ”This,” I said, ”is your pile of negative notices. We have an office pool here, you know. We've got bets on how thick this pile is going to get by the end of the year. Right now, it's a modest three inches. But it's early yet.”
Tea looked bored. ”Is this going somewhere?”
I gave up. ”Tea, I've been trying to find some way to put this delicately. Let me make it simple: n.o.body in town likes you. No one. You're monstrously difficult. People don't like working with you. People don't like being seen with you. People don't even like being in the same room with you. Even the thirteen year old boys who fantasize about you know enough not to like you as a person. In the grand pantheon of contemporary b.i.t.c.hes of Hollywood, it's you, Shannon Doherty and Sean Young.”
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