by A. W. Gray
23
Sharon found a vacant office in the building, borrowed an unoccupied word processor, and prepared a couple of legal papers. She worked with one eye on the door, rehearsing her response should anyone come in and question what she was doing.
She finshed her task in ten minutes, signed her applications, and then hustled back upstairs to Judge Rudin’s court. Rudin had left, but his clerk was at her desk, working away. She was a woman in her forties who, considering the mountains of files stacked on all sides of her as her boss goofed off for the afternoon, exhibited a cheerful attitude which was nothing short of amazing. Sharon presented her applications. The clerk read the papers over, then looked up with one eyebrow raised inquisitively. “You’ll have to get private service on these,” she said. “It’s too late in the day for our warrant officer to—”
“I plan to serve them myself,” Sharon said, smiling in appreciation. “If you could just certify them for me.”
The clerk nodded, placed a couple of official-looking stamps on the documents, and then added her initials with a pen. Sharon thanked the woman, then stuffed the papers into her briefcase. She hurried to the elevators, rode to the ground floor, and left the building. Aaron Levy was waiting for her.
She would say this for the agent, he gave the impression of a man on the move. Levy paced back and forth on the courthouse steps, checking his watch over and over, his pinched features set in impatience. He wore a checkered houndstooth coat and didn’t bother with formalities. As Sharon walked up, he said, “I’m double-parked. I can get a ticket here.” He pointed to where a white four-door Chrysler sat near the curb, motor running, then headed down the steps at a near jog.
Sharon stood dumbstruck and watched him go. Then she shrugged, hefted her satchel, hiked up her shoulder bag, murmured, “Hello, Mr. Levy. How are you?” and fell in rapid step behind him.
The drive out the Hollywood Freeway was the weirdest trip in Sharon’s memory. She believed in business before pleasure, but Aaron Levy took the impersonal approach to levels which Sharon had never before imagined. My God, she thought, the man is Darla’s agent. You’d think at least he’d ask about her.
Levy drove with both hands on the wheel in stopand-go traffic, sending his passenger lurching forward every time he threw on the brakes. Sharon sat as upright as possible, clutching her satchel to her chest and holding onto the door for dear life. As they passed the Normandie Avenue exit, Levy said, “If you’re going to interest these people, you’re going to have to play up the sexual angle.”
Sharon listed to the left as Levy whipped around a vegetable truck, and laid on his horn with an earsplitting blare. “I don’t know that there is any sexual angle,” she said.
“Well, there you may have to improvise.” Levy waved one hand around, then wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel. “Works this way, for which you need some experience to understand. No way is anyone going to put a film in theaters rehashing what everybody in the country has already seen on television. You got to have a different angle. If you know, maybe, who David Spencer was shtupping which might have caused Darla Cowan to kill him, you got maybe a ghost of a chance. I think you’re wasting time regardless of what angle you got. But if it takes this for you to see the light and talk literary contracts, it takes it. Some people, you have to let see for themselves.”
Sharon carefully set her satchel on the floorboard. “I’m not presenting any angle, sexual or otherwise, to the effect that Darla committed the crime, Mr. Levy. Because she didn’t.”
“Yeah, well. I’m just what-if-ing here.”
“Someone’s interested in something. At least Marissa Cudmore’s agreed to talk to me.”
“Ah. That means nothing in this business. That means that Marissa Cudmore can say at the cocktail party, she talked over a deal with Sharon Hays, Darla Cowan’s lawyer, who everybody’s seen on television. She can wave her drink around and say”—here Levy changed to a mimicking falsetto—“‘I just couldn’t get excited’ or, ‘It just wasn’t for us,’ which are both bullshit nebulous terms meaning she’d have her ass in a sling with the people upstairs if she tried to produce such a picture. The deals she turns down are as much to talk about as the ones she does. Either way gets her noticed. No way is this meeting going to amount to anything.”
It’s going to amount to more than you expect, Sharon thought. She measured her words carefully before saying, “You know Curtis Nussbaum was in court today, don’t you?”
Levy took his gaze off the road and glared at her.
“That kind of talk will get you nowhere with Aaron C. Levy. Nussbaum can do nothing I can’t, You want to talk to him, feel free.”
“Look out,” Sharon said breathlessly. Then, as Levy jammed on the brakes and stopped no more than six inches from a Porsche’s rear bumper, she said, “No, he was testifying. That’s all I was saying. Other than cross-examining the man, I didn’t say a word to him.”
“Better for you you didn’t.” Levy’s tone showed total lack of curiosity as to what Nussbaum might’ve said from the witness stand. “That’s not a smart thing for an agent to do, testifying in court. Depending on which side you’re taking, might get you in the middle between a studio and an actor. Lose your stroke in both places.”
“What’s your overall take on Curtis Nussbaum as an agent, Mr. Levy?”
Levy vigorously shook his head. “You don’t get Aaron C. Levy to bad-mouth nobody in the business. Curtis Nussbaum has been around a lot of years.”
“Which means you’d know a lot about him.” Sharon gentled her tone. “A man who has his finger on the pulse as much as you.”
Levy seemed to think that one over. He steered the Chrysler to the right, into the exit approach lane. “Curtis Nussbaum’s got some good clients,” Levy said. “Let’s just say, he takes risks that the rest of us wouldn’t talk about. Beyond those words, you’re getting me to say nothing bad about the man.”
Visiting a movie lot was one of Sharon’s fantasies, another hangover from her actress days, so her interest perked up when Levy, talking business and filling her in, gave her the rundown on Mammoth Pictures as they neared the studio. Mammoth was one of the biggies, Levy said, with a reputation somewhere between Universal—which offered liberal benefits and vacation policies—and Disney, which was known in the biz as Moushwitz or Duckau, depending on who you talked to. Mammoth was easier on its actors and writers than Disney, but was a lot more conservative profit-wise, which meant, according to Levy, that they wouldn’t be interested in a movie about a murder case which hadn’t even been to trial Dustin Hoffman, John Travolta, bankable stars, were all that Mammoth would talk about, betting on projects reasonably sure to score big, first box office weekend. Levy cruised up to the studio gate at five o’clock. As the guard used the phone to check Levy’s entry credentials Sharon peered through the gate into the grounds. God, the Mammoth lot was a freaking beehive.
Low-slung buildings and house trailers stood on both sides of a path as far as she could see, and barely visible in the distance were scaled-down replicas of the White House and Treasury Building exactly as they appeared in Washington. Abutting the White House was a big-city tenement neighborhood, and farther to the right towered a snow-capped peak. As Sharon watched, an Indian in full headdress talking on a cell phone wandered by, and a man tugged a wheeled cage along as a tiger snarled and paced inside. There were cops in uniform buddying around with muscular Tarzan types clad in loincloths. The guard hung up the phone, came to the window, and waved Levy’s Chrysler through.
Levy drove past a row of one-story buildings, dressing rooms with glitzy stars on the doors, and parked in front of a trailer house. On the roof was a sign reading, CUDMORE PROD. He got out without a word, stepped up onto a porch, and went through a wooden door. Sharon waited a moment, unsure of herself, then lugged her satchel out of the car and followed the agent in.
She was in a l
ow-ceilinged, paneled reception area which contained one wooden desk, a water cooler, and a table piled high with movie scripts. The scripts all looked identical, plain white typing paper with a single brad at the top to hold the pages together, and a pasteboard cover bearing an agent’s name. Behind the desk sat a longish-haired, smooth-cheeked man in his twenties, reading a screenplay with his feet propped up. He wore jeans, an oversized tee, and sandals without socks. He tossed the script aside, mumbled, “Piece of shit,” got up, and pulled another script off the pile. He paused between the table and his desk, and offered Levy a bored impersonal stare.
Levy said. “Yeah. Aaron Levy for Marissa. I got Sharon Hays with me.”
The youngster looked Sharon over head to toe. His expression brightened in recognition. “Sure, Darla Cowan trial, right?” His manner and tone of voice were slightly effeminate.
Sharon shifted her weight and let her satchel dangle by her hip. “Hearing. It’s a hearing.”
“Whatever. Marissa’s expecting you, but she’s on the phone. Wait here, I’ll signal her.” He walked to the back, opened a door, and stuck his head in around the jamb.
Levy took a step closer to Sharon. He smelled of tangy aftershave. “We wanna get in and out as fast as we can,” he said in a low tone. “This woman’s a time waster. No way is she interested in this. You just listen to her bullshit and then we’ll leave. East Coast is three hours ahead of us, I can still call New York and talk book deal today. You with me?”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Sharon said.
The youngster returned and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Be a minute,” he said. “She’s still talking.” Then he sat, picked up a script, and began to read.
Sharon glanced at the young man’s desk; his phone had three line buttons, none of which were lit. Levy followed her gaze, folded his arms, and leaned against the desk. “They’re always on the phone,” he said, “even if they’re not. They’re going to tell you they’re busy even if they’re back there looking out the window. Part of it. Nobody’s that busy.” He jammed his hands into his pockets as a woman literally flew from the office into the reception area.
She came on like a miniature whirlwind, a trim brunette with sunglasses perched on top of her head, wearing molded jeans, six-inch platform shoes, and a filmy pink scarf around her neck. “Aaron! Is it you? Is it really you?” She took both of Levy’s hands and touched her cheek against his, then turned wide-eyed to Sharon and looked her up and down. “You’ve brought her. You’ve really brought her. You’re taller than you look on TV, dear.”
Sharon allowed the woman to go through her cheeks-touching routine, smelling face makeup and noting up close that Marissa Cudmore was older than she would appear at a distance. A whole lot older, in fact; the woman’s voice plus the lines around her eyes placed her around fifty, even though she was dressed like a college girl. Sharon said simply, “How are you, Ms. Cudmore? Darla sends her regards.”
“She does? She does? That she’d think of me at a time like this …”She looked at Levy, at Sharon, and back at the agent again. “Shall we?” She extended a hand and ushered her visitors into an office half the size of the reception area. The room contained one junior executive desk, a bank of files, a pile of scripts on a table, a smaller stack than the one outside. Sharon supposed that the assistant weeded out the bad stuff, giving Marissa Cudmore only the surefire hits. All of Cudmore’s scripts had notes stapled to the front. “Sit,” Marissa Cudmore said. “Sit at once and give me the news.”
Sharon didn’t have any news and remained silent. Aaron Levy said nothing. After a ten-second pause, Sharon reached for her satchel and said, “Actually, I’m here to—”
“Don’t speak.” Marissa Cudmore held up a hand, palm out. “Don’t … speak.”
Sharon pulled out her legal papers and held them in her lap.
“Aaron, did you hear?” Cudmore said. “Steven and Jeffrey are talking about splitting the blankets. Those two wills, those egos.”
Levy’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re kidding. Didn’t take long.”
“I got it from a casting director over there. They’ve had these screaming fights.” Cudmore leaned forward and conspiratorially lowered her voice. “Word is, it’s over a woman.”
“Yeah?” Levy said. “Who?”
Cudmore scrunched her eyelids together. “I’m not at liberty.” She grinned at Sharon. “Your timing is perfect.”
Sharon waved the papers. “Listen, I’ve got a—”
“Never the more perfect moment,” Cudmore said.
“Did Aaron tell you, your kind of thing, it’s something we normally wouldn’t consider?”
Sharon watched the woman in astonishment. “He mentioned it,” she said.
“Until now. You’re a wonder, Aaron. How did you know?”
Levy lifted his leg and rested his ankle on his knee.
“I was telling Sharon on the drive over, knowing these things, it’s an agent’s job.”
Sharon looked at Levy and wondered if she’d missed something he’d said on the drive out. Nope, she’d listened pretty carefully.
“It’s true,” Cudmore said, her chin moving up and down in a rapid nod. “She called. She actually called.”
Sharon pinched her chin and didn’t say anything, trying her best to appear really in and with-it.
“Aaron.” Cudmore’s tone was mockingly reproachful. “You didn’t tell her?”
Levy expansively waved a hand. “I thought you’d want to.”
“Weh-ell.” Cudmore looked past Sharon. “Is the door closed?” she said.
Sharon twisted her head around. The door, obviously, was closed. She looked back at Marissa Cudmore. Cudmore leaned over until her chin practically touched her desktop. Her eyes dancing, she said in a stage whisper, “Michelle.”
Levy reached out to squeeze Sharon’s upper arm. “See,” the agent said. “What’d I tell you?”
You told me that these people wouldn’t be interested, Sharon thought. No way, you said.
“Mi-chelle.” Cudmore sounded like a woman in the throes of orgasm. “That she wants to play you. It’s really”—she punched the air with her fist—“high concept. The highest.”
Sharon looked back and forth between the agent and the producer, both of them really into it now, getting their cookies over Michelle having called. Michelle fucking who? Sharon thought. Pfeiffer? Lee? Hartman? Jesus, there were a thousand Michelles.
Sharon decided to break up the silliness before she got caught up in all the hoopla. She firmly gripped her legal papers. “I’ve got to tell the truth. I came here with something else in mind.”
“I’m a step ahead of you,” Cudmore said. “I know you’ve had acting. But playing one’s self? It’s been done before, but with Michelle waiting in the wings?” Sharon expelled a sigh. “Look, my pretenses for being here are a bit false, that I’ll confess. But there’s something I have to ask you about.”
Cudmore showed just the slightest hesitation. “Anything. But keeping Michelle waiting for an answer, that’s not—”
“Dead On,” Sharon said. “I want to ask you about Dead On.”
It was as if a cloud had covered the sun. Cudmore’s features rearranged like Play-Doh, dissolving from starry-eyed rapture to seething hatred in an instant. She glared at Levy. “Aaron. You brought this woman here?” The words came out in an eardrum-shattering wail. “To utter that name, to say those words? Those words are not to be spoken in my presence. And you know that. How could you?”
Levy said, “What’s Dead On?” Cudmore pressed her wrist against her forehead.
“You did it. You said those words again.”
God, Sharon thought, compared to this woman, Darla Cowan is Sane Jane from Saginaw. “Hey,” she said, “I didn’t want to upset you. But it’s critical for Darla to—”
“Out.” Cudmore pointed
at the exit with a long red nail. “Out at once. I am accommodating Aaron by having you here, and you …”
“I toldja they wouldn’t be interested,” Levy said.
“Oh?” Sharon said. “What happened to Michelle calling?” She straightened her posture. “Interested or not, you’re going to talk about it. The D-word and the O-word, as in Dead On. I have to know the whole story, from who did what to cancellation of the project. Why Darla was supposed to play the romantic interest, yet never got to read the book, down to what happened when David Spencer backed out on the picture.”
“Oh. That deal.” Levy put his elbow on his armrest and massaged his forehead. “Marissa don’t like to talk about that deal.”
Marissa Cudmore glared in hatred, and for just an instant Sharon thought the woman might hurl a paperweight. “Obviously,” Sharon said.
Cudmore stood. She walked to the door. “Nice to see you, Aaron,” she said stiffly.
So it’s come to that, Sharon thought. She hefted the subpoena she’d prepared at the Criminal Courts Building and handed the paper to Cudmore without saying a word. Cudmore read slowly through dully glazed eyes.
“I hate to do this,” Sharon said. “But I’d hate for Darla to go to prison over something she didn’t do even more. It’s official, Ms. Cudmore, it’s a subpoena. If you’re not in court in the morning, deputy sheriffs will come after you. They are one group that even the guards at your gate won’t be able to stop.”
Cudmore returned to her desk and flopped into her seat. Levy fished in his pocket for a toothpick, which he dangled from one corner of his mouth. He didn’t look upset, more like a man resigned, watching dollar bills sprouting wings, flying away …
Cudmore clenched her teeth. “That goddamned Harlon Swain.”
“The very guy I’m going to ask you about on the witness stand,” Sharon said. She pointed at the subpoena. “You can avoid this, Ms. Cudmore. Would you like to?”