Agent to the Stars

by John Scalzi

  “We do,” he said.

  “Gee,” I said. “That was fast. Michelle hasn’t been in a coma a whole day yet.”

  Brad flushed at that one. “I told you, we’re under some time pressure here,” he said.

  “You did,” I agreed. “Who is it?”

  “Charlene Mayfield,” Brad said. “You’ve heard of her?”

  I had, barely. Charlene was a clone of Michelle, which is not saying all that much, as blonde, perky types are fairly endemic in these here parts. Charlene played a waitress on one of those sitcoms that act as sacrificial offerings against other networks’ far more popular shows and are thus canceled after six or thirteen episodes; if you weren’t actually in the business, you’d probably have no idea who she is.

  “She’s going to be great,” Brad said. “I think she’ll be able to step right into the part. Not that she could ever truly replace Michelle, of course,” he added hastily.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “So,” Brad said. “Are there any problems? You understand where we’re coming from?”

  “No, I have no problems,” I said. “You’re on a tight schedule, I understand.”

  Brad smiled. “That’s really great to hear, Tom. I knew you would understand.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “There is one other issue,” Brad said.

  “Shoot,” I said.

  “It’s about Michelle’s salary.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, seeing as Michelle is no longer on the film, there’s some question about salary disbursement,” Brad said.

  “What question?” I said. “You already mailed me the check. I’ve already handed it over to our accountants to be processed. It’s been disbursed, so I don’t see how there could be a question about it.”

  “Well, that’s just it,” Brad said, uncomfortably. “I think you can see what I’m getting at here.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” I said. “You’d better spell it out for me, Brad.”

  He squirmed. It was fun to watch.

  “Look,” he said. “We’d like you to return the salary.”

  “Oh, is that all?” I said. “Heck. That’s easy. The answer is no.”

  “What?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “What part of that two-letter word don’t you understand, Brad?” I asked. “Was it the vowel that threw you, or the consonant ?”

  “God damn it, Tom,” Brad said. “This isn’t a joke. You can’t just expect us to walk away from $12 million.”

  “I can,” I said. “I do. You hired Michelle for a job. Now, through no fault of her own, you have decided you want someone else in the role. I’m fine with that. But inasmuch as Michelle did nothing to warrant her dismissal, I don’t see how you could begrudge her her salary as severance pay.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Brad said. “The girl’s in a fucking coma!”

  “Yes, she is,” I said. “One that was brought about by the negligence of one of your crew members.”

  “That’s not true,” Brad said. “That woman worked for Featured Creatures.”

  “Which worked for you,” I said. “You hired them, Brad. The legal line of responsibility goes right back to you.”

  “I think that could be argued,” Brad said.

  “You could try,” I said. “It’ll take you about two years to get a court date. In the meantime, I’m sure our legal department could probably hold up the start of your production a couple of weeks. Maybe a month, if we have to.”

  “You’re a real son of a bitch,” Brad said.

  “Hey,” I said. “I’m not the one trying to screw someone in a coma.”

  Brad decided to try another tactic. “Tom, look. It’s not a matter of me not wanting to do right by Michelle. You know I want to.”

  “That’s good to hear, Brad,” I said.

  “But now we’re paying two actresses for the same part. We have to have some economies of scale going on here.”

  “So you’re paying Charlene Mayfield $12 million?” I asked.

  “Well, of course not that much,” Brad said. “But we’re paying her quite a bit.”

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Well, I can’t really discuss it,” Brad said.

  “Hmmm.” I said. I buzzed Miranda. “Miranda, how much is Charlene Mayfield getting for Earth Resurrected?” I asked.

  “Two hundred seventy-five thousand dollars,” Miranda said. “According to her agent, who I just called.”

  “Really,” I said. “Do we know if she’s making any gross points?”

  “Of course she isn’t,” Miranda said. “Although she’s apparently getting a point on the net.”

  Net points are a promise of the percentage of profits the film makes, should it ever make it into the black; as opposed to gross points, which are a straight percentage of the film’s haul at the box office. Since studio bookkeeping is such that even a film that makes a quarter of a billion dollars in domestic box office can run deeply into the red, net points are rarely if ever given—they’re what you’re given if you’re gullible, stupid, or the screenwriter.

  “A whole point on the net,” I said, looking directly at Brad.

  “That’s right,” Miranda said. “That’ll be worth at least a case or two of Fresca.” I thanked her and signed her off.

  “Wow, Brad, $275 thousand,” I said. “Aren’t you the generous one. That’s nearly as much as you’re going to pay for your second-unit catering. Good thing I had Miranda listen in on the conversation and double-check that salary for us.”

  “That was a dirty trick,” Brad said.

  “It’s not dirty, it’s called looking out for my client’s well-being.”

  “Is it about your percentage?” Brad said. “Because if it is, I’m willing to deal. What if I said you could keep your ten percent, clear? No questions.”

  I rubbed my forehead. It was barely 1:30, and I was tired already.

  “Look, Brad,” I said. “What say we cut the shit, because I’m having a really bad day, and you’re not making it any better.”

  Brad blinked. “All right.”

  “Good,” I said. “The fact of the matter is, you’re not getting the twelve million back. The way I figure it, since you are the one who indirectly put her into the coma, it’s the very least you can do. It’s possible that if we took it to court, you might get that money back. But in the meantime you will have tanked your entire movie production. What is it budgeted at? Eighty million? Ninety million?”

  “Eighty-three million, counting salaries.” Brad just about spat the word salaries.

  “Eighty-three million against twelve million is a bad bet any day, Brad. And that’s not counting the money you’re going to throw down the lawyer hole. Our lawyers are on staff. We don’t pay them any extra. And, of course, we’re not even talking about the countersuits we’ll throw back at you for negligence and violation of contract. Not to mention the other suits that will be filed against you by the studio and your other investors if you close down production. Make no mistake, Brad, you’re going to get fucked. You won’t be able to sit for a year.”

  Brad bristled, which is exactly what I wanted him to do. I’d gotten into the sensitive area where males feel threatened and will make stupid, macho statements just so they’ll feel their balls are still attached. I was hoping that Brad would grope for his testicles.

  Sure enough, he did. “Don’t you threaten me, you little asshole,” Brad said. “If you want a court fight, I’ll give it to you. You’ll spend so much time giving depositions you’ll forget what the sun looks like. Don’t think I don’t have what it takes to win this.”

  “I don’t doubt that you’d try, Brad. But let me scope out a scenario for you. You go to court to snatch money away from an actor who your own negligence has managed to put in a coma. You tank the film you’re working on to do it. Let’s say that somehow you manage to win. Fine. You get your twelve million back, and you go back t
o your offices to get ready to do another movie … and no one will work with you.”

  Brad’s eyebrows knitted. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean no one will ever work with you again. Actors won’t want to work with you, because you’ve given the clear signal that you don’t give a shit about them. Agents won’t want to work with you, because they’ll never be sure you won’t try to dick their clients around. Studios won’t want to work with you because you’ll have made it clear that you value your pride over their money. Which is not an attitude they want to know about. You will never work in this town again. Never.”

  Brad looked like he’d been kicked in the balls. Which, in a way, he had. “You don’t know that for sure,” he said.

  I leaned forward in my chair, over my desk, close to Brad’s ear. “Try me,” I whispered.

  I sat back. Brad sat there, stunned, for a good minute. Then he got up, spun out of his chair, stalked around the office a couple of times, sat back down, and started gnawing on his thumb.

  “Fuck!” he finally said.

  It was over. I won.

  Now was the time to get him back to our side. “Brad,” I said. “You don’t want to have the money back. You think you do right now because you’re cheap and you’re in a panic. But it’s penny wise and pound foolish. In the long run, you’re going to look good by letting Michelle keep it.”

  Brad smirked. “Somehow I doubt that,” he said.

  “Such little faith,” I said. “Try this one on: today, as you may or may not know, I was casually accused of setting up my client for her accident.”

  “I watched that in the office, right before I called,” Brad said. “What an asshole.”

  “You have no idea,” I said. “What if we say that I set up this meeting in a panic, and begged you to take the twelve million back? That way, from my point of view, any suspicion would be off of me, because I’d have no financial reason to off my client.”

  Brad looked at me strangely. “This benefits you, but I’m waiting to see how it benefits me.”

  “It benefits you, Brad, because you angrily refuse to accept the money back. How dare I assume that just because Michelle is in a coma, that’d you’d snatch the money back. We can say that in addition to refusing the money, you demanded that if Michelle didn’t recover, that I donate the money to brain trauma research. Say, fund a professorship at UCLA Medical School or some such.”

  “What were you going to do with the money, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  I gestured to the heavens with my hands. “Damn it, Brad. I don’t know that she left me her money. Even if she did, I sure as hell don’t want it. If it got given to me, that’s probably what I’d do with it. Yes, that’s what I would do. But my point here is—this idea came from you. You look good because you took a stand for Michelle.”

  “And you throw the scent off of yourself.”

  “There is that added benefit, yes.”

  Brad thought about it. “And you’ll say that this is what happened?”

  “No, Brad,” I said. “This is what happened. At least, as I remember it.”

  Brad smiled, even though I’m sure it hurt to do it. “You sure are a piece of work, Tom. All right, keep the twelve.”

  “And her gross points.”

  “Oh, come on, Tom,” Brad said. “Stop with the kicking.”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll drop our twelve gross points if you give Charlene Mayfield six.”

  “What do you care?” Brad said. “She’s not even your client.”

  “Brad, you moron,” I said. “They’re not from me. They’re from you. Remember the concept: Make Brad Look Good.”

  “Oh. All right.”

  “Great,” I said, leaned back and closed my eyes. I was getting a headache. When I opened them again, Brad was still sitting there, looking pensive.

  “Something on your mind, Brad?” I asked.

  “Hmmm? No, just thinking about the accident. It’s a terrible thing, you know.”

  “I know,” I said. “We’ve been through this.”

  “No, I know,” Brad said. “I was just thinking about why we were having the mask made in the first place.”

  “You were going to have her head explode, or something, I thought,” I said.

  “Well, not really that,” Brad said. “It’s for this scene in the film where the alien overlord is trying to get control of Michelle’s body—we were going to have the overlord stick his tentacles in her mouth and ears as a way to get to her brain. Really disgusting, of course—eyeballs popping and mouth really huge and all that. Obviously we couldn’t do any of those effects with Michelle’s real face.”

  “Glad that you recognize that, Brad.”

  “We could have used digital effects, but those things are expensive if you want them to look good,” he said, apparently oblivious to the fact that his latex mask had, in fact, just cost him $12 million. He grinned suddenly, a rueful grin. “You know, I could have used that alien overlord right about now.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “Oh, nothing,” Brad said, waving me off. “I was just free-associating. If our alien overlord was real, then it wouldn’t matter if Michelle was in a coma or not. He’d just suck her brain out, plop himself in, and do the part himself. No one would know any better. Michelle’s not exactly Meryl Streep. Would have saved me money, anyway.”

  Brad caught a look at my face. “Jesus, Tom,” he said. “I’m sorry. That was probably not the nicest thing I could have said right about now. Sorry if I just upset you. You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I’m sorry, Brad. I just had a thought myself.”

  CHAPTER Sixteen

  The door to the third floor of Pomona Valley Hospital opened, and I was confronted by the face of Officer Bob Ramos.

  “Hi, Mr. Stein,” he said.

  “Hi, Bob,” I said.

  “Nice dog you have there,” Officer Ramos said.

  Joshua did his best stupid dog grin.

  “Not my dog, it’s Michelle’s,” I said. “I thought he might help bring her out of it. You know.”

  “Sure,” Ramos said. “I guess we can pretty safely say you don’t want Dr. Adams to know about it, right?”

  “Right,” I agreed. “I’m not visiting at two in the morning just because I’m not sleepy.”

  “Got it,” Ramos said.

  “By the way,” I said. “I’ve got something for you.” I pulled out a CD that I’d been carrying under my arm.

  Ramos took it. “What is this?”

  “You mentioned that your daughter was a fan of Tea Reader’s,” I said. “So I thought she might like to have an autographed copy of the CD. See, look, it’s even made out to ‘Maria.’” I didn’t tell Ramos that the CD had in fact been autographed by Miranda. The chances of Tea Reader herself doing me a favor these days were slim and fast approaching none.

  “Well, that was really nice of you to do that,” Ramos said. “My little girl is going to be thrilled right out of her socks. You’re a real stand-up guy, Mr. Stein.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “Glad to do it. Is anyone else in with Michelle?”

  “I’ve been here since midnight and no one’s come through except for the nurse,” Ramos said. “You might check with Officer Gardner. She’s over at the stairs. Been there since eleven.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I’m just going to pop in for a couple of minutes. You’ll let me know if the nurse comes by again?”

  “Sure,” Ramos said. “I’ll make a lot of noise. Give you enough time to hide the dog in the can.”

  “Thanks, Bob,” I said, and then headed down the hall with Joshua.

  The door to Michelle’s room had been left open. Inside, a cone of light illuminated Michelle, whose bed had been positioned so she was reclining rather than lying down directly. The rest of the room was dark, and the other two beds in the room, still empty, had their curtains closed around them. I closed the door
, and then went over to Michelle. She was unchanged: comatose and on a respirator. I felt a fresh wave of guilt.

  “Tom,” Joshua said. “I can’t do anything from down here.”

  “Do you want to get on the bed?” I asked.

  “No, that’d be mighty uncomfortable,” Joshua said. “Grab me one of those visitor’s chairs and put it near the head of the bed, please.”

  There was one near the bed on my side; I wheeled it around to Joshua’s side, to avoid him accidentally knocking over the IV. He asked me to turn it around so that the back faced the bed; when I had done so, he jumped up on the chair and propped himself up on the back of the chair, putting himself on a level with the bed.

  “That’ll probably be close enough,” Joshua said.

  “Are you going to be able to reach her?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Joshua said. “Ralph’s body is totally gone now, you know. It’s all me. I can make tendrils now. It still helps to be close, of course. Now I have to figure out where to enter her head—she’s got so many tubes in her. I think I’ll go through the ears. This is going to take a couple of minutes, so don’t talk to me for a few. I’m going to have to concentrate.”

  With that, Joshua made sure he was securely positioned, and closed his eyes. Then his face disappeared. His snout elongated and became the transparent goo that Yherajks were usually made of. It looked like a glass elephant trunk. The trunk waved in the air for a second, as if tasting the air, and then made its way to Michelle’s head. An inch above her face, the trunk split in two; each tendril wandered casually over to an ear, then covered it. Michelle looked like she was wearing headphones that were attached to a headless dog.

  The scene was so surreal that I lapsed into mute gawking. It took Joshua to bring me out of it.

  “Tom,” he said, “I think we have company.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Turn around.”

  I did. Miranda stood there, a book in her hands. Behind her, the curtain was pulled back from one of the vacant beds. Miranda was looking past me, at the scene of Joshua and Michelle. Her eyes were wide and black, and she had the expression you get when you’re seeing something horrifying and you hope you’re dreaming.