Too Bright to Hear Too Loud to See (8 page)

“I suppose that’s what makes him a good executive,” I said.

“No,” Angela said, sniffing one armpit and then the other. “What makes him a good exec is that he’s a greedy son of a bitch. Shall we?”

And linking one of her arms through mine and the other through Ellen’s, she hauled us toward the house. A few yards from the door, she left us behind, hiked her strapless gown up over her nonexistent chest, put on her best shit-eating grin, and walked through the front door and into a standing ovation.

The living room was so crowded it was hard to find the bar. There were models and actresses—all of them under thirty, all of them willing to do whomever to get the next great part—draped across low white couches. Three actors I had scripts out to were sharing a joint on the balcony. I still hadn’t found the bar.

I heard a splash and looked out the back window to where dozens of glowing white candles and gardenias had been floating in the enormous pool. Eric had just canonballed off the diving board. I turned around just in time to see him climb bare-assed out of the pool. Behind him—or rather unfortunately for the bartender, in front of him—was a bar. Thank God.

I walked past Eric en route to my martini.

“Put some clothes on, Eric.”

“Don’t be such a tight ass.”

I leaned in so he could hear me. “Eric, as a representative of your agency, trust me, if you ever want to play a leading man you’ll put your pants back on.”

I found Ellen sitting on Freeman’s kid’s swing set, deep in conversation with Kate Davis, wife of A-list actor Victor Davis. Victor had grown up dirt poor and had married Kate when she was a secretary and he was painting houses. Since he had no tolerance for prima donna actors or for Hollywood bullshit in general, I wondered why they’d shown up to the party at all. But I didn’t dwell on it for long. I was too busy being happy that Ellen had found Kate and was making the most of it. Even if she didn’t think of her burgeoning friendship that way. Lots of her friends just happened to be the wives and live-in girlfriends of my clients. In this town, there was no separation between work life and social life. There were no boundaries. Unless you were locked in your bathroom taking a crap, you had to be on. But sometimes, like tonight, it worked out nicely for me.

“There you are!” I kissed Ellen as if we’d been separated by oceans and wars and decades. She looked at me quizzically.

“Hi, I’m Greyson. The husband.”

Kate laughed. “Kate Davis.”

I handed Ellen the martini I’d spent the last half hour risking life and limb for. “I brought you a drink.”

“Thanks, babe,” she said and toasted me with her margarita, “but I got one. Two actually.” And she and Kate giggled. I’d known a long time ago that I wanted Victor as a client. This was perfect. I saw intimate dinner parties in our near future. Maybe even a weekend away for the four of us—Santa Barbara, Palm Springs.

“Well, I will leave you two ladies to your fun.” I discreetly gave Ellen a thumbs-up. She rolled her eyes. I wandered back into the house and upstairs, stopping to have my own ass kissed by at least a half dozen executives, directors, and actors who, before tonight, considered me to be somewhat of a pisher. It was a novel and altogether pleasurable experience.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I found myself staring at a pair of large, dark nipples. They were visible to everyone but the legally blind through the ultra-sheer dress worn by the woman to whom they were attached. I followed the nipples up the plunging peach-colored neckline, past the leathery, freckled chest, up the wiry neck to the heavily made-up face and frizzy blonde perm. It was possible at one time, a lot of booze and many tubes of Bain de Soleil ago, this woman had been pretty. She was swaying back and forth, but not, I realized, to the sweet strains of Gordon Lightfoot’s “Sundown.” She was just having trouble standing.

“Hi there, any idea where Sydney keeps his upstairs bathrooms?” I asked from the top stair.

“Sure do, sweetheart,” she slurred and then pitched forward, planting her hands on my shoulders.

I flailed and teetered but it was useless. With a martini in one hand and nothing behind me, I went down with her. Fortunately, it was only two small, white shag-carpeted stairs down to the next landing. She landed on top of me. And stayed there for far too long. She smelled like a combination of Chanel No. 5, rumaki, and day-old cigarette butts. And an entire bottle of Dom.

“I was just on my way,” she whispered an inch from my face. “Follow me and we can go together.”

And suddenly I felt a hand cupping my balls. Instantly, I rolled out from under her and then—chivalrously, I thought, considering—offered her my hand and helped her up.

“Thanks, but you can go first. Need my privacy.” I picked the carpet fuzz off the olives from my spilled martini and tossed them into my mouth. “Pee fright.”

“Aw, the poor wittle guy,” she said, bending over and talking into my crotch.

I pulled her up by the shoulders and propped her up against the closest wall.

“Hey, where’re you going?” She stuck out her bottom lip.

“I don’t believe you have any intention of showing me where the john is. I’m betting you don’t even know yourself. I’m striking out on my own.”

“Fuck load you know.” Suddenly, Nipples was no longer a happy drunk. “I know this fucking house like the back of my fucking hand.”

She spit out the words like she was trying to physically expel the resentment and bitterness that produced them. And all of a sudden I recognized her. Nipples was Theodora (a.k.a. Teddi) Bacon. Fifteen years ago she’d been an up-and-coming young actress whose career had peaked and then quickly plateaued when she devoted herself to playing the part of Sydney’s longtime mistress for nearly a decade. After putting in all those years, she naturally expected to become the second Mrs. Freeman just as soon as Sydney’s divorce came through. Instead, she found her presence requested at the marriage of Sydney to his current wife, Nikki, an up-and-coming young actress fifteen years her junior.

By way of a consolation prize, Sydney bought Teddi a condo in the Valley and got her a part playing the mother in one of the
Herbie
movies. Shortly thereafter, Sydney built the house Teddi had helped him design for the two of them on the land Teddi helped him pick out back when they were together. As dictated by the rules of the game, they all agreed to be friends. As if Teddi had a choice.

“You’re right,” I said, “I don’t know shit.” I put my arm around her waist and she tentatively let go of the wall. “Why don’t you give me the tour?”

She smiled and looked up at me. “Should I start with the bathroom?”

I steered her down a hallway, opening doors, looking for a bed. “Actually, I was thinking maybe someplace you could lie down for a while might not be a bad idea.”

“Are you trying to get into my pants, young man?”

My eyes dropped down past her nipples. “You’re not wearing any pants, Teddi.”

She attempted a girlish giggle. “You can tell?”

Then she took an unsteady step back and studied my face. “Do we know each other?”

“We do now.”

“I mean from before, Mr. Smarty Pants. How do you know my name?”

Shit, I didn’t want her to know I knew she was infamous for being humiliated.

“You told me.”

“I did? Did you tell me yours?”

I pretended to think for a moment.

“How rude of me. Greyson. Todd. It’s a pleasure.”

We continued down the hallway.

“So are you in the business, Greyson Todd?”

“It’s an Oscar party. Is anyone here not?”

“Don’t be a smart ass.”

“I’m an agent. I can’t help it.”

“Really. An agent? Represent anyone big?”

“I do okay.”

“You know, I might be able to help you.”

“Help me?”

“Meet people. Make contacts. I know a lot of major players.”

“That’s very generous of you, Teddi.”

We reached the end of the hallway and I pushed open the double doors of what was obviously the master suite. The interior decorator had been given free reign in here and the results were mixed. Immediately upon crossing the threshold, Teddi and I were attacked by a monstrous light fixture. Its chrome neck grew directly out of the ceiling, and attached to its bulbous head were dozens of bouncing tentacles—metal springs of varying lengths—each of which had a glowing white probe on the end. There was a matching zebra-skin love seat and armchair in the sitting area, and a black-and-white horse from an old carousel had been installed in the ceiling and floor, stirrups and reins still attached.

“Can you believe this shit?” Teddi teetered as she leaned in to whisper in my ear. “Mrs. Nikki fucking Freeman wouldn’t know good taste if it bit her in that tight little aerobicized ass of hers.”

“Oh look, Teddi, the bed!”

The bathroom door opened and two young women came out giggling. Nipples went in. And took fuckin’ forever. By the time my turn came around, I had to pee so badly I was already unzipping my pants as I walked into the enormous black-marble john. So it was a shock to find the bathroom occupied.

“Shit, I’m sorry … I thought …”

The man was bent over the marble counter snorting huge lines of coke through a gold straw. Nearby was another pile that looked like the top of Mount Fuji.

“Don’t be sorry. I mean I guess this is the designated coke bathroom, but I think it was originally intended as a place for people to pee … and, you know, go number two.”

I couldn’t see her—she must have been behind the privacy wall hiding the toilet and bidet—but I knew the voice. Raspy, tough, with a trace of Brooklyn in it. But young. Kind of like a prepubescent hit man. With strep throat.

It belonged to Christie Donovan, Academy Award-winning twelve-year-old actress. Apparently she was hanging out, perched on a toilet lid in Sydney Freeman’s bathroom while her daddy/manager snorted cocaine. Three years ago, Mick Donovan and his model-actress-wife Kathryn had waged an ugly and very public battle for custody of Christie. Mick and his lawyer pulled out all the stops and trumped up enough evidence to have Kathryn declared an unfit mother. After that, it wasn’t long before she became what he accused her of being but had never been before. A drunk. A high-priced whore. A junkie. So Mick was the good parent. Poor fuckin’ kid.

Yes, he was scum. But I happened to have a script that was perfect for her. I turned and locked the bathroom door. My bladder could wait.

“Mick Donovan, right?” I asked, sticking my hand out before Christie’s daddy could stick the straw up his nose again. “I’m Greyson Todd. With Franklin Morton.”

He returned my handshake limply. “Yeah?”

“Touchdown!” A pile of magazines—Architectural Digest, Variety,

Esquire—slid across the marble floor from behind the wall. Then

Christie appeared, waving what looked like a calculator over her head.

Dressed in a perfectly fitted, miniature tuxedo complete with cumberbund and French cuffs.

“Mr. Todd, if I may, congratulations on your success this evening,” she said, extending her hand. Her cufflinks were monogrammed.

I looked over my shoulder to see if she had an audience—why she’d suddenly become a tiny adult. But it was just me.

“Uh … thanks. Thanks, Christie. Great outfit. I’m guessing it’s not off-the-rack.”

“I have a spectacular tailor. Very old school. I’ll give you his number.”

“Why not? Hey, what is that?” I pointed to the calculator thing.

“This? Oh, it’s just a game.”

“Can you show me how it works?”

It didn’t take long before she was chattering away. She’d probably been bored out of her mind for hours, desperate to engage in anything that didn’t have to do with fucking or drugs.

“… So this one’s
Electronic Football
. I also have
Electronic Auto Race
. They’re not even gonna be on the market till next year but Mattel wanted to create a buzz so they gave them to a few kid actors. Can you believe how small it is?”

Mick picked up a razor blade and concentrated on chopping the coke as if he were defusing a bomb.

Christie looked at him and quickly looked away. “Hey, so you had a pretty kick-ass night.” With tremendous effort, she hoisted herself up on the bathroom counter. “How does that feel? To suddenly become hot shit. It’s weird, right?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think if you’re fortunate enough to have your career go a certain way—”

“Bullshit.”

“Bullshit?”

“Yeah. Bullshit,” she said, staring me down. “It’s weird for anyone it happens to. Weirder for me because I’m a kid. But if it changes your life, that’s weird. And if you say it’s not, you’re lying.”

We continued to stare at each other.

“You’re right.”

She arched one eyebrow at me. I had seen that look with those ice-cold blue eyes in more than one closeup. It was very persuasive.

“Okay, fine. It’s weird. Very fuckin’ weird.”

She grinned. Then she turned her eyelids inside out, stretched her mouth apart with her thumbs, and touched the tip of her tongue to her chin.

“Lovely, Christie. Real leading lady material.”

We both looked up when we heard pissing. Very loud, very sustained pissing. “Ugh, that’s disgusting, Daddy.”

“Where the hell else do you want me to piss?” he barked.

I had forgotten how badly I had to go. Until now. My work here wasn’t nearly done. Maybe if I could talk to Christie alone first. Get her out of here and make my pitch. Mick turned around, zipped, and adjusted himself. Then he offered me the gold straw.

“Help yourself, man. Celebrate. Apparently you’re hot shit.”

“Thanks. I’m cool for now.”

“Okay, then what the fuck are you doing in here? We’re not looking for representation.”

“I’m not trying to steal Christie from ICM. Although frankly I could do a lot better for her than the limited range of opportunities Jeff’s been—but that’s a different conversation.”

Christie shook her finger at me and smiled. “You’re a very bad man.”

“Seriously, Mick, I didn’t come here with an agenda tonight. But I’m representing this truly exceptional script—and the female lead—Christie was made to play this part.”