Confessions of a Bad Boy(11)
“Yeah,” Kyle says, pulling out a bill and tossing it onto the table. “I’ll let you know when I get back.”
We clasp hands.
“Do that,” I say, “and make some free time while you’re at it. We gotta shoot some hoops or something.”
“Right on.” Kyle nods. “And…er…”
“Talk to Jessie. Yeah, don’t worry. I will.”
Kyle winks, points at me, then drags his luggage out of the bar. I watch him go, a weird sensation of melancholy passing through me. The bar’s still virtually empty, except for a couple of old dudes grumbling at the sports highlights on the TV in the corner.
For a moment I remember the night Jessie and I hooked up. It’s a weird memory, one I’ve pushed to the back of my mind, one that needs a little effort to bring to the fore. I think about how much Kyle trusts me, and how much that trust would turn to pointed hatred if he knew what we’d done.
“Another?”
I look up and see the bartender picking up the empty bottles from the table.
“No thanks. I just lost my buzz.”
3
Nate
I heard all the jokes about talent agents my first year of doing the job – after that, it was just variations on a theme. Everyone thinks it’s easy, and I lost my appetite for explaining why it isn’t a long time ago. One minute you’re the only buffer between the biggest egos this side of historical dictatorships, the next you’re in the position of crushing dreams. The talent expects you to be a leader, a parent, a confessional, and a teacher all at once. You’re the first guy people look for when they come to L.A. hoping to make it, the only guy blamed when they’re struggling, and the last guy to get any credit when they succeed.
I’m not saying talent agents aren’t *s – I’m saying there’s a good reason we are.
Thankless as it is, though, I’m one of the best. I can spot talent from a mile away, can turn busboys into A-listers, and turkeys into blockbusters. I’m the guy directors call when they run out of casting ideas, the lifeline my actors tap when they’re thinking of writing a script or taking on a completely new role that could either make their career or tank it, and if I didn’t have a secretary I’d drown under resumes every morning. If I take you on as a client, you’ve either made it, or are about to go up a whole new level.
If I ever write a book about how I made it to the top it’ll be a short one. I can sum it up in two things: I love what I do, and I keep the bullshit to a minimum. In an industry where half the people are being taken advantage of, and the other half are trying to take advantage, that counts for a lot.
Or maybe I’m just good at being an *.
My office computer pings and I look up from the stack of scripts I’m working through. It’s an instant message from Chloe, the receptionist.
THE COUGAR HAS LANDED.
Shit.
It’s code, and not a very good one. The ‘Cougar’ is exactly that, fifty-three year old actress Dominique Ferreira. Five-feet-nine of ass, tits, and hair so shiny you can see your reflection in it. She looks like a cross between an Italian porn actress and an afghan hound, and I’m sure somebody has sampled her laugh for a kid’s cartoon villainess by now.
Of course, her real name is Jane Gerst, she’s from a podunk town in Ohio, and it took three divorce settlements for her to get a body like that. A couple of years ago she got a role as one of the lead detectives in a police procedural TV series. It wasn’t meant to last, but the show got renewed over and over again, not least because of her determination to squeeze into stiletto heels, low-cut blouses and short skirts that were two sizes too small for her, and which would have her arrested for indecent exposure in a real police precinct.
But legions of men in their fifties who still hadn’t figured out how to use the internet tuned in, making her, and the show, a regular on TV – and a constant presence in my office. These days the only work I do for her is book her gigs doing magazine spreads and daytime TV interviews, things which are more about keeping her ego satisfied than any kind of self-promotion.
My door opens – no knock, of course – and she bursts in, collagen-injected lips first.
“My beautiful Nate! How are you, gorgeous?”
I get up from behind my desk and meet her in the center of the office. She squeezes me against her body so tightly I can feel her nipples, and I hear her indecently-toned sigh as she wraps herself around me.
“Hello Dominique,” I say, with the small amount of breath she’s not squeezed out of my lungs.
She kisses me on the cheek – a little too close to my lips – and lets me slip out of her python-grip.
“Always better for seeing you, sweetie,” she says, dropping her voice down into pillow-talk frequencies.
“Take a seat,” I say, retreating behind the safety of my desk. When I sit down in my office chair, after discreetly wiping her lipstick from my cheek, she’s right there. Dominique’s interpretation of ‘taking a seat’ is sitting side-saddle on my desk, gazing coquettishly at me over her shoulder. She crosses her legs, an impressive feat considering the tightness of her skirt and the awkwardness of her position, and whips her hair behind her shoulder to reveal her cleavage.
“You look great, as always,” I say.