Part 6 (1/2)

”I'm not anything like them,” Tea said. ”I still have a career.”

”You sure do,” I said. ”And you have me to thank for it. Any other agent would have written you off long ago. You're good looking, but that's not exactly a rare thing around these parts. I have to fight to get you work. And every time I do get you work, I hear back about how everybody on that crew would rather chew gla.s.s than work with you again. Everyone. They have craft service workers who won't cater a set you're on. My best estimate is that you have about another 18 months before we run out of people who'll work with you. After that you'll have to find some nice, 80-year oil tyc.o.o.n you can marry and screw into a coma.”

Tea was dumbstruck. It couldn't last. It didn't. ”Gee, Tom. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

”The vote of confidence isn't for you, Tea. I'm giving you two choices here. The first choice is to sit here, shut up and do what I tell you. We may have an outside chance of saving your career if you do. The other is not to sit here, shut up, and do what I tell you. In which case, I'm dropping you and you can get the h.e.l.l out of my office. It really doesn't matter to me which you do. Actually, I'm lying. I'd prefer it if you left. But it's up to you. What's it going to be?”

Tea sat there with a gaze of pure, unadulterated hate. It was unnervingly arousing. I ignored it and went on.

”All right, then. The first thing you're going to do is apologize to Amanda.”

”f.u.c.k, no,” Tea said.

”f.u.c.k, yes,” I said, ”or we have no deal. I realize you didn't notice this while you were dismantling her, but Amanda may have been the only person in the entire Los Angeles metropolitan area who actually genuinely liked you. There are 17 million people in the LA basin, Tea. You need her.”

”The h.e.l.l I do,” Tea said.

”Tea,” I said. ”Two words. 'Boinking Grandpa.'”

”f.u.c.k,” Tea said. ”All right.”

”Thank you,” I said. ”The second thing you're going to do is trust me. Amanda isn't much to look at at the moment, but she's going to devote more of her brain to you than she does to herself. Work with her. Try to be nice. In the comfort of your own home, you can stab life-sized dolls dressed up to look like her, for all I care. But give her something to work with. Understand?”

”Fine,” Tea said. She was hating this.

”Great,” I said. ”Off you go, then.”

”What, you want me to apologize now?” She was genuinely shocked.

”No time like the present, Tea. She's in the building, you're in the building. It's more convenient that way.”

Tea got up, gave me one last glare, and exited the office, slamming the door on the way out. I sat there for a good fifteen seconds, and let out a tremendous whoop, and began spinning my desk chair around.

Miranda came into the office. She had something in her hand. ”Tea left looking like she was going to implode, Tom. You must have done a number on her.”

”Oh my G.o.d,” I said, stopping the spin cycle. I felt pleasantly dizzy. ”I've been wanting to do that for years. You have no idea how good that felt. ”

”Sure I do,” Miranda said. ”You left the speakerphone on.”

She extended her hand to me. In it was a tape ca.s.sette.

”What's this?” I asked.

”A momento of your special Tea time,” Miranda said. ”Sorry. I just couldn't resist.”

Mich.e.l.le speared a sliver of chicken from her salad. ”I'm thinking of dyeing my hair,” she said, and popped the chicken in her mouth.

”Blue hair only looks good on Marge Simpson, Mich.e.l.le,” I said.

She wiggled her hand at me. ”Ha ha, funny guy. No, I'm going to dye it brown. You know, for the part.”

”What part are we talking about, if I may ask?” I said.

”Hard Memories,” Mich.e.l.le said.

Now I knew why I was sitting inside the Mondo Chicken in Tarzana. Mich.e.l.le and I had met there years ago, when she was a waitress named Sh.e.l.ly, looking for an agent, and I was newly-minted agent looking to get laid. She turned out to be the more determined one; I never did have s.e.x with Mich.e.l.le, but she got me as an agent. She took it as a lucky omen (the getting the agent part, not the part about not having s.e.x with me); since then, any time Mich.e.l.le had a special occasion to mark or an announcement to make to me, she did it at Mondo Chicken.

So far it had included six movie decisions, one double funeral when her parents died in a car accident, three engagements (and subsequent breakups), two religious epiphanies and one pet euthanization. There were a lot of memories between us, packed into one moderately overpriced eatery in the Valley. The fact that Mich.e.l.le decided to tell me about wanting Hard Memories here was a very bad sign. It meant that she was determined, and that there was going to be little I could do to change her mind.

But, of course, I had to try. ”Hard Memories is already taken, Mich.e.l.le,” I said. ”Ellen Merlow's been signed for the part.”

”Not yet,” she said. ”I called. It's only an oral agreement. I think I can make them change their minds.”

”By dyeing your hair?”

”For a start,” Mich.e.l.le said. ”I mean, it would at least signal that I'm serious. And if I look more like the part, maybe they can see me in the role. Brown hair would change my entire look.” She stabbed at her salad again.

I set down my own fork and ma.s.saged the bridge of my nose. ”Mich.e.l.le,” I said. ”if you had brown hair, you still wouldn't look a 40-year-old Eastern European Jew. You'd look like a 25-year-old Californian Aryan with hair dyed brown. Look at yourself, Mich.e.l.le. You're blonde. Naturally. You have Newman Blue eyes. And you have a body shape that wasn't even invented until the 1980s.”

”I can plump out,” she said.

”You throw up in panic when you have dessert,” I said.

”I stopped doing that a long time ago, and you know that,” Mich.e.l.le said. ”That was a cheap shot.”

”You're right,” I said. ”I'm sorry.”

Mich.e.l.le relaxed. ”I'll even have dessert today,” she said. ”I think they have non-fat yogurt here.”

”It's not just how you look, Mich.e.l.le,” I said. ”Don't take this the wrong way, but you're just not ready for that part. It's a part that's meant for someone much older.”

Mich.e.l.le pointed her fork at me. ”Summertime Blues was meant for someone older, remember? When we first got the script, it called for a 30-year-old woman to seduce those two teenage brothers. When I got the part, it got kicked back to a 22-year-old. That's what re-writes are for, you said.”

”Summertime Blues was a comedy about two kids losing their cherry,” I said. ”Hard Memories is about anti-Semitism and six million people dying. I think you could agree there's a slight difference in tone there.”

”Well, of course,” Mich.e.l.le said. ”But I don't see what that has to do with the main character.”

I sighed. ”Let me try a different tack, ”I said. ”Why do you want this role so badly?”

Mich.e.l.le looked puzzled. ”What do you mean?”

”I mean, what is it about the role that makes you so pa.s.sionate about it? What is it about this role that's getting you so worked up?”

”It's a great role, Tom,” she said. ”It's so dramatic and filled with feeling. I want to do something like that. You know, something with emotional baggage. I think it's time Hollywood started taking me seriously.”