The Beverly Towers Hotel made it into Beverly Hills just barely, being on La Cienega and Wilshire, far from the glitter of Sunset. As for towers, that was open to doubt in the high-rise 1980s, when twelve stories was not in the towering class.
Nevertheless, the two-room suite rented by Barry Lendl looked good to Mac Fain when he moved in. There was an oversized sitting room with comfortable chairs, two sofas, impressionist prints on the walls, and a wet bar. The bedroom had a king-size bed with soft indirect lighting and a television set built into the wall. A considerable step upward from the Echo Park apartment.
“How much is this costing me, Barry?” he asked when Barry Lendl moved him in on Tuesday.
“Not to worry,” Lendl said airily. “I’ve got a deal with the management, so they’ll wait till we start cashing in on you.”
“Let’s hope they don’t have to wait too long.”
“Let me do the worrying,” Lendl said. “You relax tonight, and tomorrow we go to work.”
That night Fain slept alone, and he slept badly. Jillian was again tied up, she said, with an acting-class project that would last quite late and leave her too tired for anything but sleep. He next called Ivy, but she was anxious to finish an outline for Bantam Books so they could start negotiations on the advance. As he lay wakeful in the big bed, Fain had time to wonder if loneliness was part of the success package.
The next day he forgot all about being lonely. Barry Lendl was there early, closely followed by reporters, cameramen, hustlers, con men, crackpots, and a lot of people with no apparent reason for being there except curiosity. While Fain watched Lendl trying to restore some semblance of order, a smooth young man in a cashmere jacket maneuvered him to one side of the room.
“I’m Warner Echols,” the young man said. “Federated Artists. You have heard of us?”
“I think so,” Fain said.
“Most people have, even people not in the business. We’re easily the strongest, most respected talent agency in town. I could reel off a roster of our clients for you, but why take up our time with bragging, right?”
“Right,” said Fain on cue.
“To get right to it, Mac, we want to represent you. I don’t have to tell you that F-A can do things for you that no other agency can touch.”
“You want to represent me in what?”
“In all areas, Mac. F-A will take over every detail of your career, steering you steadily up the mountain, while you concentrate on … doing what you do.”
“The thing is,” Fain said, “I have kind of an understanding on that with somebody else.”
Echols smiled indulgently. “Yes, I know. Barry Lendl, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
Echols looked over to where Lendl was trying to keep out a large woman at the door waving an Instamatic. “I saw him when I came in. I admire your loyalty, Mac, but I’ve got to be frank. Lendl’s clients are losers and second-raters. You don’t belong with him. You want to travel first-class, and that’s Federated Artists. Your whole future depends on making the right moves now. You’re not under contract, are you?”
“No, but Barry has spent some money. He’s into the hotel for this suite.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. F-A will reimburse him for anything he’s put out and add a little besides, even though we’re under no obligation.”
“It’s not only the money …” Fain began.
Echols leaned closer. Fain could smell the wintergreen breath sweetener. “Mac, sometimes in this business you have to be tough. Everybody in town knows Barry Lendl, and everybody likes him. Hell, I like him. He’s a sweet guy and a beautiful human being, but face it, he’ll put your career right in the toilet. You’ll wind up as one of his flash-in-the-pan celebrities and make a thousand bucks lecturing at Kiwanis meetings, then disappear forever. Is that what you want?”
“No, but …”
“Then be tough, Mac. Move ahead now with F-A. Trust me, Mac. Barry Lendl wouldn’t know how to handle you even if he had the resources, which he doesn’t.”
“And you people do?”
“Hey, I’m here to tell you F-A is the big leagues. When we put you into a book, it’s hardcover with a window display in Brentano’s. When we book a client on a talk show, it’s not some Mickey Mouse local guy on Channel Twelve in Seattle. We’re talking Carson, okay?”
“Sounds good,” Fain said.
“Then we’ve got a deal?”
“I think you’ve made me an offer I can’t refuse.”
“Fantastic. On the chance that you’d make that decision, I’ve got Nolan Dix — he’s our top attorney — on the way over with the papers to make it official. But there’s no reason we have to sit on our hands until everything is signed and sealed. That’s not the F-A way.”
“I’m ready when you are,” Fain said.
“That’s what I like to hear. What do you say we step into the other room so Jesse can have a look at you?”
“Jesse?”
“Jesse Cadoret, our image specialist. The very best in the business, I don’t mind telling you. He’ll want an in-depth session with you later, but there’s a lot he can do off a first impression.”
“This may sound dumb,” Fain said, “but what is an image specialist?”
Echols laughed shortly, showing a beautifully capped set of teeth. “I’ll let Jesse explain it to you, Mac. It’s strictly state of the art.”
Fain looked around the room, and his eyes met those of Barry Lendl. He also saw Jillian Pappas, who must have come in while he was talking to Echols. She was puffing inexpertly on a cigarette.
“Give me a minute, will you?” he said.
Echols followed his glance and nodded. “Sure, but don’t take too long. The sooner we rev the motors, the sooner we get off the ground.”
Fain walked over to Lendl, who did not move to meet him.
“Barry, I’ve been talking to Federated Artists.”
“So I see.”
“I wish you and I had more time to talk.”
Lendl shrugged. “What for? How much time do you need to tell a man he’s out?”
“That’s not the way it is,” Fain said.
“Oh, no? You didn’t just make a deal with that shark Warner Echols?”
“I need somebody now who has the clout to help me make the right moves, that’s all.”
“I was already started,” Lendl said. “I’ve got feelers out. I had ideas.”
“I’m sorry, Barry, but your ideas weren’t big enough. Where you were talking East Side Social Club, F-A talks the Tonight show.”
“Already you’re sounding like one of them.”
“Anyway, they’re going to take care of you. You won’t lose anything.”
“Hey, that’s nice of them. All heart, those people.”
“Okay, if you want to take it that way, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ll see you.”
“Sure, we’ll do lunch sometime.”
“What about me?” Jillian said, smashing the unaccustomed cigarette into an ashtray. “Are your new friends going to take care of me, too?”
“Damn it, Jill, this is business. What do you want to give me a hard time for?”
“I just want to know where I stand.”
From across the room Echols called, “Mac, can we move it along? Jesse’s ready for you.”
Fain gave him a wave and turned back to Jillian.
“Look, I’ve got a hundred things going at once here. Why don’t I give you a call later.”
Jillian stood up and faced him levelly. She said, “Fuck you, Mac.”
Fain stared as she walked out with Barry Lendl. It was the first time in their three-year relationship that he had heard Jillian actually use the F word. The door closed behind her with a solid chunk.
“Mac, are you coming?” Echols called across the room. “Jesse’s got another appointment at two.”
“Yeah,” Fain said, still looking at the door where Jillian had gone out. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
• • •
Jesse Cadoret was a lean young man with seriously receding hair that he wore cropped and brushed forward. He positioned Fain in the center of the room, then stood back and studied him with one hand cupping an elbow and the fingers of the other playing with his mustache.
“Wardrobe,” he said, and made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. “Those clothes will simply have to go.”
Fain looked down at his hopsack jacket, open-collar shirt and gray Sansabelt slacks. “What’s the problem?”
“Too laid-back. Too California. People aren’t going to take you seriously if you come on looking like a dressed-up beach bum.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Earth tones. Dark colors. Plain shirts and tasteful neckties.”
“I never wear neckties.”
“You can learn. And for heaven’s sake get rid of those awful Hushpuppies and put on some nice sincere wing tips.”
“Wing tips,” Fain repeated doubtfully.
“Don’t worry; you won’t have to shop for them yourself. I’ll give Warren Echols a list, and he’ll have somebody pick out everthing for you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Now, about that haircut.”
Fain ran a hand over his shaggy hair. “A little long, I guess.”
“A little? It’s strictly 1970s. The neat look is in, if you haven’t heard.”
“I feel so out of it.”
“Yes. You don’t wear glasses, do you?”
“No.”
“Good. They would definitely not suit what we want you to be.”
Fain rubbed his jaw. “Somebody suggested a beard.”
Jesse pinched his eyes together as in pain. “Oh, Lord, a beard, he says. I’ll just bet a woman suggested that.”
“As a matter of fact it was.”
“I knew it. For your face, never. With your long, narrow jaw, you would look like Mephistopheles. Hardly the look we’re shooting for.”
“A mustache, maybe?”
“Sleazy riverboat gambler.”
“Another wrong look.”
“You’re catching on.”
Jesse Cadoret examined his thin gold wristwatch. “This will have to do for a starter. I’m due at CBS to try to make a soap-opera star into a macho adventure hero. A Herculean task, I’ll tell you. See you again. Ta-ta.”
“Ta-ta,” Fain said to the man’s retreating back.
As the image specialist went out, Warner Echols came in, accompanied by a hard-breathing fat man with an attaché case.
“Mac, this is Nolan Dix. He has the papers for you to sign that will make you officially a Federated Artists client.”
Fain shook the attorney’s plump hand and looked over the thick contract without really absorbing it. “I’d like a little time to study this.”
“Time is money, Mac,” Echols said. “I don’t want to rush you, but F-A has already started the moves on your behalf. It would be a shame to shut down now. This is our standard client’s contract. All it does is legalize a working agreement between us for one year with options for another five. We guarantee you our full services for twenty percent of what you earn through our joint efforts.”
“Twenty percent? What ever happened to ten?”
Echols smiled indulgently. “Mac, Mac, ten percent went out with the dollar martini. Remember, we aren’t merely providing you representation; we are taking charge of your future. Federated Artists has faith in you. We believe you are going to be a huge success with the proper guidance, and F-A can provide that guidance. We’ll manage your whole career — take the difficult decisions off your back, warn you about the pitfalls, pull you out of jams.”
“And choose my clothes.”
Echols smiled. “Sure. Find you a girl if you want us to. Or whatever your taste.”
“Quite a service.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. So if you just want to sign the papers now …”
Fain accepted a platinum Cross pen and signed his name repeatedly as Nolan Dix wheezed and flipped the pages for him.
When he had finished, the attorney stuffed the contract back into his attaché case. “A pleasure to have you with us, Fain,” he said. “Wish I had time to stay and talk, but you know how it is — rush, rush, rush. Let’s do lunch sometime.”
Warner Echols clapped an arm around Fain’s shoulder for a manly hug. “Way to go, Mac. Glad to have you on board. Now that you’re officially under the F-A wing, the first thing we’ll do is get you out of this hotel.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“It’s out, Mac. That’s what’s the matter with it. You said Barry Lendl booked you in here?”
“That’s right.”
“It figures. Nobody stays at the Beverly Towers anymore, Mac, except washed-up stars trying to get a Love Boat walk-on and out-of-town book writers begging for a screenplay. It’s Loser’s City. A dump.”
“You should see my apartment.”
“We won’t even talk about that. No, what I have in mind for you is something special. It’s a house in the Santa Monica Mountains above Mulholland.”
“A house?”
“It’s owned by F-A. Do you know the name Walter Belmont?”
“No.”
“Not many people do today. He was a star in the early twenties, up there with Jack Gilbert and Wally Reid. He made a bundle and spent it, a lot of it building this house in the hills he called Eagle’s Roost. When the talkies came in, Belmont was finished. He had a voice like Bugs Bunny. He hit the needle, and the house went to pay debts to Arthur Garshied, who started Federated Artists in the thirties. It’s been with the agency ever since. We use it when it’s appropriate. For you the place is perfect. Great atmosphere. Completely furnished. You won’t have to bring a thing.”
“Eagle’s Roost,” Fain said, testing the sound of it.
“Corny but descriptive. You’ll look down on the whole city. There’s only one private road leading up there, so we can control the traffic. That’s where we’ll do interviews and picture layouts. And you can see your prospective clients.
“Clients?”
“People who want you to bring somebody back to life. We’ve already got a stack of letters at the office. We’ll help you go through them and pick some of the likelier candidates to come up — with media coverage, of course. Then you tell them for this or that reason you can’t help them, and we send them back down the mountain.”
“Why can’t I help them?”
“Hell, Mac, you don’t want to be put into a spot where you’re actually supposed to be raising the dead.”
“Why not? I’ve been there before.”
“Yes, but that was … I mean … we both know …”
“I thought that was what all this was about — bringing dead people back to life.”
“Well, on the surface, yes, but what it’s really about, Mac, is money. You don’t have any objection to money, do you?”
“No,” Fain admitted.
“Well, then, it’s the peripherals we’re talking about here. Books, movies, personal appearances. One of our people has even come up with an idea for a music video. Don’t laugh; it could be a big money item.”
“I’m not laughing,” Fain said.
“Fine. Come on, I want you to meet Victoria Clifford. She’ll be your secretary, assistant, gofer, and anything else you want while we’re getting you under way. She’s good.”
Echols led the way back to the crowded living room and tugged Fain along to where a tall woman with sleek brown hair and bright green eyes stood frowning at one of the prints hanging on the wall.
“Victoria, this is McAllister Fain.”
She extended a slim hand and said in a soft, husky voice, “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Fain.”
“Me, too,” he said. “And you might as well call me Mac.”
“Whatever you say … Mac.”
Echols clapped his hands and rubbed them together enthusiastically. “Well, then, why don’t the three of us bail out of here and run up to Eagle’s Roost.”
“Should I pack my things?” Fain said.
“We’ll have somebody take care of that for you,” Echols told him. “You’re with F-A now, Mac, and you don’t have to concern yourself with bothersome details. Shall we go?”
Victoria linked her arm through his, and they started out. At the door they were met by Ivy Hurlbut, carrying a manila folder and looking puzzled.
“What’s going on, Mac?” she said. “I just saw Barry downstairs.
“There’s been a change in plans,” Fain said.
Ivy held up the folder. “I was hoping we could go over my outline for the Bantam thing.”
“Well …”
Echols spoke up. “Look, Mac, F-A has writers already working on a book. It’ll be hardcover and under your name. There’s a movie deal in the works, so I think we’d better not screw it up.”
Fain spread his hands. “I’m sorry, Ivy.”
She stared at him for a moment. “That’s it? You’re sorry?”
“Mac, there’s a car waiting.”
Victoria squeezed his arm and let her sleek hip brush against him.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, and left Ivy looking after him, the folder forgotten in her hand.