Death of the Office Witch (2 page)

Everybody had their special office nickname. Gloria was the Witch, Larry was Larry the Kid, and Charlie was fast becoming Mother of Libby. This was Dorian the Dapper. Dorian did not dress for success, he dressed to kill. Never mismatched, colorful yet tasteful, always the perfect tones and textures. He did not wrinkle. His hair and nails and even his shoes were perfection. Yet somehow Dorian Black still managed to come off with all the grace of a used-car salesman. Charlie would never figure out how he did it. And he would never forgive Charlie for having her own assistant. He had to share one with Luella. Where
was
everybody?

“Dorian can help Larry. Fuck Gloria.” Richard Morse crashed back into Charlie's thoughts. “You've got exactly fifteen minutes to get you and your tush over to the Polo. All I could get you was a table on the patio. Monroe and Leffler are at it again, and, Charlie, do I need to tell you about ruffled feathers ruining the stew?”

“Ruffled feathers ruining the stew …”

“Do not repeat what I say. That's my schtick. Put Dapper Dorian on the line and hie your tail. I am
counting
on you, Charlie.”

Charlie grinned at Dorian and handed him the phone, raced back to the ladies to check her smile for traces of Ding Dong. She'd eaten only half of it, and so far it had been her entire sustenance for the day. The egg and lobster salad at the Polo Lounge was worth the wait, and she knew she could handle Keegan Monroe. But from what Monroe said, nobody could handle Leffler. And “ruin the stew” was a euphemism for queering the deal, which was really serious. Then again, Richard Morse inflated everything but her wages.

Her eyes were still a little tense from her normal morning fight with Libby. Her hair, still a little wilted from sitting in traffic, suffered further as she raced the Toyota up to the Beverly Hills Hotel. But her spirits were rising by the minute. She reassured herself that she was too important to Congdon and Morse for them to blow her off simply because of repeated commuter and family problems.

When Richard Morse had discovered she'd taken a house in Long Beach instead of one closer to work, he'd warned her she was asking for trouble. But a friend of a friend had learned of a semidetached condo for sale in a charming old neighborhood, within walking distance of a high school and the ocean, far from any freeway noise. Since it was under two hundred and fifty thousand—Charlie had gone ahead and sunk every penny she'd ever saved, even selling some stock inherited from her father, to make the down payment. All that for four rooms and a bath, a tiny yard, and a patio. But after a minuscule sublet in Manhattan, it had seemed like the perfect place to raise Libby.

Charlie's mother, who had a whole house to herself now in Boulder, having bought it centuries ago for twenty thousand, was almost too stunned to criticize the purchase. Almost.

However, as Charlie's problems were growing with a growing teen, her boss and mother were growing depressingly more knowledgeable by the day. She and Libby both loved the Belmont Shore area of Long Beach, but it really was a hell of a long way to Wilshire Boulevard. And there was no money left over for things like two-hundred-dollar Rollerblades.

Charlie didn't know what they'd do if she lost her job, since they already lived on the edge. There was the orthodontist now, and college coming up for Libby with terrifying speed. But Charlie was a gambler and, God help her, there was a certain thrill to it all.

She parked in the outer lot and literally ran to the hotel's distant door, avoiding a tip for valet parking. She had two disgruntled writers to assuage, tease, cajole, and persuade to work together. In a small way, she was getting a name for being able to do just that, and Charlie loved attention as much as anybody.

But through all the thrill of it, the sense of power, two shortened pencils kept floating across her memory vision. They had been sitting on Gloria Tuschman's desk when Charlie talked to Richard on the phone. Gloria used them always to key in on her computer, press telephone numbers, and work a calculator. She used the eraser ends, holding one in each hand to save her precious fingernails, and she could type faster than anyone in the office who used all their fingers.

That was only one of the reasons Gloria was known as a witch.

2

In the industry, agents can be very famous people. Like producers, they go unnoticed by the public at large, although their clout in real terms can be awesome. Charlie always sensed inklings of that potential at times like this.

She sailed through the Beverly Hills lobby, where the clientele was rich and ancient, to the Polo Lounge, where studio execs and males-with-money sat in curved-back chairs to talk deals in supposed acoustical stealth. Legend had it that the place was so designed that normal conversations in booths or at tables could not be overheard by those nearby. Charlie believed in only the
power
of legends.

One of the execs raised an eyebrow in recognition—a lech to be avoided no matter the mortgage. Another managed a royal wave of the hand—he was just as powerful and had actually thrown a deal Charlie's way, asking only for a minor writing assignment for a niece. He had since tired of the “niece.” Charlie passed them both with a smile, winked at the elevator man at the piano, and headed for the patio—that tiny bubble of excitement zipping through her veins like a drug.

She also didn't want to lose this job because she loved it.

The Polo Lounge was a cushioned, padded, draped, and sedate place in a relentless pink and green motif. Outside were pink and green umbrellas with “Polo Patio” and “Polo Lounge” interspersed on the scalloped hang-downs where “Cinzano” would have been emblazoned in eateries catering to Charlie's personal price range. White wrought-iron tables with glass tops, white wrought-iron chairs with pink cushions, little pink vases with little pink roses. It was all too-too for the meeting at hand, and Keegan Monroe's expression admitted as much as Charlie slipped into the chair beside him. There were at least ten places that would have suited better, but Charlie figured the Polo was meant to impress Mary Ann Leffler.

One look at the author of
Shadowscapes
told Charlie that Richard could have saved his pennies. The Montana novelist had been hired by Goliath to write the screenplay on her book. Keegan, who was Charlie's client, was on the payroll to whip the script into usable form both because he was an experienced screenwriter and because he could get along with almost anyone.

He was not getting along with Mary Ann Leffler.

“Adverbs,” Mary Ann said the minute Keegan introduced them.

“Excuse me?” Charlie motioned to the waiter. “Would anyone like a drink before ordering?” Maybe she could lubricate away some of the tension here. Then she glanced at the table. “I mean another one?”

Charlie ordered a glass of red zinfandel, Keegan another beer, and Mary Ann Leffler another vodka martini straight up and dry.

“Adverbs suck,” the woman said and lit a cigarette off the stub in the ashtray. She wore brown hair cut very short in back, gradually lengthening on the sides until it just curled under the chin in front, all traces of gray dyed to sandy highlights. Her hands were long, strong, and bony—nails trimmed no-nonsense short. The sun had deepened squint lines around eyes that invited no bullshit.

Charlie took a slug of wine and tried anyway. “I'm
so
pleased to meet you, Ms. Leffler, I—”

“Mrs.”

“Mrs. Leffler. I'm sorry I missed the meeting this morning. I got caught in traffic, and then there was this mess at the office and—”

“You didn't miss anything—all talk, little food. Now let's go ahead and order lunch before I get drunk and let you have it. This whole town drives me nuts.”

“It's a far cry from Montana,” Charlie agreed and glanced at Keegan for help.

He just snorted and held up a packet of Sweet'n Low. The patio was canopied by the sprawling branches of a pepper tree, and a jay flew down, grabbed the packet, then headed up to the slanted roof.

“Only in Hollywood,” Mary Ann said and leveled a look at Keegan.

“They seem to prefer it to sugar.” Keegan leveled a glance back. “Maybe they get a buzz off it.”

The author finished off her Polo Club Sandwich, all the while continuing to regale them with her low opinion of Hollywood. Charlie decided to concentrate on her own sweet moist hunks of lobster meat and slices of hard-boiled egg on lettuce and crushed ice, lemon-butter dill sauce, and hot flaky rolls. She figured it was best to let the woman get most of her resentments off her chest before broaching the subject of adverbs. Adverbs. Here was a megadeal, with megabucks involved. So what was the problem with “ly” words?

Meanwhile, all the “frigging” superstars were buying up miles of Montana to get away from Hollywood, having already trashed Aspen and Santa Fe. The film industry was being run by fat old-money boys and kids. “There's nobody in-between,” Mary Ann Leffler informed them in all seriousness. “No wonder it's going to hell. Half of them are too old to remember and the other half too young to know. And all those slimy old codgers with squeezes young enough to be their granddaughters is nauseating. Not to mention every third person you meet walking around on their toenails all jerked up on chemicals. I don't know how you two can stand it here.”

Well that's show biz, Mary Ann. Charlie choked back a helpless giggle. “About the adverbs—”

“Actually, they prefer steak tartare,” Keegan murmured, and Charlie could have kicked him. Pushing away his empty plate, he reached for hers. “Hey, you didn't leave me any egg.”

“Who prefers steak tartare,” the novelist asked, “the junkies?”

“The birds.” Keegan Monroe, like most screenwriters, hated to work with published novelists. He was building a track record, had reasonably steady work, no illusions, and made a lot more money than most of those who had managed to publish books. But he didn't have the prestige. He also had an unpublished novel or two in the back of his closet.

He was fair, soft-spoken, laid-back, and never wore anything but blue jeans and cowboy boots unless he was jogging. Today he had put a corduroy sport coat over his plaid cotton shirt. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a puny mustache. “I can stand it here, Mary Ann, because of the money. And Charlie here gets off on the excitement. Don't you, Charlie?”

“About the adverbs?” Charlie wasn't just losing control of this meeting, she had never gotten hold of it. “Who's your agent here on the West Coast, Mary Ann?” Let's compare status and settle who gets to do the genuflect thing.

“Irene Webb. She's out of town. I've got a call in for her.” Mary Ann stubbed out her cigarette and exhaled smoke. “I got to go to the can. I'll let junior here fill you in on the adverbs.”

Irene Webb had the same job Charlie did, that of literary agent in a talent agency. But Irene Webb did it for ICM, and had more clout in her little finger. And clout was what it was all about in this town.

“Let's face it, Charlie, we're outclassed. She's a novelist and I'm just a hack. And you don't stand a chance against Irene Webb. Here you thought you were going to sail in here and save the day. Talk reason to your old buddy, Keegan, straighten out this cantankerous middle-aged housewife from the sticks who happens to write books.” Keegan hooted and held up a piece of French bread.

Charlie tugged his arm down. “You're going to get us kicked out of here. You know they don't want you feeding the birds. Why did Richard send me if—”

“Did he expect you to take on Lady Macbeth there and ICM? Don't overestimate yourself, girl. He expected you to wheedle little old easy-going Keegan into submission.”

Charlie ordered a Diet Coke for dessert. Keegan ordered another beer. She'd never known him to sound so bitter. “Tell me about the adverbs.”

“It's more than that, they were just the straw.” He took off his sport coat and rubbed the cold wet of the beer glass across his forehead. “She comes in from Montana with an adaptation way overdue. And, Charlie, it's damn near a third longer than it's supposed to be. I mean somebody had told her the format but—”

It was rare to ask a screenwriter to collaborate with a stranger like this. He would normally rewrite the author's adaptation to suit the studio, but Irene Webb and Mary Ann Leffler had enough clout between them to tie down a clause in the contract forbidding the use of Mary Ann's name in the credits if she didn't have input on the finished script. And, for the moment, her name was hot. Keegan was both talented and malleable, bless him.

“So I get to help cut it, plus work in all the added suggestions from every bozo connected to the project, plus make the thing workable. And of course by that time it doesn't look a hell of a lot like her script and practically
nothing
like her book. Shit, I just work here.”

“So what about the adverbs, damn it?”

“Adverbs, she says, are a product of a weak verb needing shoring up. Okay, I say, so give me strong verbs—see, when I cut her stuff I used adverbs to tighten up, replace whole phrases. But instead of giving me a word to replace them and the weak verb, she gives me whole sentences, and there we go again and the script's still too long. And, Charlie, it's mostly just in the stage directions anyway, like ‘Mike walks slowly into the horse barn and stares accusingly at Sally Jean. Sally Jean is frantically putting her clothes back on.'

“And we haven't even got to the polish yet. When we have a shooting script it'll be all jerked around anyway, so what's the fucking difference? We got to take out pages, pal. But no, she says, it will have my name on it and adverbs are sloppy writing and don't you ever read reviews, she says. Christ, Charlie, I was hired to do a job. I did it, and Lady Macbeth can only moan, ‘Out, damn adverb.' Well, I feel for you, Charlie, and I know this is going to mess up your day, but good little Keegan is going to have to let you down. I've had it with this project. My dues are paid up at the Guild. I'll collect what I'm owed. Screw the rest.” And with that, one of Charlie's most profitable and dependable clients got up and left the patio of the Polo Lounge. And Lady Macbeth never did return from the can.