C Reiss - Spin

“Five minutes, Mom,” she whispered.

By the time Katrina dropped me at Frontage, my little BMW was the only car in the lot, and condensation left a polka dot pattern on my windshield. It was a 1967 GT Cabrio with chrome detailing that wasn’t happy about water drying on it. I shouldn’t have bought it. The car was a death trap. But Daniel had gone to the automotive museum’s auction to show his face, and I’d walked out with what he called LBT, the Little Blue Tink. He’d been annoyed, but I’d fallen in love.

I wasn’t ready to end the night. Though the rising sun would end it for me, I wasn’t ready to process it. It was almost six in the morning, and my brother never slept, so I called him.

“Hey, Jon,” I said. “I saw your singer last night.”

“I heard.”

I could tell by his sotto voice and cryptic words that he wasn’t alone. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

“Bad.”

“Everything’s fine, before you panic.”

“Okay, I’m not panicked.”

“Deirdre again.”

“Ah,” he said.

“And I didn’t just pour her into bed. She had to be hospitalized. Nothing a few B vitamins couldn’t fix, but honestly, I think she has a real problem. I saw her have two drinks, but she had a flask and she went to the bathroom, I don’t know, fourteen times.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Not by much. So I’m coming with you tonight.”

“Fine.”

“Can I be honest?” I didn’t wait for his answer. “I think your perpetual availability isn’t helping draw Jessica back.”

“Very mature, Theresa. Very mature.”

“Take a real woman, Jon. Stop being a patsy.”

I never spoke like that to my brother or anyone. I rarely gave advice or told anyone to change, but I was tired, physically and emotionally. I hung up without saying good-bye. I had to get Katrina home and get ready for work.

 I got to my office, where Pam waited for me. My assistant had neon pink hair in a 1940’s style chignon, pierced nose and brow, and smart suit; a story of contradictions she called psychabilly. I hadn’t heard of it before or since, but when her boyfriend showed up looking like Buddy Holly with tattoos, I got the aesthetic.

“You look wrung out,” she said, as if wrung out was a compliment.

I’d cleaned up as much as I could, but make up could only achieve so much. “Thanks. I was sober for the whole thing. Did the late list come through?”

“It’s printing. Arnie wants to see you,” Pam said as she tapped on her keyboard. She chronically tapped out beats on the table and her knees.

“Did you get a new piercing?” I touched my forehead.

“Like it?” She waggled her brows and handed me a folder with the day’s check reports. “Bobby got one on his... you know.” She pointed downward.

I couldn’t imagine what kind of face I made. Something broadcasting distaste and empathy, probably.

“It’s hot,” she whispered. “And for my pleasure.”

“Grotesque, thank you.”

“The DA’s been calling you.” Pam had started calling Daniel “The DA,” since he was the district attorney, when we broke up. She said uttering his name made her sick, and though I told her I could fight my own battles, she’d never said his name again.

“What’s he want?” I said around the lump in my throat.

“Lunch. I said you were busy.”

“Set it up.”

She looked at me over her rhinestone frames.

“I can handle it. Get us into the commissary,” I said.

No one in the WDE commissary even bothered glancing at a mayoral candidate, or the mayor, or anyone for that matter. Everyone there worked in the business, so everyone had an important job. To approach someone in the commissary meant you didn’t have access to them elsewhere. No one would admit they weren’t cool enough to get a meeting with Brad Pitt. Too bad the food there tasted like cheap wedding fare.

“Your Monday three o’clock’s been cancelled,” Pam said.

“What? Frances?”

“Frances doesn’t have the clearance to cancel a meeting for you.” She pointed at a little double red flag on the time block. “Only Arnie’s girl does.”

I checked my watch. “I’m going to see him. Hold down the fort.”

“Held. I’ll set up the lunch.”

I left her wrinkling her nose while she dialed Daniel’s number.

In Los Angeles, windows separated the dogs from the bitches.

Not my saying. My sister Margie said it, and when I told Pam, she believed it so ardently she repeated it regularly. When I was moved to the only office in accounting with a window, she called me a newly minted dog.

Once.

“Oh, Ms. Drazen, you know it’s a compliment.”

“No one should ever repeat anything my sister says. She’s out of her mind.”

That one window, which took up only half the room—while all the other executives had full walls of Los Angeles behind them—could have meant the world to so many. To me, it didn’t change a thing. I’d been born into four generations’ worth of money. I had a job because I wanted one, which meant I could leave at any time. My value wasn’t in my loyalty, but in my skill, which I’d take with me if I left.

The two walls of windows in Arnie Sanderson’s office sat at right angles. Across from the north window was a twelve-foot-high mahogany shelving unit that housed antique tools of the agent’s trade. Typewriter. Approval stamp. Cufflinks. Crystal decanter and glasses. Photos of agents gladhanding household names. The only things missing were a collection of super-white dental caps and rolled up hundred-dollar bills coated with cocaine residue.

“Theresa,” he said when I came in. His jacket pulled at the gut, even though it was custom made, and his tie was held by a gold bar so out of style, it would be back in style in six months. “You all right?”

I assumed he was referring to the dark circles that screamed late night out. “Gene took some of us to see an act last night.”

“Ah, Gene. I’m sure the bill will be of magnificent proportions. Sit.” His smile, which sparkled from his white teeth to his eyes, was the product of decades of asking for things and getting them.

I sat on the leather couch. “It’s nice to see you.”

Actually, it wasn’t. Being invited to his office meant something was wrong, especially in light of my three o’clock Monday meeting’s cancellation.

“Can I get you something? Water? A drink? Hair of the dog?”

Only half the staff came in half sober on Fridays. It was the life. As if proving my unmade point, he poured himself a drink as amber as a pill bottle.

“I’m fine.”

“I hear you’re on Katrina’s set. Michael’s movie,” he said.

Agents and producers called talent by their first name whether they’d ever pressed flesh with them or not. Arnie, of course, was one of the few who’d actually earned the right that everyone else took for granted.

“Script supervising in off hours. It’s fun.”

“I imagine you’d be good at continuity. And you picked the one director we represent who’s a walking time bomb.”

“She’s my friend.” I was suddenly, inexplicably, unusually nervous, as if he could see right through me.

He sat across from me and crossed his legs, an odd gesture for a man. “She’s dangerous. She has entitlement issues. After that lawsuit with Overland, she’s poison, to be honest. Be careful.”

“Have you ever known me to be anything but careful?”

“You are famously vigilant.” He smiled, but it was reserved. He really didn’t want me working with Katrina; it was all over his face. “I wanted to thank you for getting so many of our clients off paper. Saves man hours and money. They love us for it.”

“It’s what you hired me to do.”

“Everything’s running so smoothly, I thought you might have a little time on your hands?”

“I still have to run the department,” I said. “But if you had something in mind, I’m open to it.”

“Well, it’s irregular, if you will.”

“I’m not much of a pole dancer.”

He laughed gently. “Well, as that wasn’t on your resume, I’m sure we can overlook it.” He sipped his drink. “We rep a kid right out of USC. Matt Conway. You may have heard of him?”

“Oscar for best short last year.”

“Nice kid. Shooting a little movie on the Apogee lot. They have some nice European sets over there. Mountains in the back, the whole thing.”

“I’ve seen it,” I said.

“He rented a dozen or so vintage cars. The little stupid boxy things with the long license plates. Well, the company that owns the cars has audit privileges, in case anything going wrong. It’s irregular, like I said, but they’re exercising the right, and they insisted the head of our accounting department do it. I thought they meant our internal accounting, but they meant you.”

“Me?”

“Normally, I’d tell them to go pound sand, but this isn’t some prop company. There are powerful people involved, and if I say no, the phone’s going to start ringing.”

“What am I looking for?”

“He’ll tell you,” he said.

“I have a department to run.”

“Is that a no?”

“It’s just a statement of fact.”

“Good. We have a gentleman from the fleet rental and a representative from the studio coming at three, Monday.”

Three o’clock. Of course. Arnie hadn’t taken no for an answer in thirty years.

Daniel had been to the commissary before, on bank holidays when he had off and everyone in Hollywood worked. So when I got there, he was comfortably tapping on his phone, left alone for an hour during a tight campaign. Seeing him work the device tightened my chest. I’d thrown his last phone in the toilet.