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  “I’m too old for this,” Stark sighed. “You folks make a better couple.”

  They danced—or she did, because AJ could only stare. She wore leopard—and resembled one. Her angled eyebrows directed his focus to startling blue eyes. The woman had . . . secrets. “Ray says you’re the future of the business.” Add a sexy Austrian accent to the package.

  “He must have meant the distant future,” AJ replied. “What brings you to America?”

  “I’m looking for an agent.”

  “You came to the right place.”

  The Dom Pérignon kicked in and, mixed with the turbulence of the occasion, produced a wicked cocktail. AJ couldn’t remember how long he and Romy danced before Steph joined them. The Beatles replaced the Stones, seeking help in oh so many ways. But with the two most beautiful women at the party as his partners, he required none at all.

  CHAPTER 20

  On Monday morning AJ remained so hungover that he left his GTO in neutral after parking in the bowels of William Morris. Only when he heard metal grinding metal did he waken from his fog. His car had rolled back into a Bentley with a now-mangled license plate that read WM SW. Of all the cars in all the lots. . . . “I’m sorry, Mr. Weisbord.”

  The head of the agency’s television department surveyed the damage, the red roots of his anger bleeding through a Palm Springs tan until he resembled a Jewish Indian. “You don’t know how sorry, boy.”

  “I’ll pay it myself—no need to hassle with insurance.”

  “It costs more than you make.”

  “You could change that at my next salary review.” AJ’s joke fell as flat as the Bentley’s front tire.

  “Pull yourself together, Jastrow. You look like a bum. Don’t ever forget, you’re a William Morris agent.”

  And an officer and a gentleman. Someone needed to lend Sammy a sense of humor. Trudging into the lobby, AJ hallucinated—was that Bernie Marcus smiling at him? His nemesis wore the same neck brace that Paul Herzog had sported last week, making it appear he had eaten Herzog whole, failing only to digest the collar. On closer inspection AJ saw that he wasn’t hallucinating, but Bernie’s smile was aimed at Abe Lastfogel, the president of William Morris. The two men shook hands, then glanced in his direction, whispering conspiratorially.

  AJ shuffled into the weekly staff meeting conjuring dark scenarios, but his anxiety couldn’t resist the energy in the room. It was part revival, part potluck breakfast, with every agent expected to donate a new piece of intelligence. AJ was plugged into the town’s young executives, so he provided more than his share. What distinguished him, however, was his chemistry at compounding inside information on the studios with insight into the agency’s clients. Yawns and snide asides greeted his announcement that MGM sought a director for The Singing Nun. Rising to his feet, AJ began singing “Dominique,” the inane hit made famous by the Belgian nun. His colleagues finally paid attention—booing lustily—but he argued that though the movie wasn’t chic, it would be perfect for Henry Koster.

  Henry who? Half the agents consulted the client list to see that Morris still represented him. By a twist of fate AJ had accompanied his parents to the premiere of The Bishop’s Wife, the 1947 tearjerker for which Koster had received an Academy nomination. AJ remembered the director sobbing at his own movie and knew Metro would love a sentimentalist.

  “Bless you, my son,” Dick Juria cried out. “An inspired idea . . . and not a bad job on the vocals.” As Koster’s longtime agent, Juria recognized that The Singing Nun could resuscitate the director after a string of flops. AJ glanced at Weisbord for a sign of vindication . . . or grudging acknowledgment. Nada.

  Agents were bolting for their phone sheets when Abe Lastfogel, barely visible behind the forty-foot mahogany conference table, froze them in place. As short as he was, his deep voice seemed to emanate from his ankles. “Gentlemen, before we part, I must remind you of a threat we face every waking minute, a threat with names so evil I can barely speak them.”

  AJ wondered if Sacco and Vanzetti lurked in the corridor. Perhaps Leopold and Loeb had crashed the lobby.

  “Fields and Begelman.”

  When they were the personal managers of Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand, David Begelman and Freddie Fields pocketed commissions from their clients and took fees from the studios to produce their movies. No one in Hollywood cared except Lastfogel, who’d complained to the talent guilds that the behavior was unethical. In response, the two men had abandoned management, established a new agency called Creative Management Associates, and targeted the filet mignon of the William Morris list.

  “Their most recent treachery is unspeakable.” But he spoke it nonetheless. “Last night at Begelman’s house they tried to . . . steal Natalie Wood.” Dead silence as people comprehended the atrocity. “Given half a chance, these ganefs will remove the fillings from your children’s teeth. Swear you will stop them!”

  While agents pledged death to the infidels, AJ felt odd man out. Why didn’t anyone else realize that it was Abe’s bitching that had spawned CMA in the first place?

  “How about coming to my office for a seltzer?”

  Seltzer with Lastfogel couldn’t mean good news.

  For ten minutes AJ listened to a torturous sermon about wisdom and compassion in business dealings—without a clue why he’d been summoned. His eyes roamed to a framed photo on the wall of Lastfogel in fatigues and helmet on a USO tour. Sandwiched between Ethel Merman and George Patton, he appeared to be standing in a foxhole. As AJ scanned more patriotic memorabilia, including pictures with three presidents and J. Edgar Hoover—thwack!—Lastfogel cut him off at the knees. “I have assured Paramount that McQueen will rent them his trailer for one thousand dollars.”

  “A thousand . . . no, no, you don’t understand, sir—”

  “Don’t be so formal, we’re colleagues. Mr. Lastfogel is fine.”

  “We can win this one.”

  “Perhaps, but Paul Herzog and Bernard Marcus have been good friends of the agency. Why punish them because they need our client? Ours is a ‘live and let live’ world.”

  “Steve made it clear he wanted us to remain firm. He’s still furious that Paramount refused his family plane tickets to visit him on the last movie. How do I explain our caving in?”

  “What do you think you might say?”

  AJ bristled at the ersatz Socrates. “Nothing occurs to me.”

  “Sometimes I worry about you, son.” Lastfogel squirted another hit of bubbly water. “You have the ingredients to make a fine agent—you’re smart, intuitive, tough, and you’ve got impeccable taste. But you’re cooking at too hot a temperature.”

  Get out of the office or boil over. “I’ll dial my flame down.”

  “Good. And don’t concern yourself about McQueen. I’ve asked Stan to handle it. Your client will respect his judgment.”

  AJ stormed into Wizan’s office. “I can’t take his patronizing bullshit! This was my deal. I should have punted the pecker out the window.”

  “Murder Abe? The chief’s annoying, but—”

  “He’s a colossal old fart. The company’s filled with them. So’s the industry. Look at the guys who run the studios—they’re nothing but survivors with cataracts who gum their lunch at Hillcrest, schmooze with producers who haven’t had a hit in this decade, then pick old-fart directors who cast their old-fart friends. Does the audience care about Jimmy Stewart or Burt Lancaster anymore? No, we’ve seen all their moves. And have you visited a set lately? The crews take forever to light because half of them are arthritic. And we’re supposed to wait for the walking dead to keel over before we can run the show—by which time we’ll be the old farts.”

  Wizan laughed bitterly. “You’re not the only one going nuts. Last Sunday while I was sitting by the pool thinking about my four-bedroom house, two cars, wife, and bank account, I realized I had everything in life I never wanted.”

  AJ’s assistant, a cub named Bill Haber, dashed in frantically to announce that a piss
ed-off Steve McQueen was on the line. “Make him go away,” AJ moaned.

  “You got it, boss.” Haber had the can-do spirit that time had robbed from AJ.

  “No, never mind. I’ll take it.” So much for Stan Kamen “handling it.”

  “Your son is not retarded . . . at least technically.”

  “That’s a comfort,” Maggie snorted.

  Steph shot her mother-in-law a nasty look as they sat in Dr. Mittman’s office listening to his diagnosis of Ricky after two hours of evaluation. “I’m sorry, Doctor, could you explain?”

  “Your son’s scores on Stanford-Binet rank him low normal. On the Wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children, Ricky tests borderline dull, which means—”

  “Are your tests infallible?”

  “Maggie, let Dr. Mittman finish.”

  “They aren’t my tests, Mrs. Jastrow. Developmental psychologists have used them for years.” He returned his attention to Stephanie. “Your son is acting out in school because he’s ashamed at being a slow learner. But it’s not hopeless, depending on how you and your husband deal with the situation.”

  “Maybe they should get him a job pumping gas.” Her mother-in-law waved in disgust. “If you’ll excuse me, I need a breath of air.”

  Steph waited till the door clicked. “I apologize. You know grandmothers.”

  He handed her a box of Kleenex. “I have one myself.”

  “She says whatever comes to her mind, regardless of how offensive.”

  “And she probably sleeps better than both of us.”

  Steph smiled feebly. “Do I look that tired?”

  “Not tired . . . lost.”

  Lost—not precisely the word. Bypassed—that was it. As if she were stuck running a bed-and-breakfast on a two-lane and could see the cars zooming by on the interstate, headed to the real action. But her real action was being a mom, and if she didn’t keep focus, her boy was going to end up roadkill. “Dr. Mittman, what do you recommend?”

  “For you or your son?”

  Acting out? Give me a break. How about crying out?

  Maggie bolted from the office. She had limited patience for psychiatrists and less for psychologists like this joker who hadn’t been smart enough to get into medical school. How dare they sentence her grandson to second-class citizenship? As for her daughter-in-law, her miserable mothering was responsible.

  The boy looked wide-eyed for news. “I’m hungry,” Maggie announced. “Let’s go across the street for tacos.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “It doesn’t matter—he’s a bum.” She loved the way her grandson smiled; she wished he did it more often. “Why are you laughing?”

  “You’re not like most grandmas.”

  “Really? What are most grandmas like?”

  “They have gray hair, fat butts, and stinky breath.”

  “And you’re not like most six-year-olds—you’re a rebel. You know what a rebel is?” Ricky shook his head. “It’s someone who fights authority.”

  “Oh.”

  “When you set fire to the library, what were you rebelling against?”

  He thought for a long time. “Books, I guess.”

  “But when I read you Winnie-the-Pooh and The Jungle Book, you loved them. You even said you wanted to write your own stories.”

  “I could never do that.”

  “I never use the word ‘never.’ Never, never, never.” He giggled again. “Let’s make up a story together. There once was a boy who . . . Now you go.”

  “A boy who could read minds.”

  Maggie thought for a beat. “So he always knew what people were thinking . . .”

  “And one day he found out they were going to kill him because he was . . . he was—”

  “Smarter than they were?”

  “No, because he had three eyes and two noses and six chins.” Ricky giggled. “So he took his dad’s car and drove a thousand miles an hour and they couldn’t catch him. But when they returned, he was waiting for them because he’d circled back. Then they realized . . .”

  “He was smarter than them . . .”

  Ricky jumped up in the air. “Because he had four brains!”

  “ ‘The Boy with Four Brains.’ That’s a great story. The next time I come over we’re going to write it down.” Maggie shook hands to close the deal.

  Romy Schneider was a half hour late for lunch at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel. That was customary for an actress, and the reasons—traffic jams, wrong directions, a cat with a hairball—were as predictable and bullshit as the excuses for not doing your homework. Plain and simple, a tardy arrival guaranteed the actress attention, which was working for Romy as she garnered all eyes waltzing to the table.

  Take control, AJ warned himself, take it now, or she’ll toy with you like the other agents she’s auditioned. While she sighed over the choices on the menu, he peremptorily ordered two McCarthy salads and a bottle of Sancerre, then sat back and stared.

  “Do I have a piece of bread in my teeth?” she asked self-consciously.

  It had taken a week of phone calls to arrange the luncheon, but rather than babble with pent-up enthusiasm, his strategy was to talk sparingly. “If you could model your career on any actress in the last decade, who would it be?”

  “I don’t understand why you’re asking that.”

  A frown in those lethal eyebrows told AJ she was off guard. “If you said Ursula Andress, I’d suggest we get drunk and chat about the weather, because I wouldn’t be the right agent for you. Bimbos don’t interest me. But if you said Ingrid Bergman, for example, then I’m ready to help and the William Morris Agency should be your home.”

  “You think I’m that good?”

  “You have Bergman’s talent, her beauty, her sexuality—and her soul.”

  “Ah! And perhaps you saw my soul on display in What’s New Pussycat? Or while we danced at your party? Or is it on display now over lunch?” Romy was cynical about all men, whether they wanted to make money off her, fuck her, or both.

  “No, your English-language roles haven’t showcased it, but it was evident in Maedchen in Uniform and Die Halbzarte.”

  “You watched my German-language films?”

  “I have a friend who’s a refugee. We screened them and he translated. Frankly, you don’t require much translation.”

  “Are you always this prepared?”

  His expression questioned her question. “I want to manage your career, Romy. I have to be prepared. My plan is to link you with young filmmakers. The directors you’ve worked with—Orson Welles, Carl Foreman, and Otto Preminger—were great talents, but I don’t think they have much left to say about the world we’re inheriting.

  “This script’s a perfect example. The premise scares the hell out of me—in a good way.” He handed her Seconds by Lew Carlino. “It’s about a businessman who’s so frustrated with his life he purchases a new identity but gets caught between his two worlds. The part of the second wife is terrific. And here’s Freddy Raphael’s new script, Two for the Road. The agency can get you together with the director, Stanley Donen. I also want you to meet a brilliant young director, Sydney Pollack. He’s developed a story about the men and women who entered marathon dance contests during the Depression. The characters are desperate and hopeful at the same time. That’s what the next decade will be about.”

  Romy barely budged until he finished his pitch. Then she arched her neck, shook her rich brown hair, and stared at the early-summer sky. “Most agents are smooth. They don’t care, except about their commissions. I am surprised that you survive in Hollywood with your . . . intensity.” She touched his hand. “You must be very lonely.”

  The pursuit of any client was a hunt, but from that moment AJ was no longer sure if he was the lion or the lamb.

  After discovering The French Chef on National Educational Television, Steph launched a gourmet-cooking binge that left AJ craving meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. But Sunday night family dinn
er was her showcase, so he gamely cut into an oval-shaped piece of fried chicken, only to have hot butter squirt from the center. It stung like a wasp. “Shit!”

  “Daddy said the S-word,” Jess giggled.

  “It’s called chicken Kiev,” Steph explained while soothing his burnt lips with an ice cube. “I spent an hour getting the chilled fingers of butter inside the breaded chicken breasts so they wouldn’t leak during the deep frying.”

  Leon Ginsberg prodded his with cautious respect. “I was in Kiev before the war, and I never saw a bird like this.”

  “That’s because you hung with the wrong crowd,” Maggie noted.

  “Until you came along, it was always the wrong crowd.”

  Despite her rolling eyes, his mother relished Leon’s puppy-dog attention. After years of rejecting his endless invitations, Maggie had finally accepted one because she was dying to hear Leonard Bernstein at the Hollywood Bowl. They had been a pair ever since. “AJ, since Ricky doesn’t have school tomorrow, could you parole him so that we can all watch Bonanza tonight?”

  It was another of his mother’s low blows. By directing the question to him, she insulted Steph, who complained—with justification—that Maggie considered her an afterthought. There was no way out. “Honey, what do you think?”

  “I think we shouldn’t discuss this here,” his wife replied coldly.

  “Dad, Mom, please. I’m sorry about what happened at school, and I won’t do it again,” Ricky pleaded. “I really want to watch the show with you and Grandma and Uncle Leon.”

  Steph and AJ exchanged wary glances. It was the first remorse their son had shown, and its sincerity doubled the stakes. Holding firm to their two-week TV ban would make them cruel wardens, but if they showed compassion, they might appear indecisive. “Mom is right: we aren’t going to discuss this now.”

  “That’s not fair.” Ricky jabbed his fork into his peas, scattering them on the table.