Agent to the Stars, John Scalzi [paper ebook reader .TXT] 📗

down. “Now,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“You can explain to me why I suddenly seem to be represented by Little Miss Hysterical over here.” Tea motioned to the far chair in the corner, where Amanda Hewson sat, crying. At the mention of her existence, Amanda let out an audible sob and lifted her feet, in an attempt to curl into a fetal position while still sitting. The chair was getting in the way.

“Amanda is a full agent here at the company,” I said. “And she’s quite good.”

“Bullshit,” Tea said. Amanda gave another sob. Tea rolled her eyes dramatically and shouted over her shoulder at Amanda. “Could you please shut the fuck up?” She said. “I’m trying to talk my real agent over here, and it’s hard enough without you crying a fucking river.”

Amanda exploded from her seat like a flock of birds flushed out of the underbrush, and attempted to flee the room. She grabbed at the door, pulled it, and whacked herself on the side of the face. I winced; that was going to leave a mark. Amanda wailed and sprinted towards her pod. Tea watched the scene and then turned back to me. She had the expression of the cat who ate the canary and then threw it up in her owner’s favorite shoes.

“Where were we?” she said.

“That wasn’t very nice,” I said, mildly.

“I’ll tell you what’s not very fucking nice, Tom,” Tea said. “It’s not nice to get back from Honolulu, where I’ve been visiting my family, and having a message from Mandy, telling me how excited she is to be working with me.” From her sinister stretch, Tea straightened up, preternaturally perky. Her voice became a dead-on ringer for Amanda’s Girl Scout-like tone. “‘I have your album! I love to listen to it while I’m exercising!’” Tea slouched again. “Great. Add that to the half that are whacking off to my picture on the cover, sister.”

“It’s actually only forty five percent,” I said.

Tea’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Forty five percent whacking off,” I said. “Your record company’s own estimate. Tea, Amanda’s working with me. She’s my assistant.”

“I thought Miss Bitch back there was your assistant,” Tea said, jerking a thumb towards Miranda’s desk. “She almost didn’t let me in to your office today. I was getting ready to smack her.”

Before getting her act together and working her way through college, Miranda spent a reasonable portion of her teen years gang-banging in East LA. One night, at a company party, Miranda showed me her collection of scars, inflicted by razors in a number of cat fights. The other girls got it worse, she said. I didn’t suspect Tea realized how close to death she had gotten this morning.

“Miranda is my administrative assistant,” I said. “Amanda is working with me with some of my clients.”

“Well, I don’t want to work with her,” Tea said.

“Why not?”

“Hello? Tom? Did you not see Miss Mandy in here today? What a fucking crybaby.”

“How did she get that way, Tea?” I asked.

“Beats me,” Tea said. “We were just sitting here, waiting for you, and I was just telling her that there was no fucking way on the planet she was going to be my agent.”

“How long were you in here before I got here?”

Tea shrugged. “A half hour, forty five minutes.”

“I see,” I said. “And you don’t think being shat on for three-quarters of an hour is a good reason to get upset.”

“Hey,” Tea sat up again and jabbed a finger at me, “You’re the one that put her in that situation. Don’t get angry at me because I went off on her a little.”

“Forty five minutes is not a little, Tea,” I said.

“What the fuck does that mean? I’m the one getting screwed here.” She slumped back, sullen.

I was getting a headache. “Tea, what do you want from me?” I asked.

“I want you to do your fucking job,” Tea said. “I’m not giving you ten percent so you can palm me off on Mandy, the Teenage Agent. I can think of about ten agents in town who’d get on their hands and knees to represent me. You’re not doing me any favors, Tom.”

“Really,” I said. “Ten agents.”

“At least.”

“Fine,” I said. “Name one.”

“What?”

“Name one,” I said. “Give me the name of one of those agents.”

“Hell, no,” Tea said. “Why should I tell you who your competition is? Stay nervous.” Tea said.

“Nervous? Hell, Tea, I want to call them up,” I said. “If they’re so gung-ho to have you, I’ll let you go. I don’t want you to be unhappy. So let’s do this thing. Let’s get it over with. Unless you’re running off at the mouth.”

That got her. “Alan Finley at ACR,” she said.

I buzzed Miranda. She came to the door. “Yes, Tom?”

“Miranda, would you call Alan Finley over at Associated Client Representation, and put him on the speaker when you get him?”

“Sure, Tom.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Oh, one other thing. After you get Alan, would you mind bringing me Tea’s file?”

“Not at all,” Miranda said. “Do you want the whole file?”

“Just the clippings, please, Miranda.”

Miranda smiled slightly and glanced at Tea. “Delighted to, Tom. Tea,” she said. Tea fairly snarled at Miranda as she closed the door.

“Fucking bitch,” Tea said. “Did you see that look she gave me?”

“I must have missed it,” I said.

Miranda’s voice clicked in over the speaker phone. “Alan Finley at ACR, Tom,” she said, and left the line.

A male voice piped up. “Tom? You there?”

“Ho, Alan,” I said. “How are things over there at ACR these days?”

“The land of milk and honey, Tom. We’re giving away Bentleys as party favors. You want one?”

Two weeks ago, an ACR internal memo made its way to Variety; in it, ACR’s CEO Norm Jackson offered a Rolls Royce to the agent who stole the most A-list clients from other agencies in the next three months. Jackson first declared it a forgery, and then tried to chalk it up as an inside joke. Nobody bit. Longtime clients were offended that they, by implication, were not A-listers, and started jumping ship. Clients in the process of being wooed by ACR stopped returning calls. Variety suggested that the second-place winner get Norm Jackson’s job.

“I’ll pass for now, Alan, but I hope you remember me during the holidays,” I said. “Listen, Alan. Got a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“I have a client who has recently become, shall we say, dissatisfied with the quality of representation she’s receiving here. She’s thinking of going over there.”

“Well, aren’t you just the helpful one, Tom,” Alan said. “Is it Michelle Beck? You can send her right along. I’ll get that Rolls after all.”

I laughed. He laughed. Tea glared at the speakerphone.

“Sorry, Alan. The client is Tea Reader. You know her.”

“Sure. I bought her CD. For the picture on the inside, mostly.”

Tea looked like she was about to say something, but I put my finger to my lips. “Right,” I said. “So are you interested? Want to take her on?”

“Jesus, Tom, you’re actually serious?”

“Sure am, Alan. Serious as a heart attack.”

“She wouldn’t happen to be there at the moment, would she?”

“Nope,” I said. That, at the very least, would keep Tea quiet for a few minutes. “Just you and me. You want her?”

“Fuck, no, Tom,” Alan said. “I hear she’s a harpy.”

Tea looked like she’d been slapped.

“I hear she drove her last agent insane. You knew him, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We were podmates.”

“That’s right. Cracked up like Northridge in a quake is what I heard. Became a moonie or a Scientologist or something wacko like that.”

“Buddhist, actually.”

“Close enough,” Alan said. “No offense, Tom. I have enough clients who make me want to get religion, so I could be assured that there was a Hell for them to be sent to. I could look at Tea for hours. Wouldn’t want to be in the same room as her, though. Certainly wouldn’t want to represent her. How do you manage it, anyway?”

“Just a saint, I suppose,” I said. “Well, look, Alan, you know anyone over there who might want to have her?”

“Not off the top of my head. I think everybody’s perfectly happy to let you represent her for as long as you want, pal. I’ll remember you in my prayers, if it will make you feel any better.”

“It does, it does,” I said. “Thanks, Alan.”

“Sure, Tom. Be sure to let me know when Michelle gets bored with you. Her, I’d put up with.” He hung up.

“Well,” I said. “That was certainly instructive.”

“Fuck you,” Tea said, and stared off out a side window. Miranda came in, dropped a file on my desk, and left.

“What is that?” Tea asked.

“This is your clipping file,” I said. “Our clipping service scours the trades and the magazines for a reference to any of our clients and sends them on to us. So we always know what people are thinking about the people we represent.”

I separated the clips into two piles. One was very small. The other was not. I pointed to the smaller pile. “Do you know what this is?” I asked.

Tea looked over, shrugged. “No.”

“These are your positive notices,” I said. “They’re mostly about the fact that you’re built like Barbie, although there’s one here that says you were the best thing about that Pauly Shore flick you were in, with the further admission that that is a textbook example of damning with faint praise.”

I thumped the other, much larger pile with an open palm. “This,” I said, “is your pile of negative notices. We have an office pool here, you know. We’ve got bets on how thick this pile is going to get by the end of the year. Right now, it’s a modest three inches. But it’s early yet.”

Tea looked bored. “Is this going somewhere?”

I gave up. “Tea, I’ve been trying to find some way to put this delicately. Let me make it simple: Nobody in town likes you. No one. You’re monstrously difficult. People don’t like working with you. People don’t like being seen with you. People don’t even like being in the same room with you. Even the thirteen year old boys who fantasize about you know enough not to like you as a person. In the grand pantheon of contemporary bitches of Hollywood, it’s you, Shannon Doherty and Sean Young.”

“I’m not anything like them,” Tea said. “I still have a career.”

“You sure do,” I said. “And you have me to thank for it. Any other agent would have written you off long ago. You’re good looking, but that’s not exactly a rare thing around these parts. I have to fight to get you work. And every time I do get you work, I hear back about how everybody on that crew would rather chew glass than work with you again. Everyone. They have craft service workers who won’t cater a set you’re on. My best estimate is that you have about another 18 months before we run out of people who’ll work with you. After that you’ll have to find some nice, 80-year oil tycoon you can marry and screw into a coma.”

Tea was dumbstruck. It couldn’t last. It didn’t. “Gee, Tom. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“The vote of confidence isn’t for you, Tea. I’m giving you two choices here. The first choice is to sit here, shut up and do what I tell you. We may have an outside chance of saving your career if you do. The other is not to sit here, shut up, and do what I tell you. In which case, I’m dropping