Death of the Office Witch Page 2

  “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 He also had an unpublished novel or two in the back of his closet.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.

  Having nearly wrecked the Toyota berthing it in its special stall under the FFUCWB of P, Charlie raced to the public elevators only to find them out of order. She noticed the shrink from her floor heading for the private VIP stairs, which were almost hidden beyond a concrete slab that presumably helped hold up the building.

  “Dr. Podhurst? Can I go up your way? Elevator’s down again.” And I can’t wait to chew out my boss.

  Dr. Podhurst turned to study her with a perplexed expression. His coat sleeves always seemed too short. He reminded Charlie of a balding Abraham Lincoln.

  “Charlie Greene,” she reminded him. “With Congdon and Morse down the hall? I’m in kind of a hurry and—”

  “Charlie, yes.” He shook his head but didn’t smile. He never smiled. It was creepy. “I was a million miles away. I shouldn’t be driving,” he joked forlornly, holding open the VIP door for her.

  Charlie hoped Gloria was back at her desk. The place was a zoo without Gloria. Was her car still downstairs? Charlie hadn’t thought to notice this time. She and Gloria didn’t get along that well, but her workdays certainly ran a lot smoother with someone on the front desk to help organize them.

  Besides, I need Larry.

  She was still so heated up over the fiasco at the Polo and Richard Morse’s underhanded conniving she could hear her shoes stomping instead of stepping up the stairs. She was panting by the third floor landing. The good doctor was humming under his breath. His private door was across the hall from the fifth-floor entrance, and when she turned to thank him someone whispered, “Charlie, I’m in the trash can. Help me.”

  Charlie grabbed the shrink’s short coat sleeve, and stopped them both mid-step. “Did you hear something?”

  “Hear something, did you say? I don’t think so … but I’m afraid my hearing is deficient. In fact I’ve just been to see a specialist—Charlie, your color isn’t look
ing too good. Perhaps you took the stairs a bit too fast. Here, come into my office and sit.”

  “Do you happen to have a trash can in your office? Is there usually one sitting at this end of the hall?” That’s the second time I’ve heard that call for help. Could I have imagined it twice?

  Podhurst and Linda Meyer, his sole office staff, had waste-baskets. He’d never seen a trash receptacle out in the hall, and when Charlie knocked on the locked door of a janitorial closet and called out for Gloria, he began to study her with far too professional an interest. He was one of those guys who could make you feel like a complete idiot merely walking across a room anyway.

  “It’s just being one of those days.” Charlie completed her embarrassment with her inane giggle and scurried off down the hall, knowing he was standing at his door watching her. Charlie had several giggles, but the inane one was the hardest to control. Women on their way up in the world did not giggle.

  And I’m going to go in and blow off at the man who controls my livelihood, lose my job and our home because of wounded pride, aren’t I? she warned herself.

  Having come in the back way, Charlie peeked into the reception area and saw that Gloria was still not at her desk. Tracy, Dorian Black and Luella Ridgeway’s assistant, had taken over. Charlie made her way down the office suite’s hallway toward the front of the building and her own office. Because of the slant of Wilshire and the slant of the building, Congdon and Morse had four offices with prestige views. Maurice Lavender’s, then Richard Morse’s—which was on the corner and had the best view, with windows on two walls. Irma Vance had a large office in front of his and a window of her own. She was over fifty, formidable, and in reality second in command. She was presently on vacation, or Gloria would never have dared leave her post without telling anyone. Turning the corner, the next office was Charlie’s, and it fronted full on Wilshire.

  And last, and Charlie presumed far larger than hers, was Daniel Congdon’s. The door was always locked, and she had never seen either it or Mr. Congdon. Richard Morse explained to her shortly after she joined the agency that Congdon was ill. Dorian and Luella had offices with windows that faced the windows of the building across the alley. And that was the lot. It wasn’t much for Beverly Hills, but everything was far nicer and more plush than it had been in New York.

  And more exciting and more fun and better paying, even though costs are higher, which is why I should not dash into Richard’s office in a confrontational manner.

  All the assistants had cubicles off the hall guarding the agents’ offices. Charlie stormed into Larry’s. He looked up, both hands on the computer keyboard and the phone mouthpiece trapped under his chin.

  Charlie made hair-tearing motions and continued storming on into her office.

  “Sandra at McMullins has been trying to return your call, went home centuries ago, and will try to get back to you tomorrow,” he called to her when he was off the phone, then listed four million and two other people who had tried to contact her today. When she didn’t answer, he stepped into her office and closed the door.

  Charlie was curled up on the couch in a fetal position.

  “Three guesses,” Larry said. “The meeting at the Polo Lounge bombed, Libby is four months pregnant, or it’s PMS.”

  “The meeting at the Polo Lounge bombed, Libby had better not be four months pregnant, and I don’t get PMS. It’s degrading.”

  He sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, crossed his legs, steepled his fingers, and peered over the tops of glasses he didn’t wear. “So tell Dr. Larry vot it is dat is the matter, Liebchen.”

  “Strangely enough, I think it’s Gloria the Witch.”

  3

  Charlie’s office had too much furniture for the space—a couch and two chairs grouped conversationally around a coffee table, a large desk with floor-to-ceiling cabinets and shelves behind it, and a computer station. The client chair faced her, and her chair faced the window onto Wilshire.

  Except for one of her author’s bookstore posters Charlie had hung herself, the color scheme was soft blues and pale grays, with accents of lavender and yellow. The whole effect sounded worse than it looked. It had all been done before Charlie’s arrival, and the only thing that bothered her was that there wasn’t enough room to pace.

  Outside the window, palm fronds frisked in a breeze unconnected to the controlled air of the office. A sparrow was busy stripping strings from the emptied sockets of fallen fronds to carry off for nestmaking. Charlie knew all about this because her neighbor, Mrs. Beesom, was seriously into birds. Mrs. Beesom was decidedly unhappy with Libby’s cat, because it had decided to get into birds, too.

  Charlie leaned against the front of her desk, one pump off and the sole of her bare foot resting up against the other inner foreleg. Charlie did not like funny things of a certain type, and funny things of a certain type had been happening to her today. Gloria would call them unexplainable. But Charlie new better.

  It reminded her uncomfortably of a situation last year in Oregon. But Oregon was foggy and misty and fey and full of the mysteries of nature, so anything could happen there. Here in the land of make-believe, everything was phony and unnatural for profit, planned that way. It might well be inexcusable, but it made sense.

  Larry leaned in the doorway. “Can’t seem to scare up Richard. Her car’s still down there. And, yes, her purse is in her drawer. And, no, no one notified building security until I did just now, and there is no answer on her home phone, and as far as I can determine no one has seen her, including her husband at the print shop.”

  The sun hung low over the Pacific when Charlie pulled into the drive of her minicondo complex in Long Beach. It was a good five blocks from the ocean but in a prized old neighborhood. Once a street of modest working-class homes, it had given way to the vagaries of the southern California housing market. Small homes had been built onto, above, and around—filling up small lots with lots of house selling for lots of money. Larger homes had been divided into condos.

  Charlie’s condo was really a small house attached to three others by a common security wall, driveway, and central courtyard. It was an off-white stucco in a pseudo-Spanish style with arched entryway and windows and a red tiled roof. Stately palms graced the parking area, and a huge bushy one dominated the tiny front yard. This weekend Charlie had to get out and clean up the dead fall around that palm and trim things. Everyone else’s yard looked so neat they made hers an eyesore. Hers was one of two fronting on the street. There was a pair in back of the large lot as well.

  Maggie Stutzman was an attorney and soulmate whose pink stucco house sat across the drive and was attached to Charlie’s by an arched wall with an ornate but heavily reinforced iron security gate. It opened only by private keys inserted in a vandal-proof obelisk or in key boxes in the condos, and closed automatically after a very short interval.

  Guests were expected to use street parking, and a little sign next to the drive said so. The little sign had to be replaced about every other week because it was stolen, as was the larger sign that informed criminals that the property was guarded by the dreaded DOG Private Security System. Which told them that anyone messing around on that lot would receive immediate attention from guards armed with Dobermans armed with teeth on instant twenty-four-hour call, and potential perpetrators would not have the luxury of getting in, swiping what they pleased, and leaving before an overworked police department could respond. It also probably told the pro exactly what kind of system it was he had to disconnect before entering.

  The obelisk might be vandal-proof (although it was heavily spray painted with obscenities) but the gate lock wasn’t, and twice in the time Charlie had lived here all the condo owners had had to divvy up for a new one. And it had been the Long Beach Police Department that had responded to the scene when Mrs. Beesom dialed 911. Apparently the DOG dogs only rushed over when an alarm was set off inside one of the houses. Roving gangs were blamed both times for smashing the lock but were gone when police arrived.<
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  This evening the gate opened obediently. Covered parking for two cars on each side filled the spaces between walled and trellised patios. Charlie pulled into the slot next to Mrs. Beesom’s Olds 88, and by the time she got out, the gate to the big bad world had closed her in with Mrs. Beesom, Maggie, and Jeremy Fiedler, who lived in the condo behind Maggie.

  Another gate gave access to Charlie’s sunken patio, where flowers planted by a previous owner seemed to flourish in spite of Charlie. The back door opened directly into the kitchen, from which vantage point she could hear the sound of television instead of studying. Charlie walked through to the dining room and dropped her shoulder bag and briefcase on the dining room table, which caught all the tiresome details of their lives and so was too crowded to eat on. She stepped out of both pumps and then down into the sunken living room. (Sinking things was supposed to make tiny expensive places worth the expense.) She slumped onto the couch next to her daughter.

  “Hi, thought you had tests tomorrow.”

  “I’m hungry. You didn’t say you’d be this late.”

  “There was a whole deli chicken and some coleslaw in the refrigerator. I told you this morning. Didn’t you even look?”

  “We ate it after school. That was hours ago.”

  “The whole thing.”

  “The whole thing.”

  “We.”

  “Lori, Doug, and me. We were hungry and started snacking and pretty soon it was all gone. I didn’t have lunch, that was my lunch. There is nothing to eat in this house.”

  “Last week your health and sex education teacher said you should eat a banana a day and you’d be healthier than an old granola girl. Last weekend I bought bananas. As I remember, just now passing through the kitchen, they’re all still there.”

  “Bananas taste like snot.”

  “Libby—”

  “Mo-om, I did not say I wanted bananas. All I said is what Mrs. Hefty said. But no, you make all these … these guesses about what you think I mean.”