Agent to the Stars by John Scalzi (read me like a book .TXT) 📕
Chapter Two
I came out of the bathroom with 30 seconds left on the ticker, and started walking briskly towards the conference room. Miranda was trotting immediately behind.
"What's the meeting about?" I asked, nodding to Drew Roberts as I passed his office.
"He didn't say," Miranda said.
"Do we know who else is in the meeting?"
"He didn't say," Miranda said.
The second-floor conference room sits adjacent to Carl's office, which is at the smaller end of our agency's vaguely egg-shaped building. The building itself has been written up in Architectural Digest, which described it as a "Four-way collision between Frank Gehry, Le Corbousier, Jay Ward and the salmonella bacteria." It's unfair to the salmonella bacteria. My office is stacked on the larger arc of the egg on the first floor, along with the offices of all the other junior agents. After today, a second-floor, little-arc office was
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“Something, not someone,” Joshua said.
“That’s a distinction that’s going to make a lot of difference to the 90% of humanity that doesn’t know the difference between astrology and astronomy,” I said. “This is a power that bothers me immensely, and I understand exactly what you’re saying. How the Hell am I going to find a way to make the rest of the world get it?”
“If it bothers you, I just won’t do it,” Joshua said.
“You’re missing the point, Joshua,” I said. “It doesn’t matter if you choose not do it. It’s the fact that you can do it. It’s alien and it’s scary. It’s something that we’re going to have to work with. And that’s my point. You know more about us than we know about you. If you know you can do something that humans can’t, you really have to let me know. Don’t wait for me to ask about it. And don’t just bring it up in conversation. We can’t have any surprises. I can’t.”
“You were lying just a second ago,” Joshua said. “You are upset.”
I started to refute that, but I stopped myself and gave Joshua a little grim grin. “I’m sorry, Joshua,” I said. “You’re right. I am upset. I’ve been thinking about this thing for over a week now. But I have no idea what to do. And it really bothers me.”
“A week’s not that much time,” Joshua said.
“No, it’s not. But by this point I should have at least some idea of a plan,” I said. “Even a bad idea would be better than nothing. But I’m drawing blanks. I think I’m having performance anxiety.”
“If it will make you feel better, I’ll still respect you in the morning,” Joshua said.
I grinned more widely. “That’s the problem, you know,” I said. “When I was a kid, I remember seeing this 1950s science fiction movie on channel nine. Three guys went to the moon and discovered it was populated by women. One of the Gabor sisters was the ruler. Here was humanity’s first contact with life on another planet, and they all looked like fabulous dames. And of course the guys from Earth were having no problems with it at all. It would be much simpler if you looked like that.”
“I don’t know if I’d want to look like a Gabor sister,” Joshua said. “Although it could have interesting ramifications. ‘People of the Earth! Surrender now, or we will slap your policemen!’”
“Maybe not a Gabor sister,” I said. “But not a blob, either. If you looked like Ralph,” I motioned to the sleeping dog, “Then we’d be set. Everyone loves dogs.”
“We know about this problem,” Joshua said. “That’s one of the reasons we came to you.”
“I know. That’s what I’m saying. By now I should have some idea of how to get away from this or work around it. But I’m having a hard time. I know I probably shouldn’t tell that to you, but there it is. You’ve got me stumped at the moment.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Joshua said. “Maybe while you’re doing that, I’ll take some lessons on dog behavior. As a backup. There are worse things than being a dog. Right, Ralph?”
Ralph cracked an eye open at the sound of his name.
From beside the cooler, my cellular phone rang. I sighed and picked it up. “Miranda, I’m busy with a client right now,” I said. Miranda was the only person that had the number to this particular cellular phone (I had three), so I didn’t worry about who it would be on the other side.
“Tom,” Miranda sounded upset. “You remember Jim Van Doren?”
“Yeah,” I said. During the last week Van Doren had been calling every couple of hours trying to get an interview with me. I eventually told Miranda to tell him whatever it was, I was not available for comment. “What about him?”
“Where are you?” Miranda said. “Are you in LA?”
“I’m in Glendora,” I said. “It’s about 45 minutes out.”
“This week’s edition of The Biz just came out,” Miranda said. “You need to get back into LA and pick it up. You’re on the cover. And you’re not going to be happy with the story.”
“Why?” I asked. “What’s it about?”
“Here’s what it says on the cover,” Miranda said. “‘Tom Stein is the hottest young agent in Hollywood. So why is he acting so damned weird?’”
Tom Stein is the hottest young agent in Hollywood. So why is he acting so damned weird?
By James Van Doren
At first glance, Tom Stein doesn’t seem like your typical Hollywood millionaire. Maybe it’s because he’s lugging a five gallon bottle into his car. The bottle is filled, he says, with sulfurous waters from an out-of-the-way desert spa the agents at Lupo Associates go to whenever they’re feeling a little stressed-out. The fact that Stein is hauling this into his car tells you two things: first, he’s stressed out. Second, he doesn’t have time to feel stressed out right now.
And who can blame him? Last week, Stein pulled the biggest coup of his young agentorial career, when he managed to pull a $12.5 million paycheck out of the hat for client Michelle Beck, for her return to the Murdered Earth series. There have been larger paychecks for an actress, but not many, and certainly not so soon: Michelle’s most recent paycheck for a supporting role in the just-wrapped Scorpion’s Tail, was a mere $650,000 — a twentieth of her next. Or, to put it another way, Stein’s 10% is worth almost twice as much as his client’s previous highest salary.
Stein’s success is another example of hard-nosed Hollywood capitalism — but the question becomes: at what price? For shortly after Stein’s magic trick with Michelle Beck, friends and colleagues started noticing the normally affable Stein has become more closed and secretive. And his clients are discovering the oddest behavior of all: without warning, Stein has dropped them onto a subordinate agent, whose inexperience and (some allege) incompetence could send their careers into cinematic limbo. What have they done to deserve this, they ask? And what secret is gnawing away at Tom Stein? Is his red-hot career over just as it begun?
The story itself would have been funny, if it had been written about anyone else. Van Doren, in the absence of reality, spun out a fascinating tale of stress and paranoia that speculated that I was suffering from everything from conflicted sexuality to drug use to a “late-blooming Oedipal conflict,” with my agent father — my making my first million apparently being a way to “claim my father’s crown” in my chosen field, according to the psychologist Van Doren managed to dig up.
The Biz being the pariah magazine it is, the quotes about me from colleagues and friends were unusually skimpy — the attributed quotes coming largely from high school acquaintances and college dorm-floor residents who generally described me as “friendly” and “driven,” — nothing to get worked up about, since they were true, and blandly non-specific; these folks could have been describing a ski rescue dog with the same words, with equal results.
The unattributed quoters, of which there two, were not that hard to figure out. The first, the “Lupo Associates Insider”, was obviously Ben Fleck. Ben, no doubt relishing a chance to take a whack at me, described me as a “shark with Brylcreme” who was “insanely secretive, to the point of forbidding his assistants to even talk with other agents.” The latter I found amusing, the former, inscrutable — I don’t put anything in my hair, much less Brylcreme. I suspected Ben didn’t actually know what Brylcreme was. I had Miranda send him a tube with my compliments.
The second was a “strongarmed client” who described Amanda as a “shrieking virgin” and myself as a “fucking overlord of ego,” and then went from there. It was pretty clear that Van Doren got more than he expected from Tea Reader, since by the end of it, even he noted that it seemed this particular client “was on her own personal vendetta against the universe, and Tom Stein happens to be the closest moving object.”
Be that as it may, Van Doren took Tea’s grudge against Amanda and ran with it, taking a bat to the poor girl. Van Doren dug up the Mexican soap star, who complained, through an interpreter, that Amanda had found her no work in the big Hollywood productions. The actor who revived her at the marathon described how they met, which made Amanda appear both sickly, for passing out in the first place, and then flaky, for representing the first passing jogger who happened to administer mouth-to-mouth.
Ben Fleck then reappeared in his Lupo Associates insider guise to make dismissive comments about the practice of bringing up agents from the mailroom (Ben got his job through nepotism: his step-father was a senior agent before keeling over, corned beef in hand, at Canter’s Deli), and mentioned, darkly, that I had come up from the mailroom myself. Obviously we mailroom types were looking out for each other, like frat brothers or Templars.
Amanda read the story and burst into my office, flinging The Biz onto my desk and then collapsing into the chair, moody. “I want to die,” she said.
“Amanda, no one reads The Biz,” I said. “And those that do generally know enough to realize that it’s full of shit.”
“My mom reads The Biz,” Amanda said.
“Well, all right, almost everyone knows it’s full of shit,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. Next week they’ll find some more naked pictures of celebrities and they’ll forget all about it. Don’t be so upset.”
“I’m not upset, I’m pissed off,” Amanda said, whispering the words pissed off like she was worried about being punished. I wondered again how she ever managed to become an agent. “I know who talked to The Biz. I know who that unnamed source is. It’s that bitch Tea.” She stumbled over bitch, and then she gave me a bitter smile. “You know, I just got her a part in that new Chevy Chase film, too. A good part. Guess it doesn’t matter.”
“I’m sorry, Amanda,” I said. “I shouldn’t have unleashed Tea on you unawares. I should have let you know she’s a high riding bitch. It’s my fault.”
“No, it’s all right,” Amanda said. “It’s okay. Because I know something Tea doesn’t know.”
“What’s that?”
“That she got a part in a Chevy Chase movie.”
“Amanda,” I said, genuinely surprised. “You star. And here I was beginning to worry about you.”
Amanda smiled like a five year old who had gotten her first taste of being naughty and realized it was something she would enjoy doing. A lot.
Amanda ended up getting the best of it; the worst of her problems were over with Tea right then. My problems with my clients had just begun. For the next week, I was in Agent Hell.
*****
“Mind the light,” Barbara Creek said.
The light she was referring to was a huge klieg light, which lay on the set of her son’s sitcom, Workin’ Out! The light casing was heavily dented and the lens was shattered and strewn like jagged jewels across the floor, nestled up to the weights and exercise equipment that made up the health club locale set .
“I’m guessing that light’s not supposed to be on the set,” I said.
“Of course it’s not,” Barbara said, and then raised her voice so everyone on the set could hear her. “It’s on the set because some damned fool UNION light hanger doesn’t know how to do HIS DAMN JOB! And he wouldn’t HAVE a JOB unless HIS DAMN JOB was protected by his DAMN UNION!” Barbara’s voice, a commanding boom in
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