by Don Bruns
With that, she shoved the phone into her purse and sat down.
“These hotshot actors who don’t have a prayer of moving to the big leagues, they pretend to own this town.”
Glancing up at me, she said, “Are you a hotshot actor with no prayer? Because if you are—”
I shook my head.
“Where is Juliana?”
“In Kathy’s office. With Emily.”
“Oh, Emily? The hot blonde? They were discussing her earlier. She made quite an impression. She may have a prayer.”
Everyone wanted a piece of Em. I couldn’t blame them.
“Yeah. The hot blonde. Listen, uh—”
“Sue.” She stared at her computer, then started typing as if I wasn’t there. “Sue Waronker.”
“Sue, so how long have you been working for Juliana?”
“A year.” She never looked up. “Is that important to you? The length of my employment?”
“No, I just wondered.” I had nowhere to go with that. Times like this, I didn’t feel I was cut out to be a private investigator. I never was able to “couch” my questions. “She represents some pretty big clients.”
“She has.” Sue began typing fast.
“Has?”
“They come and go, Mr.—”
“Moore. Skip Moore.”
“Okay, Chip.” She finally finished, glancing up at me. “Actors change representation all the time. If an agent doesn’t get them work on a regular basis or doesn’t get them the right roles, they move on. If a movie bombs, the actor will lay blame on the agent for suggesting the role. If an agent doesn’t tell them how wonderful they are every time they talk to them, if an agent doesn’t literally kiss their ass, they go somewhere else. They’re actors. They are not necessarily the most stable people on the planet. They are not necessarily the smartest people on the planet. You must be in the business. You know this.”
Actors change representation all the time? I’d never heard this. I assumed that if you had representation, you remained loyal because it couldn’t be easy to be without someone championing your cause. Every time I questioned Emily’s commitment, I didn’t run for the next available set of arms.
“When J.L. left, well, the dynamics changed.”
I’d never heard Jason referred to by his initials.
“Okay.”
Glancing at Kathy Bavely’s door, Sue spoke softly.
“Let me put it this way, although it’s no concern of yours. She doesn’t have the list she used to have.”
“When,” I hesitated, “J.L. was here?”
Sue Waronker nodded, a slight smile on her lips.
“There was somewhat of a mass exodus when he left.”
“Really?”
“Mr. Rip? I told you, her clients are actors, and not the most stable people. If you are in the business, this should come as no surprise to you. Actors run here, they run there, trying to catch a trend, grabbing the coattails of the nearest superstar, hoping to catch lightning in a bottle. Throwing themselves at the latest movie trend and spending a fortune on plastic surgery! Right now we’ve got too many B-list actors. Juliana and Kathy are looking for A-plus candidates.” She gave me a wry smile. “A-plus is hard to come by.”
The Waronker lady was laying it all out there, telling me exactly how it all worked, and I decided to push a little harder.
“So, some of her clients left. Are you saying things are a little tough right now for the agency?”
That bemused smile again.
“Let’s just say she is regrouping.”
“So things need to be adjusted?”
“She’s adjusting, along with Kathy Bavely. Thus, the interest in your lady friend. Possible A-plus talent.”
After one day?
“So, obviously you need high-paid actors, gainfully employed, to make money in this business.”
“Duh.”
“Doesn’t sound like a very secure business.”
“Secure? Secure? You’d be surprised how many actors finish a role, and, with nothing in the works, immediately file for unemployment. Even some of the leads. One day you can be on top of the world, and the next day you’re unemployed, and the critics don’t even mention you.” Sue turned back to her computer. “Secure? There is no such word here in Hollywood. From the stars to the grips, everyone is one day away from never having an industry paycheck again. Pretty scary.”
“Still, a list of major players is—”
“I’ve learned one thing in my year in this business.” Sue folded her arms across her chest and glared at me. “There are a handful of stars. The big shots, the Tom Cruises, the Bob De Niros, Jennifer Anistons, they make ninety percent of the movies and TV shows in this town. The rest of the people are supporting actors. That’s all. Your girlfriend may get a job on this sitcom, but in a couple of months she’ll be a has-been. An extra. Someone whose dreams have flown out the window. One percent of the talent in this town make ninety percent of the product and ninety percent of the money.”
The office door opened, and Em was the first one out. A big smile covered her face and there was almost a swagger to her walk. Behind her, Bavely and Londell walked into the reception area.
“Three o’clock, Emily. And give them your best.” Jason Londell’s wife nodded to Emily, looking very businesslike and very sober. “We’re counting on you for a good showing.”
“I’ll be there.”
Em grabbed my arm, tugging on it, and she pulled me out of the building. I could feel the energy in her grasp.
“Skip, you won’t believe it.” She was squeezing my arm till it almost hurt.
“Em,” I interrupted, “I found the policy.” I should have listened to her but I had news of the case. She didn’t.
“What?”
Her look was intense, eyes wide open, and lips pursed tightly.
“Skip, listen to me. I’ve got an audition. This afternoon. Honest to God. An audition for a TV show.”
We’d stopped walking, and she was one inch from my face. I could smell peppermint from the gum she was chewing.
“It’s for a guest shot on a sitcom.” She was beaming. “The sister of a nerdy scientist. If I get the role, it could work into a fulltime character. Full-time. Do you hear me, Skip?”
She was one inch away. I heard every word.
“I’ve got an audition!”
And I realized the reason we’d come here was no longer her main focus. Emily was about to become an American princess.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Henson Studios, on La Brea Avenue, is a historic complex that was the original Charlie Chaplin film headquarters. Since then, A&M records had headquartered there and now it’s the home of the late Jim Henson’s recording and film business. A storied past.
Walking four blocks from where we parked, I looked up and there was a statue of Kermit the Frog towering over the complex, complete with a bowler hat and cane. The statue was obviously a tribute to the late, great king of silent comedy, Charlie Chaplin. I remembered James, quoting the famous amphibian that stood guard over the storied studio.
“Try what? Plummeting? I suppose you could try it once.”
Em studied me for a moment.
“I know, Kermit from The Muppet Caper. Skip, I know what you’re thinking and you’re right and wrong. I’m here to find out if Juliana Londell had anything to do with the—” she hesitated, “plummeting of her husband to his death. However, I’ve got an agent who actually wants me to try out for a part. What would you do? Think it over, Skip. What would you do?”
I honestly didn’t know. Who was I kidding? I honestly did know. Without any talent at all, I’d still jump at the chance.
“Your agent is possibly a murderer.”
“Your point is?”
“You’re kidding, right?” I wiped sweat from my forehead. The humidity and heat and a four-block walk had taken something out of me. Em seemed as fresh as a daisy.
“What is your point, Skip?”
We all rationalize our lives. Our decisions are seldom based on anything other than self-indulgence.
“Skip, I get a little adventure, and I get very close to the suspect. It seems to me that it’s a win-win situation.”
“I think it’s a stupid idea, Em. If we get caught, who knows what could happen.” I actually had an idea of what might happen and it wasn’t appealing.
“If, if she’s the killer.”
“You really want to do this, right?”
“Wish me luck, boyfriend.”
It occurred to me that if she was successful in this audition, if she nailed the part in her professional acting debut, I might not be her boyfriend for much longer. There were no guarantees. I’d already been fired as her manager for not being up-to-snuff—one of my mother’s favorite sayings—and now Em was about to go where I always imagined the casting-couch method still applied. This was something I hadn’t anticipated. I hoped she didn’t have to sleep with someone to get the part.
The guard at the gate asked her name, gave me a disapproving glance, and pointed to the main lobby.
As we walked the short distance to the entrance, Em told me what she’d learned from Kathy Bavely and Juliana Londell.
“The black-and-white Adventures of Superman show was filmed here,” she said. “Some guy named George Reeves.”
I’d never seen it.
“And The Muppets. Before Henson sold them.”
I had seen The Muppets. Grew up with them.
“Some comedian named Red Skelton used to film his TV show here.”
Obviously, long before my time.
“Mitch Miller’s show and Juliana says that these people now produce some really great shows and—blah blah blah blah blah.”
I wasn’t listening. Things had taken a major turn, and I wasn’t quite sure how to get back to the main theme. All of a sudden my girlfriend was trusting our murder suspect for career advice. It was absurd. How had things come to this?
Entering the lobby, I was immediately taken with the glass trophy case filled with crystal, gold, and silver awards for a variety of shows that Henson Studios had produced. The walls were adorned with gold records from Sergio Mendes and Brasil ’66, Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass, We Five, The Carpenters, Captain and Tennille and other groups that my mom used to listen to. Obviously, lots of tunes had been recorded at A&M studios.
“Blah blah blah blah blah, Paul McCartney even recorded here,” Em said. I’d tuned back in.
The lady at the front desk took Emily’s name, questioned who I was, and then we took a seat on a soft, leather sofa next to three other girls about Em’s age. I studied the award case, marveling at the history this studio had.
“Miss Minard?”
A chunky girl with acne and baggy jeans motioned to Em. We both stood up and the young lady held up her hand.
“Sir, just the lady. Miss,” she consulted a clipboard in her hand, “Minard.”
Sitting back down, I just shook my head. Em leaned down, smiled, and squeezed my hand.
“We’re going to solve the murder, Skip. We really are. I know it’s something we’ve got to concentrate on. But in the meantime—”
And she was gone.
I was on the West Coast. James was on the East. And Em was in La-La land. My down-to-earth girlfriend, always the grounded one, was now living a dream. And I was sitting on a buttery leather sofa, in a historic movie/recording studio, with three starlets waiting to see if the love of my life was going to be my partner or a silver-screen icon. Silver screen. Something else my mother referred to. Was Em going to be an actress or my girlfriend?
Twenty minutes passed and the heavyset girl appeared once more, calling out one of the three girls sitting next to me. The wanna-be actress giggled loudly, shook her long blonde hair, and followed the leader back down a hall. I’d seen her somewhere. A Tide detergent commercial?
Ten minutes passed and I was getting nervous. I’d lost Em before, for apparently no reason of my own, but this time, if she was successful in her sitcom audition, I was afraid we might be done forever. And believe me, I was never going to find another woman like Em.
“Skip.”
I felt her hand on my shoulder.
“Em.” I was shaking. Seriously.
“I nailed it.”
“You got the part?”
“No guarantee.”
“So—”
“I’ll hear tomorrow. But I got a big nod from the producer.”
“A nod?”
“The producer said, quote, ‘You’ve pretty much hit every mark. I love your passion, your attitude, and what you bring to the character. We’re probably going to ask you back for a second audition.’”
“Great.”
“You don’t sound sincere.”
I didn’t mean it. I had a hard time believing this was happening.
“We’re here to do a job and we’re spending someone else’s money. If the situation were reversed—”
“Do I detect a note of jealousy?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Skip,” she whispered, “we’re undercover. Isn’t this what we’re supposed to be doing? Getting close to Juliana Londell?”
“I found out she has a rather sizable insurance policy on her late husband. That’s what we were sent here to find out.”
“We can learn more, Skip.” Making the case for staying in this fantasy world. “Was she faithful? Is she trying to pull some sort of scam? Did she take part in the murder?”
“I’m not sure we can—”
“What?” Em’s hushed voice was stern. “Solve the crime? If we go back to Miami, I don’t think it furthers the cause, Skip. Ashley is not going to fund numerous trips to California, I’m pretty sure of that.” She was talking in a soft voice, but every word was intense. “And what about Greg Handler? The camera guy?”
I’d almost forgotten about him.
“I’ll get closer to Juliana.” She wasn’t giving up. “You find out what you can about her and try to find this Handler guy. And talk to James about the history of that other grip. There were four people on that scaffolding. Two are now dead. And we’re not sure about another one.”
She was right. She was wrong. But one thing was evident. There was a lot of information to gather.
“We’re still working the case, Skip. It’s just that I think I can be more effective in this capacity.”
And I thought she was making an excuse to explore career opportunities. But she was right. There were things I could be doing while she was distracting the suspect. Still, I didn’t want to be dating a television star, because I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t be dating her long.
“So where does that leave us?”
Em stared straight ahead and took a deep breath.
“The producer, Martin Scott, wants to talk to me in an hour. Over coffee. He said he has some specific points he wants to address. And he wants Juliana there as well. He wants to talk to me, Skip. About the role, if it should be offered.”
I ignored the ramifications. I concentrated on the fact that Juliana had been invited to the conference.
“So, she’s out of the office.”
“He called her from the audition. She’s coming to the meeting.”
“This meeting with Martin whoever?”
She caught my snarky tone.
“Scott. Martin Scott. If you’re concerned, I’m pretty sure he’s gay, Skip. Just settle down.”
It was an ideal opportunity for me to go back and talk to the Waronker lady. Whether she’d talk to me was a different story.
“All right, Skip, I’m a little scared. Okay? Should I do a second audition? And what if I really got the gig? Do I carry this undercover thing that far?” Her insecurity was showing.
Squeezing my hand, she said, “But I really believe I could do this. And if I get the job, what do I tell Dad?”
It wasn’t about Em being undercover. It went further than that, and she could
n’t admit that. In a matter of hours, she’d bought into the hype. She was envisioning a possible future in show business.
“Em, I just don’t know where that leads us. I’m your biggest fan, but there’s a job here that needs to be done.”
“They think I can act.”
“You did a damn fine job of convincing them, granted, but even your Screen Actor’s Guild card is fake. We’re frauds. Both of us. Pure fiction. We’re playing a role. Don’t you think someone will figure this out?”
She frowned, grabbing me by the elbow, and pulling me down the lot.
As we walked toward the gate, she talked.
“Skip, there are moments in life when you have to either bite the apple or throw it away.”
“Now you’re Eve?”
“Maybe. But here’s an opportunity that may never present itself again.”
“Damn, Em, you sound like James.”
“And you buy into his schemes religiously, don’t you?”
I did.
“An actress? Really?”
“I’m going for it, Skip. It’s the best undercover role I’ll ever play. Are you with me or not?”
I was always with her. But I was here to help solve a murder in Miami. Somehow I was going to have to do a balancing act. I didn’t like Juliana Londell, and I suspected she may very well have had something to do with her husband’s death. The lady was possibly a murderer, and now, now she was responsible for my girlfriend’s career and future. What the hell was I supposed to do?
“By the way,” she said.
“Yes?”
“You said you found the insurance policy. Unbelievable. In that short time I was in Bavely’s office?”
“Yes.”
“And you had time to look at it?”
“I did.”
“How much does she stand to make? On top of a huge inheritance?”
“Ten million dollars.”
“Ten million dollars?”
“Ten million dollars,” I said.
“Ten million dollars,” the words rolled off her tongue.