Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  April wasn’t stupid. She knew the game. “Ara, please don’t ask me to do this. Not that I mind being the bad guy, but I’m up to my eyeballs in shit right now.”

  “Let’s go down memory lane, April. Remember how I bailed you out of that Stallone thing? I was the genius who suggested a way to get both Newman and Redford. Right? And that time…”

  “I give up, you old bastard.” April was laughing. “Give me her fucking number.”

  Ara Sagarian was not the only agent in Hollywood having a bad week. Sy Ortis was also miserable. Maybe he shouldn’t have laughed when CAA used a Chinese fengshui master to guarantee “good vibrations” before they built their new offices on Wilshire. Maybe Early Artists should have done that too. Because all Sy had was bad vibrations.

  Michael McLain was a thorn in Sy Ortis’ side. And a bug up his ass, a boil on his dick, a toothache, a blackhead, a pubic hair in his coffee, genital herpes, an ingrown toenail, hemorrhoids—every fucking little thing that could make your life miserable, minute by fucking minute. Michael was like Chinese water torture, peeling one cell off Sy’s body at a time, until he got down to bone. Sy looked down at the veal on his plate. Delicately sliced piccata. Michael was having osso bucco, and having trouble cutting it.

  But now Michael had finally reached bone.

  “Don’t tell me anything more about Ricky Dunn. Jesus, Sy, whose side are you on? You work for me, right? So forget Ricky Dunn, for Christ’s sake, and listen. I am not doing the Ricky Dunn piece of turd. Understand? Unless I have top billing, and maybe not even then. Do you want me to say it in Spanish, too? Mi non esta making Ricky Dunn’s muy stupido fucking movie-o. Comprende, amigo?”

  Sy was past reacting. This wasn’t the first time he had gone round and round with McLain about a part. It was the ritual, in fact. Sy would come up with an offer for Michael, review it, study it, sleep and eat the idea. If it stuck in his mind after a few days of chewing on it, if it began to feel right, then he would go to Michael with it.

  And every time—every fucking time—Michael said no. Then Sy would tell Michael why he should do it. And Michael would still say no. And Sy would do the dance. About why it was right. About why Michael needed to do it. About why it was a great shot for Michael. And, finally, after the dance, and the ass-kissing, and the begging, Michael would reluctantly agree. And—this was the part that really pissed Sy off—after a while, it would be like Michael had come up with the part himself, and had to talk Sy into it.

  Usually Sy didn’t give a shit. “Just give me the fucking money” was the mantra he would recite when he felt he was getting too emotionally involved. But now Sy wasn’t going for it.

  And why should he? He was sitting on top of the world. His merchandising company was projecting a banner year. It was bringing in more net than his agenting did! Plus, there were all the undeclared cash “gifts” he received from manufacturers who wanted either movie placements of their product or permission to merchandise one of his stars. He had indeed kept the bodega. Gone were the days of nickel-and-diming. So what if Michael had been the first big star he’d coaxed away from CMI? Sy now had a stable, a fucking ranch of money-making talent. And the two girls from Three for the Road would make him another bonanza. Plus a hell of a lot more independent.

  “Now that that’s settled, let’s get back to the good news. I am considering doing Birth of a Star,” Michael said. “That might be the vehicle for me. Irons has the financing, lined up an amazing young director. It’s a go, Sy.”

  What was it with this Birth of a Star thing? First Jahne Moore, then Michael. Was April doing this just to piss him off? Did Michael know Jahne was interested? Did he care? But, to keep everything to himself, Sy had been going around about this with Michael for weeks. “And that’s your final decision?” Sy asked. “No matter what I think, you’re going to do it? I must say, I’m surprised.”

  “Surprised about what?”

  “Well, about you being a welcher.”

  “A welcher. Since when? What are you talking about?”

  “About our little bet. That you could fuck all three of the Road girls.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So?”

  “What do you mean, ‘so’?” It was a vamp for time. Michael knew he couldn’t lie outright—it was too risky—and he certainly wasn’t going to tell the truth. He hadn’t been able to nail Lila. At least, not yet. When he had tried to kiss her, she’d laughed. The thought of Lila Kyle’s beautiful face wrinkling into incredulity and disgust was too painful to remember, much less to discuss with Sy Ortis.

  “So did you put the wood to all of them?”

  “You want pictures?”

  Sy nodded. Michael pulled out a Polaroid from his pocket. Sy picked it up.

  “My God!” he said, staring at the shot of Sharleen. “She’s a natural blonde!” Michael threw another few photos on the table. Sy shuffled through the pictures hungrily. Michael looked down at his meat. There was something gross about Sy’s curiosity. I mean, how often did a lizard like him get laid? Michael wondered. Michael knew he had a Mexican wife stashed somewhere, but Sy never took her out in public. Now he grinned over the pictures of Sharleen. “What about Jahne Moore?” he asked greedily.

  “You’re getting me top billing, right?”

  “Right.” Sy felt breathless. He loved the idea of the snotty Jahne being taken down a peg or two.

  “No photos. But I’ve got videotape.”

  “A video?” Sy laughed aloud. “I gotta see this.”

  “You know, Sy, I’ve been thinking. This has been like taking candy from babies, and I’m coming around to feeling that it’s ungentlemanly to kiss and tell.”

  “Bullshit. Did you do Lila Kyle, too?”

  Best to distract him with a joke. “Hey, Sy, what’s the difference between a blimp and three hundred sixty-five blow jobs?”

  Sy shrugged.

  “It’s the difference, Sy, between a Goodyear and a great year.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, you may have had a thousand blow jobs, but you haven’t had a good year since Akkbar. Did you do Lila or not?”

  “Forget it, Sy.”

  “So you couldn’t nail her! Do you think Marty has?”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t, or that I didn’t. I just said that I don’t think I want to talk about it. I think we should drop the whole bet.”

  Sy stared at him for a moment. Michael tried to look morally superior, giving him the look he had used on Rod Steiger in Corruption, after he discovered that Steiger had stolen from the pension fund. He used the same concentration, the unblinking stare, the whole bit, but, after a moment, Sy lifted up his pointy chin and just laughed. His laugh had the bark of a hyena in it.

  “Not bad, Mike. For a moment, I thought maybe you had gone gaga on her, like Marty. But you haven’t, and you haven’t fucked her, either. So don’t pull your dying-days-of-the-Actors-Studio routine with me. I’m not some shmuck from William Morris.” Sy stood up and walked over to the restaurant railing. “What is it with that bitch?” he murmured. “Is she a professional virgin or something? Or a rug muncher, maybe? But when did that stop an ambitious dyke from going down on a director? Is she smart enough to play that hard to get? I could understand if she didn’t do him or you ’cause she was boffing Brad Dillon or Ricky Dunn or some other young piece of meat, but we checked it out. Nada. I swear to god, she’s Marty’s obsession. He’ll have to start going to Al-Anon meetings if he doesn’t straighten out soon.” Sy shook his head and sighed.

  “Well, speaking of Ricky Dunn, it seems as if you owe me a meeting with that gentleman.”

  “Sy, I said I wanted to drop the bet. It’s…”

  “You can’t drop the bet, ’cause you lost the bet. You told me you’d put it to all three for the road, or else you’d do the Dunn movie without top billing. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Mike. You’re starting to slip. Losing the touch, huh? It’s time to settle up.”

  Michael couldn’t take it. “I’ve done al
l three!” he snarled. “I’ll send over the video and the other photos this afternoon. Now you owe me a meeting. And top billing, Sy. My name over the title. And if you can’t deliver, I’m going to call Mike Ovitz.”

  Sy went back to his office feeling both angry and out of control. If what Michael said was true, he, Sy, would have to try to convince Ricky Dunn to give Michael top billing. Almost an impossibility! He reached for his inhaler. He would lose face if he couldn’t deliver, and he wasn’t sure he could. He was Dunn’s agent, but Dunn was no fool. Why should he give up top and only? How could Sy convince him to?

  As always when Sy was rattled, he began to think of ways to increase his take. After all, money was power. He needed some other means of making more money on these clients of his. He was sitting on two of the hottest new stars since Julia Roberts, and realizing nada on them, aside from the extra fees he’d created out of the Flanders Cosmetics deal. He couldn’t count on Jahne Moore to do any other commercials, advertising for bathing suits, or practically any other publicity. Sure, she was going to screen-test for Birth of a Star, but he knew that it wasn’t going to make any money for him: April was cheap and smart, and even if she gave points, remakes never make any profit.

  So how about Sharleen Smith? At least she was easy. He’d have to force her into the recording contract. Yes. Hal King was pushing for the deal. Her face alone would sell half a million copies. She couldn’t sing? So what? If the little redneck only showed up and barked like a dog, they could always overdub her. Now all that was needed was a little influence. Because Hal King had promised Sy seventy thousand dollars in cash, in a bag, if Sy could deliver the kid to the studio. If Hal King can push for a deal, Sy Ortis can push even harder, he thought as he reached for the receiver.

  Sy had had this conversation twenty times with Sharleen. This time, he’d have to get her to do it. Sy tapped his fingers on his desk impatiently. “Come on and pick up the…Hello? Dean? May I speak to Sharleen, please?” The guy was even slower than Sharleen was. Who was he? Her boyfriend? Her husband? Thank God, she kept him out of sight. That they had found one another was proof there was a God.

  “Hello, Sharleen, Sy Ortis here. Sorry to bother you, but I have to get your go-ahead on the recording.”

  “Well, I…”

  “So what do you say I call a studio and we set it up in…oh, a couple of days?”

  “A couple of days? I don’t know if I can do this, Mr. Ortis, I mean, I just haven’t had enough lessons and…”

  “Now, Sharleen, I just know you’ll be fine. You’re doing so well with the TV show that I know you can do just as well making a record.”

  “I just don’t know,” Sharleen muttered.

  “Look,” Sy said with a little growl in his voice, “just come to the recording studio and give it a try. If you don’t like the way it sounds, we can drop the whole thing.”

  “Oh, I don’t think…”

  Sy was searching his desk. “Where the hell is my inhaler?” he muttered. He choked once, sputtered, and grabbed for it.

  “Mr. Ortis, are you okay? I don’t mean to make you upset, Mr. Ortis. If you really think it will work, I guess I can do it. It’s just that I’m so tired all the time…”

  Sy took a deep breath on his inhaler, and with a sigh of relief said, “Great, Sharleen. You’ll be thanking me all the way to the bank.”

  “The bank? I can’t go now, Mr. Ortis. It’s after five.”

  Sy laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you in a couple of days, Sharleen.”

  Sy hung up the phone, sat back in his leather-upholstered chair, and put his feet up on the corner of his desk. That was seventy big ones in the bag. He smiled, looking at his inhaler. Madre de Dios, if all he had to do was have an asthma attack to get a client to give in, he’d have to try it on Michael McLain—if, as he suspected, he couldn’t get Ricky Dunn to give Mike top billing.

  12

  Jahne had kept her promise. Now, after running lines for more than an hour, Sharleen seemed better, and more confident. “This really helps,” she said cheerfully. “Thanks so much, Jahne.”

  They were at Jahne’s place. Jahne had noticed one thing the two seemed to have in common: like Jahne, Sharleen didn’t ask people home or seem ever to mention her past or her private life. But now that their rehearsal was over, Sharleen seemed to want to talk. She stood up, stretched out her arms, and shook out her incredible hair. Then she walked over to the fireplace.

  “Remember what you said the other day, about bein’ discreet?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I don’t think I been discreet.”

  Jahne smiled. “Unless you were shoplifting or recently slept with a married man, I don’t think you’ll wind up on the front page of the Enquirer or the Informer.”

  Sharleen picked up an ashtray off the mantel and fingered it absently. “Michael McLain isn’t married, is he?” Sharleen asked.

  Michael’s name and the non sequitur hit Jahne almost as hard as a slap. How does Sharleen know about my affair with Michael? Had pictures of their single public date already hit the papers? She felt her own stomach tighten. Was he putting her name all around town? Was he talking about her? More important, was he talking about her scars?

  Jahne, scared and shocked, looked across the room to see Sharleen watching her closely, her perfect mouth slightly open, her eyes wondering. “He fucked you, too?” Sharleen asked. “Oh, excuse me,” she added, beginning to blush. “I don’t usually use cuss words. I was just surprised, is all.”

  Jahne could hardly take it all in. “You’ve slept with Michael McLain?”

  Sharleen nodded. Jahne couldn’t even manage to be polite. “When?” was all she asked.

  “Not so long ago. He called and asked me out. To dinner. At nine o’clock at night! We didn’t eat, I just went out for coffee. And he was nice. Really nice. I shouldn’t a done it, but he was so kind, like, and he was so interested in me. And he really listened to me. He gave some real good advice.”

  That sounded like Michael, Jahne admitted. She felt her stomach turn over. “So you’ve been dating?”

  “No. Only that once. And then…” She paused and took a deep breath. “He took me in his car up a canyon road and we had champagne and…well, like they say, he didn’t call me the next mornin’!”

  Jahne was reeling. Was he seeing Sharleen right about the time he took her, Jahne, to April’s party? Well, she told herself fiercely, he never said he was a virgin. Or that he was seeing her, Jahne, exclusively. So, he saw Sharleen, and took her out once. So what?

  “He gave me this,” Sharleen said shyly, and Jahne saw the twin of her own necklace hanging beneath the turtleneck Sharleen wore. But all at once, Sharleen began to sob. “It wasn’t nice, what we did. It wasn’t right,” she said. Then Sharleen told the muddled story of what actually happened.

  Jahne could hardly believe it! Was this the same man who’d been so forgiving of her own imperfections? He’d gotten Sharleen drunk and taken her against her will? Jahne felt her stomach turn. “Sharleen, that’s date rape.”

  “What?”

  “Date rape, Sharleen. He forced himself on you when you didn’t want him to.” Jahne shivered. Hard to believe that the gentle lover Michael seemed to be was capable of that. But Jahne knew one thing: Sharleen was incapable of lying.

  Sharleen shrugged, ruefully. “I got what I deserved, cheatin’ on Dean. Made me feel small.” She looked up at Jahne. “Guess I shoulda known I wasn’t smart enough for him.” She paused, and wiped her eyes. “He really likes you, huh? You like him, too?”

  “Well, I did.” Jahne sighed. “Sharleen, he doesn’t like me, either. But he didn’t rape me. And it wasn’t your fault he did it to you.”

  Oh, how could she, Jahne, be so stupid? She’d actually fallen for his bullshit, the old hambone. He’d never mentioned Sharleen. But he must run the same routine all the time. The advice, the necklace. Yes, Jahne thought wryly, and you thought you were special. She look
ed at Sharleen. The kid is for real, she decided. And he suckered her. Poor thing. Jahne would admit the truth to Sharleen, but not the whole truth. Not that she was still involved. Well, she wouldn’t be for long. “I slept with him,” Jahne acknowledged. “Not that we did much sleeping,” she added.

  Sharleen paused and considered for a moment. “Did you like it?”

  Jahne was surprised by the blunt question. “Well…” Jahne thought about it. “I liked the idea of it. I liked the idea that it was famous Michael McLain who was doing those things with me, but if I close my eyes I can’t say it was much fun. I kept getting the feeling that the whole thing was choreographed.”

  “What’s ‘corey-oh-graft’?”

  “Like he’d done it all a hundred times before—like all his moves were rehearsed.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Like there was no one home.”

  “Well put. He did all the right moves, but I couldn’t feel him.”

  “Yeah. Like that Yule log that they show, Christmastimes, burning on TV. It looks like a fire, but you can’t get no heat.”

  Jahne laughed. “Exactly.”

  “I didn’t want to do it with him, and I don’t remember that much. Still, I really liked him,” Sharleen admitted. “But then he didn’t call. I guess he was like some of the boys in high school.” Sharleen thought for a moment of Boyd, and of that terrible night, but pushed the thoughts from her mind. She looked at Jahne. “But he must have liked you.”

  Jahne laughed. “No, I don’t think so.” Jesus Christ, she told herself. Thirty-seven years old and still falling for an actor’s bullshit. Wouldn’t she ever learn? How soon would Michael drop her? Well, she decided, not quite as soon as she’d drop him. It was over. She leaned toward Sharleen. “But I didn’t know that you were involved, or that you cared about him. I wouldn’t have dated him if I’d known. I’m so sorry if it hurt you. I’d never do that to a friend. I’ve had it done to me, and I know it hurts.”