Blue Screen (5 page)

I
TALKED ON
the phone with Tony Gault, again.

“Do you know if Erin Flint has an agent?”

“I don’t think so,” Tony said. “I think Buddy Bollen takes full care of her.”

“Manager?”

“Same answer,” Tony said.

“She must have had an agent or a manager at some time.”

“You don’t have a prayer in the business without one,” Tony said.

“By which you mean the industry,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“Do you think you could find out who it was?” I said.

“Tony Gault, mega-agent? Sees all, knows all?”

“I assume that means yes.”

“Sure.”

“And put me in touch with them?”

“Natch,” Tony said.

“How about her personal assistant, Misty Tyler?”

“How about her,” Tony said.

“Can you find out anything about her?”

“She ever been part of the industry?” he said.

“By which you mean the business,” I said.

“Exactly,” Tony said.

I smiled three thousand miles away. Tony was Hollywood to his marrow, but he knew it and could at least make it funny.

“As far as I know she has just been Erin Flint’s personal assistant,” I said.

“Mega-agents,” Tony said, “do not find things out about personal assistants.”

“You could ask your personal assistant,” I said.

“Personal assistants to mega-agents,” Tony said, “same thing.”

“Okay, and anything you can find out for me about Buddy Bollen,” I said, “I’d appreciate.”

“I can do something with that. He is, after all, a film tycoon,” Tony said.

“Which mega-agents can find things out about,” I said.

“Sure, if the reward is commensurate with the effort,” he said.

“Doing the right thing is not its own reward?” I said.

“For a mega-agent?” Tony said. “In Los Angeles, California?”

“I withdraw the question. How about Buddy the baseball owner?”

“I know a sports agent,” Tony said. “He might be useful.”

“If I come out there, could you set me up with some people?”

“Absolutely,” Tony said. “I’ll have my personal assistant call their personal assistants.”

“Whatever happened to secretaries?” I said.

“‘Secretary’ is an exploitive, sexist concept,” Tony said.

“Oh,” I said. “Of course.”

“Mega-agents understand sexism,” Tony said.

“I’ll bet they do,” I said. “While I’m out there will you wine and dine me?”

“At the very least,” Tony said.

T
ONY SENT
a limo to pick me up at LAX. The traffic was backed up on the 405 going north in mid-afternoon, so the driver went off onto Sepulveda and snuck up on it that way. At Santa Monica Boulevard we turned northeast past the Pollo Loco and went on big Santa Monica, past Century City, where Tony’s agency was, to Wilshire and east on Wilshire to the Regency Beverly Wilshire. Buddy had said the sky was the limit, and I took him at his word. The Beverly Wilshire was one of my favorite hotels, and it was at the foot of Rodeo Drive, where, surely, my investigation would lead me at least once.

I unpacked and hung up my clothes carefully, leaving space between the hangers so the clothes wouldn’t get wrinkled. I am usually sort of unkempt in hotel rooms. I leave everything out and throw things around. It’s not my house, and there are, after all, maids. But this time, I put everything away and lined my makeup in an orderly fashion in the bathroom. If I were to entertain in my room, perhaps this evening, it would be nice and neat.

Then I took a bath. Usually I shower. But today…the tub was so big and the soap looked so lavish, and, facing the possibility of entertaining, a sybaritic bath seemed right. I did my face, combed my hair, put on clean clothes, stashed the worn clothing in a laundry bag, sprayed a little perfume, stood for a minute and looked out my window at the preposterous enticements of Rodeo Drive.

“I’ll deal with you before I go home,” I said. Then, squeaky-clean, beautifully dressed, perfectly coiffed, subtly made up, sweet-smelling, elegantly put together, and as neat and orderly as my room, I headed downstairs to the bar.

Tony was at a table with another man. They stood as I approached.

“God, Sunny, you look as good as I remembered.”

He did, too. I hadn’t noticed it before, but he looked sort of like Viggo Mortensen. His small, round glasses, which he probably wore for effect, had green rims this trip, and, like a lot of tall, slim guys, his clothes fit him as if he’d just left the tailor.

“I was hoping for better,” I said.

We kissed. He was wearing very subtle cologne. There was nothing intense in the kiss, just a sort of casual Southern Cal kiss, except that Tony gave me a small pat on the butt as we broke.

“This is Boomer Nicholson,” Tony said. “Boomer, Sunny Randall.”

Boomer was large and fleshy-looking, with a prominent jaw, a big nose, and a shaved head. I had always thought only black guys looked good with shaved heads, and Boomer’s head did nothing to change my mind. He had on a tan glen plaid suit that looked expensive but also looked a little tight on him, as if he might recently have gained some weight. With the suit he wore a pale green shirt, unbuttoned, a thick gold chain, a big pinky ring, and some diamond-studded cuff links that probably cost more than my gun and all my ammunition. He sported a lot of chest hair.

We shook hands and sat. Tony and Boomer already had drinks. Tony was nursing a martini. Boomer had something on the rocks, probably bourbon. I ordered a Cosmopolitan. White wine would have been too girlie-girl. Boomer ordered another Jack Daniel’s. From across the table, I could almost feel Tony’s energy. He had on a black blazer, a white shirt, and a silver silk tie. It was so Tony to dress up at the exact moment that everyone else was dressing down. He was clean-shaven, as if he had recently shaved. Maybe he too had had a long, self-indulgent bath.

“Boomer is the man in sports representation,” Tony said.

“He represents everybody that has ever hit .300 in the big leagues.”

“Almost everybody,” Boomer said.

He had one of those voices that was loud even when he was speaking softly. His whispers probably blared.

“And he owes me a favor,” Tony went on. “So ask him whatever you want.”

“Tell me what you know about Buddy Bollen,” I said.

“Buddy’s a jerk,” Boomer said.

Our drinks arrived. Boomer finished his first one. The waitress took his glass, gave him a fresh one, gave me my Cosmo, and looked at Tony. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, and the waitress went away. Boomer took a pull on his second and smiled.

“It’s why God made corn,” he said.

“Buddy’s a jerk?” I said.

“You met him?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know I’m speaking God’s truth,” Boomer said. “But he makes it work for him. People see that he’s a jerk and they think he’s a jerk in all things, you know?”

Boomer took in more Jack Daniel’s.

“They underestimate him,” I said.

“Exactly right, Sunny. They underestimate him.”

“How about his baseball team?” I said.

“I represent a coupla his guys,” Boomer said. “Buddy’s a tough negotiator, and all the time with this
hey, hey, I’m just a chubby little frat kid
going on. Like he can’t believe I want X dollars for some guy who hit .271 last year.”

“I thought you only represented .300 hitters,” Tony said.

“And a couple guys used to hit .300,” Boomer said. “They had a .300 hitter on the freaking Nutmegs, and he’d walk more than Barry Bonds.”

“What’s that mean?” I said.

“They wouldn’t have to pitch to a good hitter,” Tony said.

“Because the rest of the hitters are so bad.”

I wasn’t sure I got that, but I didn’t want to bog things down.

“Do you know he’s planning to have Erin Flint play for him?”

Boomer took another drink. His glass was almost empty. He looked automatically around for the waitress.

“I heard that,” Boomer said.

“What do you think?” I said.

“Several things,” Boomer said. “Narrow the question for me.”

People probably underestimated Boomer a little.

“Well, do you think she can play?”

Boomer laughed. He caught the waitress’s eye and, with his forefinger, made a little circular gesture toward his glass.

“I hear she’s really good for a woman,” Tony said.

“Can she play in the major leagues?” I said.

The waitress came with a new Jack Daniel’s. Boomer drained the old one and handed her the glass. She looked at us. Tony and I both shook our heads. Boomer took a much smaller sip of this drink.

“No,” he said. “Of course not. I haven’t seen her, but everyone who has tells me she can’t hit major-league pitching.”

“Because?”

“I hear she has a long, slow swing,” Boomer said.

“That’s a bad thing?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“Hell, Sunny. I haven’t seen her. But she’s a woman. No woman has ever hit major-league pitching. For crissake, most men can’t do it, either.”

“But men get the chance to try.”

“I don’t know how women’s lib you might be, Sunny, but the truth of the matter is, no matter how you fucking slice it, the best men beat the best women in nearly all sports endeavors.”

Women’s lib?

“I know that,” I said. “So is it a gimmick?”

“Sure.”

“To bring in fans?”

“To bring in fans, to get media attention, to juice the book value of the team so he can dump it.”

“You think he wants to dump it?”

“Absolutely,” Boomer said.

“And you think he’s using Erin Flint to help him dump it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Even if you’re right and she’s not good enough?” I said.

“Sure,” Boomer said.

He sipped another small sip of Jack Daniel’s and put his head back for a moment and admired the way it felt going in.

“By next fall,” he said when he had swallowed, “they’ll have drawn about three million fans. She’ll have been on
Regis and Kelly
and
Letterman.
They’ll probably both be in
People
magazine and on ESPN, and everybody in America will have heard of the Connecticut Nutmegs.”

“But is it a successful franchise?” I said.

“Of course not,” Boomer said. “And it never will be. The market’s not right, and it won’t be.”

“So would a potential buyer not see that?” I said.

“Buddy didn’t.”

“So he isn’t so smart all the time,” I said.

“He’s pretty smart, but he’s got an ego. And he realizes now that it got him in trouble, and he’s scheming to compensate.”

“And there would be another buyer like him?”

“Sure,” Boomer said.

“Plus,” Tony said, “he’s got a huge movie coming out with Erin Flint as Babe Didrikson.”

“No shit?” Boomer said. “I didn’t know that.”

“True,” Tony said.

Boomer shook his head. “Synergy,” he said. “The little bastard.”

“So the baseball thing will promote the movie,” I said.

“You bet,” Tony said.

“And the movie will promote the baseball thing,” I said.

“You bet,” Boomer said.

He took a slightly larger swallow.

“And how do you know all this?” I said.

“A, I’m fucking brilliant,” Boomer said. “B, the major-league sports world is not that big. Most of us talk to each other. And C, I’m guessing at some of it. But it’s an experienced guess, you know?”

“So if that’s true,” I said, “wouldn’t the prospective buyer know these things, too?”

“If he did his homework,” Boomer said. “But they don’t always. Some of them don’t have a clue. They’re rich. They think therefore they’re smart. They can do what they want. There’s some brilliant guys, own ball clubs. But you won’t lose a ton of money underestimating the intelligence of most owners.”

“You sound happy about that,” I said.

Boomer grinned and drank, carefully, some more Jack Daniel’s.

“It’s how I make my living,” he said.

W
HEN BOOMER LEFT
, showing no sign that he had consumed as much Jack Daniel’s as he had, Tony and I ordered a second drink.

“What else have you got for me?” I said.

He grinned at me.

“I was hoping you’d be able to remember.”

“We’ll get to that,” I said. “What have you got for me about Erin Flint?”

He took an envelope from his inside pocket.

“Names, phone numbers, addresses: Erin’s former agent and former manager. They’re both still in business, and would be happy to see you anytime tomorrow. Just call ahead.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I put the envelope in my purse.

“What did you think of what Boomer said?”

Tony smiled at me.

“Boomer knows what he’s talking about,” Tony said. “He comes across as the crude, loudmouthed blow that he is, but he’s smart, and people don’t always get it. It’s why he understands Buddy.”

“Because Boomer’s the same way,” I said.

“Yep.”

“So I should believe him,” I said.

“I would.”

“What’s the buzz on the movie?”

“
Babe
?”

“Yes.”

“Good buzz,” Tony said. “They wrote around Erin. And, presumably, will cut around her.”

“Explain,” I said.

“She doesn’t have a lot of lines. And she doesn’t have a lot of scenes where she needs to show emotion. They’ll use a lot of reaction shots of other actors. They’ll have her most emotional scenes played without her face showing. You know, turned away weeping, head buried in her husband’s shoulders. The close-ups will be Erin looking intrepid…and beautiful.”

“So they think it will work. I heard Ben Affleck was in it.”

“No more. He’s out.” Tony smiled. “‘Creative differences.’”

“Which means?”

“Might be creative differences,” Tony said. “Might be he couldn’t stand Erin for another thirty seconds. Might mean they found somebody better to play the part. Might mean he found a better part in another project.”

“Do they have a replacement?”

“They do. But it is still a totally top-secret matter. Only the most important people in Hollywood know it.”

“Well, aren’t you one of them?” I said.

Tony grinned at me and popped one of his martini olives into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed.

“Especially,” Tony said. “Because he’s my client.”

“Not Hal Race?” I said.

Tony continued to grin. He shook his head.

“Well, who?” I said.

He leaned forward elaborately, brushed my hair back from my left ear, put his lips against it, and whispered a name.

“Him?” I said.

Tony leaned back in his chair, beaming.

“Him,” Tony said.

“Opposite Erin Flint?”

Tony nodded.

“They’re doing a rewrite on the Zaharias role, of course, to beef it up for him.”

“I can’t believe he’d play opposite Erin Flint,” I said.

“Stars are funny,” Tony said. “There was something in the script he liked. Nice change of pace for him if they revise it.”

“Which they were willing to do.”

“They would have let him play Babe,” Tony said. “Plus, thanks to his crack representation, there’s a huge payoff.”

“You being the crack representation. And he still needs money?”

“His entourage is bigger than several towns I’ve lived in,” Tony said. “Not to mention the children and ex-wives.”

“Even so,” I said. “I can’t believe he needs money.”

“He doesn’t. None of them do, in your terms or maybe even mine. But they have to live in certain houses and drive certain cars and go certain places and be certain things or they might be thought failures, and the perception of failure in this town
is
failure.”

“And you live here why?” I said.

“It’s where the business is.”

“And you’re in the business why?”

“You go with your strength,” Tony said.

“And yours is?”

He smiled and ate the other olive from his martini.

“Bottomless insincerity,” he said.

We laughed. I finished my second Cosmopolitan. Tony looked at me quietly. His martini was gone. I didn’t say anything. The waitress came to the table.

“Another round?”

Tony looked at me. I shook my head. He gave his credit card to the waitress.

“Just the check, please,” Tony said.

The waitress went away. The bar, which had been nearly empty when we arrived, was nearly full now. There were some understated bar sounds now. Conversation, ice clinking. No hint of inelegance. I looked at Tony. He looked pleasantly back at me. The waitress returned and left the check. Tony took it from its folder, added a tip, and signed it. He put the credit card in his shirt pocket. Then he sat quietly with his hands folded on the tabletop.

Here we are.

I wondered why I was being so coy. I had decided long ago that barring something unpleasant, we would go to my room and have sex. Did I wish to appear reticent, when in fact I was eager. Was it protective or merely a silly hangover, my mother whispering in my ear.
Be careful…. don’t let them take advantage….
I smiled at Tony.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I said.

“What a very good idea,” he said.