Dan Wakefield - Selling Out - A Novel

Charlie Brindle was an old-timer, a man at least in his seventies. He did not even look like a Hollywood agent, but with his unbuttoned vest and loosened tie he reminded Perry more of those veteran crusty city editors of newspaper legend. He had done all right in handling Perry’s business up to now, but he obviously wasn’t in synch with the new breed of operators, or familiar with the new way of doing things in the supercharged new bi-coastal, megabuck world of tomorrow. Perry tried patiently to explain the situation to him.

“I never signed any papers with Ned, and it just so happened that Vaughan Vardeman, who’s an old friend of mine from way back, is in a far better position to make this happen. He even has Harrison Ford hot about it.”

“You told Ned Gurney you and he had a deal on this. You even shook hands on it. Have you told him you want to sign this option with Vardeman instead?”

Charlie held up the option papers Vaughan’s lawyer had sent over, as if he were exhibiting damning evidence.

“No, I haven’t told Ned about this, but of course I eventually will, and I believe he’ll understand and want me to do what I think is best for me.”

Charlie tossed the papers across the desk at Perry, as if they were a bad piece of copy he was giving back to a cub reporter.

“That’s not the way I’ve done business for forty-five years.”

“Well then,” Perry said, trying to keep his voice calm, “I guess I better find someone who’ll do business for me the way it’s done today.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble,” said Brindle, lighting up a big black cigar.

Perry grabbed the contract with hands slightly quivering from rage and stuck it into the inside pocket of his new safari jacket. He had got up and turned to go, when Charlie called after him.

“Hey Perry, let an old-timer give you a tip. A piece of free advice.”

“I’m listening.”

“Go home. Go back East and write your books. It sounded like a good life. Go on back, before it’s too late.”

Perry made a snortlike little laugh.

“I’ll remember that,” he said.

“There’ll come a time,” said Charlie, “when you will.”

There are times when everything falls into place, times of being so in tune with the world and with the work you are doing that it seems instead of thrashing around to find something you need, all you have to do is think you need it and it appears, like something materializing at the touch of a wand, to the trill of the magic music, outlined by a lacing of stardust.

That’s how fortuitously Ravenna Sharlow appeared.

It was the day after Perry’s visit to old Charlie, and he had decided to take off an hour or two in the afternoon to call on some agents. He hated to take any time away from the lot, but this was crucial. He not only wanted to get the option with Vaughan nailed down, he wanted to have his new deal as executive story consultant negotiated, making sure he was getting all he deserved in that lofty new position. He tried to put all this out of mind while he focused on the script he was writing, but just as he began to really concentrate, a sudden knock came at the door.

“Yes?” he shouted, with a mixture of annoyance and urgency.

The door opened, and standing inside it was a tall, sun-bronzed, ravishing blond woman in a tailored, businesslike suit with a jacket, plain silk blouse, and medium-length skirt that hovered over fabulous, perfectly shaped calves, ending in high-heeled sandals held together by some sort of gossamer threads. Perry’s first thought was that she must be either an actress or some powerful new network or studio executive, at least a vice-president.

“Thank you,” she said.

Her voice was husky, provocative.

She must be an actress, he figured.

“For what?”

“The fabulous show you’ve created.”

She must have just read for a part—they were casting for a teacher friend of Laurie’s, and though this woman was far more glamorous than Perry had imagined for the role, she would certainly be an attraction for the show. Might even be worth tilting the story a bit to make it exactly right for her.

She stepped forward, extending her hand with a jangle of bracelets, and shook Perry’s hand, gripping it firmly, looking him squarely in the eyes.

“I’m Ravenna Shadow,” she said.

“Perry Moss.”

“I know. I’m a great fan of your work.”

“Why, thank you. Are you here to read for a part?”

“Oh, no! I brought in a client of mine who’s reading for that juicy role of Laurie’s new teacher friend. It’s a gem. Like everything you do.”

“Thanks, but I can’t take credit for that. Hal Hagedorn wrote that particular episode.”

She shrugged off that information with a toss of her blond mane, throwing her head back proudly.

“It’s your show—it’s all your creation, no matter who develops little variations on the theme.”

“Well, that’s very generous of you. Please sit down.”

She sat with smooth grace on the little folding chair, making it seem like a throne. She crossed her legs, and the skirt rode up to the lovely, shimmering knee.

“So, you’re an agent?” Perry asked.

“Partly that. I’m also a business manager for my clients.”

She smiled.

“I have a degree in business administration, as well as drama. I’m a full-service agency.”

He felt his throat go dry.

“I believe it,” he said. “Well, you represent actors. Do you know anyone like yourself, but who handles writers?”

“Writers,” she said, “are my favorite.”

“This is amazing,” he said. “Uncanny. I was just about to go looking for a new agent.”

“I’m sure the top people in town would be happy to have you. You could take your pick. I’m only a small operation, myself–just me and my secretary—but let me confess that representing you would be the greatest thrill of my entire career. It would be like—well—”

She shifted her legs, recrossing them, and smoothed a hand over one radiant knee.

“—like having my most outrageous dream come true.”

He felt himself swell, grow expansive. Here was this gorgeous, no doubt brilliant woman sitting before him, herself a fantasy of flesh and brain, and he, Perry Moss, had the power to make her dream come true!

“Are you free for lunch today?” Perry asked.

“On two conditions.”

“Name ’em.”

“One, you let me use your phone to cancel the lunch date I had till just now. Two, you let me take you to my own favorite spot.”

Perry leaned back in his seat, smiling.

“You got it,” he said.

The place was suffused with gold.

You followed Sunset Boulevard to get there, passing through the flashy vulgarity of the Strip, curving down into the lush, palm-lined precincts of Beverly Hills, the famous pink stucco hotel that was paradise for fortunate, important pilgrims from the East, past the fairy-tale mansions of tropically inspired imagination, down and up and around the hills but still coursing west through the lesser pastel apartment buildings and subdivision homesteads spread through Pacific Palisades, and finally, plunging headlong toward the ocean itself, crashing right up against the thin line marking the edge of a world, the Pacific Coast Highway; and there it was, not just a symbol or phrase but the real smashing surf and bald rock and enormous hot sky of it, reminding him again with a thrill where he was: the Coast .

If you kept careening down Sunset through the traffic light on the highway you’d smash right into the restaurant, but you stopped, slowed, took a dogleg jog across the highway and into a parking lot, then crunched on foot across the gravel and into the nautical entrance (lobster nets, cork floats, life preservers) where, as the door shut behind, you at once were bathed in a brilliant intensity of sunbright light and deeply chilled air. Blinking, looking down at the sawdust floor softens the glare, and soon, seated at your smooth wooden table of butcher-block wood, you become accustomed to the juxtaposition of natural and artificial elements, sunlight and ice-cold air-conditioning, everything intensified, colors as well, deep sea blue reflected through the plate-glass view, but above and behind and over all, the radiance of sun, the sense of gold, its elemental presence.