by A. W. Gray
Sharon’s eyebrow arched. “Benny?”
“That’s me,” Yadaka said.
“Besides,” Gray said, “I’m afraid Miss Cowan keeps me busy enough that I’m too exhausted for evening frivolity.”
“That I can imagine,” Sharon said.
The Englishman looked toward the house. “Speaking of whom,” he said.
Sharon peered toward the mansion as well. Darla came out on the porch wearing a navy suit which showed a tasteful amount of knee, and matching spikes. Her hair was up, blond tresses swirled around in a little curl over one ear. She held out her hand, fingers spread, examining her nail polish. I was a little rusty, Sharon thought, but considering the circumstances it ain’t a bad job. Darla closed the door and clicked rapidly down the steps, smiling. Kim Novak, Sharon thought, the spitting image. Vertigo was one of her favorites, and she wondered if anyone in Hollywood had considered a remake. Darla could play the part standing on her head. Sharon watched a seagull drift lazily over the precipice, then swoop toward the ocean like a dive bomber. “God, this is gorgeous,” she said. “Back home we spend most of our time at the courthouse with trash lining the streets and drunks all over the sidewalks. Talk about a change.”
Gray chuckled as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “We’re going to downtown L.A., Miss Hays,” he said. “I expect you might find yourself in familiar surroundings there.”
Darla’s mood had changed again. In the less than twelve hours that Sharon had been in California, Darla had gone from patient storyteller (with Melanie last night in the limo) to petulant neurotic (this morning in her room), and now showed panicky fear. On the drive into L.A., she sat with her spine straight as a ramrod, taking a death grip on the door handle at every bend in the freeway. Her lips were set in a worried line. Sharon would have liked to say something, anything, to snap Darla out of her frightened state, but decided to let well enough alone. Darla had been through a ton in the past three days. If Sharon had been in Darla’s place, she might go on the run.
Gray had pegged the downtown section of Los Angeles pretty well. As they left the elevated Hollywood Freeway and took the ramp to ground level, Southern California—or at least its image—the ocean, the beaches, wooded San Gabriel peaks, and avenues loaded with movie stars—ceased to exist, and Downtown Bigcity, Anytown U.S.A., popped into view. They drove among towering skyscrapers, with drug emporiums and clothing stores occupying glass-front locations along the sidewalks. The streets were jammed with autos. Taxis dodged in and out, changing lanes, and buses chugged and coughed exhaust fumes. On the sidewalks were hustling businesspeople toting briefcases, and a like number of homeless men. Sharon had never set foot in Los Angeles in her life, but when they passed an area of ground-floor lawyers’ offices and signs advertising bail bondsmen, she scanned the horizon in search of the L.A. Criminal Courts Building. And sure enough, she spotted the place, an ornate, wide structure with pillars in front, surrounded by parks with benches for pigeon feeding and graft exchange. Catwalks led from the criminal courts to a massive adjacent structure, and Sharon knew without being told that she was looking at the jail.
Gray steered the limo into a multistory garage a mile south of the courts, and parked on the sixth level between a Chevy Blazer and a cement post. Visible across fifty feet .of slanted concrete floor, men and women streamed to and from a bank of elevators. Gray snappily held Sharon’s door open while Yadaka played usher on Darla’s side. Sharon started to climb out, then paused. Darla hadn’t moved. She stared helplessly at Sharon, as if frozen in her seat.
Sharon leaned over close to the actress. “Look,” Sharon said, “it won’t be as bad as you think. Anytime you think you’re going to faint, feel free to lean on me. It’s what I came here for.” She gave Darla’s hand an affectionate pat and scooted toward the door.
Gray and Yadaka did their job without a lot of fan fare, stopping one elevator by using the emergency button, then courteously but forcefully herding passengers into a separate car so that the Darla Cowan entourage could ride up alone. Sharon waited with Darla off to one side. The meeting with Darla’s paid civil attorney now at hand, Sharon had some last-minute planning to do.
Diplomacy had never been her strong suit, as several Dallas County judges and prosecutors would attest, but she was far from her turf here and on the ragged edge of legality. She couldn’t afford to get off on the wrong foot with Mr. Verdon for several reasons. Though she’d been adamant in telling Darla that she couldn’t act as her attorney, Milton Breyer’s popping off to the media had placed her in a shaky position. She didn’t have a California license and didn’t plan to make appearances in L.A. courts; outside the courtroom, however, there was a large gray area as to what was and wasn’t practicing law. She’d agreed to give Darla her advice as to retaining a lawyer. So okay, when did friendly advice become legal advice? She wasn’t taking any money for her services, but the fact that Darla wasn’t paying her didn’t necessarily mean she wasn’t functioning as a lawyer. This Chet Vordon person was already in a sait over Darla’s bringing Sharon along, and if she crossed him, Verdon could give her a lot of grief with the Bar Association. Sharon decided that the most prudent course was to walk on eggs.
She bent her head and said to Darla, “I think Mr. Verdon and I should visit alone.”
Darla looked up fearfully, her gave flicking to Gray and Yadaka as they herded passengers on the adjacent elevator. “Without me?” Darla said.
“Just for a few minutes. Just so doesn’t think I’m trying to horn in on his legal practice.”
“I’ve already told him you had the final word.”
Just super, Sharon thought. Verdon might already have a restraining order prepared, to serve on this smartass Texas female. “I want to be on good terms with this guy,” Sharon said, “and need to tell him in private exactly where I’m coming from.”
Darla’s mouth curved petulantly. “Well, what am I going to do while you accomplish this?”
Sharon paused. Dealing with Darla was a lot like dealing with Melanie. What can I play with while you’re trying some nasty old murder case, Mom? With Melanie the answer was to purchase more video games. Sharon wondered if Darla would be interested in a quick round of Sonic the Hedgehog, or possibly some comic books to read as she sat in the waiting room. Sharon had an idea. “Why don’t you get a hold of Rob?” she asked.
Darla frowned. “Rob Stanley?”
“Sure. It was so right on the way you handled Melanie last night, I thought we could talk to Rob about showing his daughter around. You remember, you promised you’d call him?”
Darla examined her nails. She stepped determinedly into the elevator with Sharon on her heels and Gray and Yadaka bringing up the rear. “Damn right I did,” Darla said. “No way is he going to get away with ignoring his own child. No way.” She reached over and patted Sharon on the shoulder. “I’ll be glad to handle it for you, Sharon. Just think. What would you do without me?”
Sharon built a strong dislike for Chet Verdon at her first glimpse of the guy. As they exited the elevator on the skyscraper’s twenty-third floor, the corridor was jammed with media people. Yadaka led the way over foam-padded carpet in a replay of last night’s airport scene, reporters firing questions and minicams humming. Sharon was stunned. She’d known that Verdon had arranged a press conference, but she’d expected something more orderly. It’s a zoo out here, Gray had told her. Definitely a freak show, Sharon thought, the people watching the animals and vice versa.
They approached a set of clear glass partitions, with gilt letters spelling out VERDON & RUMINEK, P.C., ATTORNEYS AND COUNSELORS AT LAW. Beyond the partitions was a huge semicircular reception desk, and behind the desk sat an I’m-gorgeous starlet type who was pressing buttons and routing calls. As Sharon followed Yadaka down the hall, a man hurried through the reception area and out into the corridor.
Hollywood Harry to a T, Sharon thought. The guy
was an inch or two over six feet tall, with thick razored hair graying just so around his temples, and he sported a golf course tan. He wore a pale gray silk suit and matching tie, showing a full six inches of snow white cuff at either wrist. His cuff links were silver with inset diamonds. His teeth were perfect, obviously capped, and his muscular neck and broad shoulders indicated that he spent a lot of time in the weight room. Sharon’s hackles stirred in reflex.
“Darla, love,” the man said, elbowing past the Oriental, practically running Sharon over as she scrambled to get out of his way, taking Darla’s hands and giving her a peck, first on one cheek and then the other. “So glad you could. So glad you could.” He backpedaled now, sending Sharon up against the wall among the reporters as he hauled Darla back toward his office. Darla moved docilely-along, eyes wide. “Hi, Chet,” she timidly said. Gray and Yadaka exchanged a look as they followed. Sharon blew upward through her bangs as she trudged along behind.
Verdon paused in his office entry and turned to the media. “Give us a second, guys,” he said. “Hey, appreciate your cooperation. I’ll let you know when it’s all right to come in.”
Darla pulled away and steered Sharon forward by the elbow. “Chet, this is Sharon Hays, my friend from Dallas. She’s a lawyer, too.”
Verdon’s mouth curved in a humorless smile. He extended his hand. “Yes, I know. Nice to meet you, Cheryl.”
Sharon forced a smile of her own. Verdon’s skin was smooth and dry. “Sharon,” she said.
“Sharon,” he repeated disinterestedly, then raised a hand to the reporters. “Be just a minute. We’ll let you know.” He led Darla into the reception area, letting the door swing closed in Sharon’s face. She pushed through with her shoulder with Gray and Yadaka on her heels. The Englishman and the Oriental sat on a plush leather sofa and picked up magazines.
“Let’s go back,” Verdon said, extending his arm toward the interior of the office. “We should go over a few things.”
Darla seemed hesitant, obviously scared to death of this guy. Major star or whatever, Darla was basically a timid person. L.A. would be crawling with people who knew how to take advantage of people’s fear, which was how stars became puppets and the puppeteers bought houses in the South of France. Darla needed someone to stand up for her when Verdon decided to push her around. She showed Sharon a help-me look. Sharon imperceptibly nodded her head.
“First I have to make a call,” Darla said, then added emphasis to her tone before saying, “In private.”
Verdon’s look at Darla was patronizing. “Couldn’t it wait? We have all these people.” He gestured toward the media folk, who had their noses pressed to the glass from out in the hall.
“Well. I’m not …” Darla looked fearfully in Sharon’s direction.
Well, so much for staying out of Verdon’s way, Sharon thought. She stepped forward. “It’s my fault. A favor Darla’s doing for me, and I’m afraid we’re on a deadline.”
“Oh?” Verdon looked at Darla.
“We are, Chet,” Darla said timidly. “If you could just …”
Verdon had the look of a man who’d just been dancing with his prospective lay for the evening, only to have a rival cut in. “Down the hall, Darla,” he said with no enthusiasm. “You know where it is, the little anteroom down there.” Then, as Darla hustled down the corridor like someone with a stay of execution, Verdon called after her, “Make it quick, can you? We’ve really got a lot to…” He turned a glare on Sharon.
She smiled sweetly. “While she’s doing that, maybe we could visit.”
“Right,” he said. “Maybe we could.” He held the door for her. “After you, Cheryl.”
Sharon started down the carpeted hallway. “Sharon,” she said.
Sharon wondered if Russell Black’s entire suite of offices was as large as Verdon’s private lair. Verdon had room for a wet bar on which sat liters of Cutty, Jack Daniel’s, and Tanqueray, and on whose sink rested a syrup gun with buttons marked Coke, Sprite, soda, and Quinine. In one comer sat an Exercycle. Visible through a picture window was the elevated portion of the Hollywood Freeway with San Gabriel peaks towering on the horizon. A leather sofa and matching armchairs were set up around a glass-topped coffee table. On the table was a Mr. Coffee with its pot full of dark brown liquid, and an espresso machine. Beside the sofa was a cabinet holding bags of Starbuck’s, marked Espresso, Mocha, and Cocoa, and a can of Redi-Whip. Verdon’s handball courtsized desk sat before a second picture window. His visitors chairs were velour, and in one of them sat a man. The man had pinched features and a hooked nose, and wore a yellow blazer. He was on the phone, the cord stretched out across Verdon’s desk.
The man was saying, “Well, get ‘em, we got no time to waste on this. Tell them this isn’t an auction yet, emphasis on the ‘yet,’ because of our prior good relations and all that bullshit, and that we’ll give them until four o’clock, which we wouldn’t do for just anybody. I am tired of fucking with these people.” He hung up and turned to Verdon. “Bastards are being ridiculous.” He then looked Sharon over with piercing black eyes. “Who’s this?” he said.
“Sharon, is it?” Verdon said tonelessly. Sharon nodded. Verdon turned to the stranger, “Sharon Hays, Darla’s friend from Dallas. Meet Aaron Levy.” He acted as if she should have heard of the guy.
She hadn’t. She nodded in greeting. “Mr. Levy.” “Yeah, sit over here.” Levy moved to one of the chairs at the coffee table. Sharon sat at one end of the couch, folding her arms in puzzlement as Verdon perched on the front edge of another of the chairs.
Levy watched Sharon over the top of the coffee maker and espresso machine. “Coffee or something?”
“No, thanks,” Sharon said, turning to Verdon. “I just wanted to explain to you, I have no legal status in this.”
“I checked the California Bar Register,” Verdon said. “You spell your name with an e between the y and the s?”
Sharon hooked one arm over the back of her chair. “I’m not licensed to practice law here.”
“Oh? A word to the wise, then. California is tough on outsiders doing business.”
Sharon blinked. “I’m not doing business, Mr. Verdon. Darla’s a personal friend of mine and asked for my advice.”
“That’s the point. You need to be admitted for that.”
“Not legal advice,” Sharon said. “Personal advice.”
Verdon examined his manicure. “Sounds like a pretty fine line to me. I’d have to check with—”
“Chet.” Levy spoke up, tossing a bag of mocha from hand to hand. “Stop being a hardass. Thing we’re trying to understand here, Sharon, exactly what you’re angling for.”
Sharon folded her hands in her lap. “And you are…?”
“Oh. Excuse me. I represent Darla.”
“I’m sorry, but I thought Mr. Verdon was Darla’s lawyer.”
“I’m her agent,” Levy said. “Chet and I work together on a few things. He’s the lawyer for several of my people.”
Which explains where Verdon gets his entertainment referrals, Sharon thought. “I see.” She turned to Verdon. “I’m well aware of the Bar Association rules, sir. That’s why I told Darla I couldn’t be her lawyer in California without co-counsel. Actually, my licensing requirement is only one of the reasons. Another is, Darla and I are so close I’d lose my objectivity. I don’t suppose that applies to agents.”
Levy pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “I’m close to all my clients, Sharon.” He unfolded the page. “So Darla wants you, as far as I’m concerned you’re in.” He studied a row of figures. “Problem is, we don’t have as much of a pie here as people think.”
Sharon bit the inside of her lower lip. “I beg your pardon?”
Verdon sat forward and touched his fingertips together. “I can attest that Aaron’s right. Used to be you could depend on the book people for a little taste. That market�
�s pretty well dried up, but everyone’s still thinking O.J. O.J. was a deal unto itself.”
“Not that this couldn’t be a second O.J.,” Levy said,
“With the right parameters. You have to wait and see.”
“Right,” Verdon said. “But as for now, considering
the bird in the hand; I’ve got two book people calling, but they’re not offering. Both of them say if they’re not first on the shelf, there may not even be a book, plus there’s not enough advance to split. I’m having some New York contacts get a feel for the advance they’re getting, but it’s likely they’re telling the truth. In this day and age book money’s not generally a consideration.”
Sharon scooted her rump forward and crossed her legs. “Oh?”
“And the TV movie interest,” Levy cut in, “is at this point minimal. If they bust somebody and damned soon, we might have something, but it’s got to be quick enough so’s they could shoot and be ready for the air during sweeps. And a television deal, we could have still another finger in the pie.”
Sharon had been nervous when first she’d come in, but now was calm and collected. “Whose finger is that?”
“Poor dead David had his own agent, Curtis Nussbaum.”
“Yes, I know,” Sharon said.
“Oh?” Levy’s eyes widened. “You know Nuss the Cuss?”
“I’ve met him. Talked to him on the phone. He represents another actor I know, Rob Stanley.”
Levy snapped his fingers. “That’s right, you’re…”
Sharon looked away.
“No sweat, I’m not into getting personal,” Levy said, “but in a TV movie we got Nussbaum to deal with. Hey, I’m not a hundred percent certain the guy would be technically entitled. I mean, who’s going to pay a dead person, right? But this is a small community out here. I don’t cut him in, I can have future problems.”
“I see,” Sharon said.
“A good part is, don’t worry about any TV movie people shafting us. They’re doing that a lot, claiming a story’s public domain and going ahead without paying for no rights from anybody, but they know better than to fuck with Aaron C. Levy in such a manner. Am I right, Chet, or am I right?”