THE OFFICE BUILDING THAT housed I.A.A. was impressive. Designed by the premier modern architect, Richard Meier, the man who was also responsible for the splendid new Getty Museum, the clean lines were superb. Acres of Italian marble and pristine white walls with just the right amount of glass block. Dominating everything was a huge David Hockney painting of a swimming pool hanging in the massive lobby.
Madison Castelli took all this in as she approached the front desk. “I’m here to see Mr. Leon,” she announced.
The Asian woman at the reception desk glanced up. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I certainly do,” Madison replied.
“Please take a seat,” the woman said.
Instead of going straight to the seating area, Madison strolled across the lobby and stood under the Hockney painting, gazing up at the impressive work of art. As a journalist she loved observing visual images. Capture those and you had your reader hooked. She found Hockney’s work to be arresting and very Californian—which was interesting considering he was from England.
Well, here I am in the lobby of I.A.A., she thought, her mind working overtime. She glanced at her watch, noting that it was exactly eleven o’clock, the time of her appointment. She wondered how much time Freddie would grant her, and if he was as intimidating as his reputation.
Freddie Leon was known as the most important agent in town. He was also known as the most reclusive, and it had been tough arranging this interview. Finally, Victor Simons had called in a favor, and now here she was. She was intrigued at the prospect of meeting him, but also anxious to get on with it. She wanted to get out of there in time to attend Salli T. Turner’s funeral this afternoon.
She glanced over at the reception desk. The Asian woman was busy on the phone. Hmm . . . It was her experience that the more important the subject, the less they kept you waiting. She made a mental bet that Freddie would summon her to his office within five minutes, and she was right. “Miss Castelli,” the woman called out less than two minutes later. “Somebody’s on their way down to fetch you.”
“Thanks,” Madison said.
Moments later a young black man in a spiffy suit and expensive horn-rimmed glasses appeared at her side. “Miss Castelli?” he asked politely.
“That’s right,” she said.
“Please come with me.”
She followed him to a glass-enclosed elevator. They traveled up three floors, then walked down a long corridor flanked with many open door offices. Finally they reached the desk of Ria Santiago, Freddie Leon’s executive assistant and sentinel.
“Good morning, Miss Castelli,” Ria said. She was an attractive Hispanic woman in her mid-forties with a stern expression.
“Good morning, Ms. Santiago,” Madison responded. “I’m sorry I disturbed you by calling you at home yesterday. I was under the impression that everyone knew about my visit here.”
“Apparently they do now,” Ria said, with a thin smile. “Mr. Leon’s expecting you. Please come with me.”
Madison followed her into a spacious office with an incredible view of Century City. The room was decorated more like a library than a working office; there were large couches on either side and expensive art on the walls. In the middle of the room was the great Freddie Leon, seated behind a magnificent steel and glass desk, poring over papers. He did not look up when she entered.
“Take a seat,” Ria Santiago said, indicating a Biedermeier chair to the side of his desk.
Madison had a feeling that if she didn’t exert herself immediately she would be hustled out within fifteen minutes.
“Mr. Leon,” Ria said, all business. “Your eleven-thirty called to say they’ll be five minutes late. I’ll alert you three minutes before they’re due.”
Hmm . . . Madison thought. Does he really think I’ll be satisfied with half an hour? No way.
Ria left the office. Freddie continued to study the papers on his desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Leon,” Madison said, determined to make her presence felt. “I’m delighted you agreed to see me.”
Freddie put down his pen and looked up at her for the first time. He saw a beautiful, slender woman in her twenties, with jet hair pulled back, large eyes and full lips.
She stared right back at him, taking in his appearance. She saw a poker-faced man in his forties, with cordial features, straight brown hair and a quick bland smile, which she noticed was not reflected in his eyes.
“Good morning, Miss Castelli,” he said. “As I’m sure you’ve been told, I’m seeing you as a favor. I don’t normally give interviews.”
“I understand, Mr. Leon. I’ve sat down with a lot of people who don’t normally give interviews. Sometimes my subjects find it an enjoyable experience, sometimes they hate it.” She smiled. “Let’s hope you find it enjoyable.”
He smiled back—once again the smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I’m really extremely boring and very dull,” he said, tapping his index finger on his chin.
“Isn’t that for me to say?” she said, slightly amused.
“It depends. What kind of a journalist are you?”
“Maybe you should ask some of my other subjects,” she answered calmly. “Henry Kissinger, Fidel Castro, Margaret Thatcher, Sean Connery. Take your pick.”
“Quite an eclectic group,” he said. “I’m duly impressed.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t be if you read the pieces.”
“I’d like to read them.”
“Then I’ll make sure they’re faxed to you this afternoon.”
He was summing her up, trying to decide what he thought of her. “Now,” he said, “before you start bombarding me with questions, I should tell you that I do not discuss the money my clients make. In fact, I do not discuss my clients period. I don’t talk about my family, politics, sex, or my personal opinions on anything.”
Madison laughed politely. “Wow! This is going to be some story!”
He liked the fact that she didn’t seem to be in awe of him; it made for a refreshing change. “You don’t seem to understand, Miss Castelli—I do not want to be a story in your magazine.”
“Mr. Leon,” she said patiently. “There’s a great amount of public interest in what goes on in Hollywood, and you are the absolute power broker. People have heard about you, you have a famous name. Sometimes, when we achieve greatness in our lives, we have to give up our privacy.”
“I don’t have to give up anything, Miss Castelli.”
“I wish you’d call me Madison.”
There was something in her eyes that drew him in. She was not the normal pushy journalist he was used to encountering at openings and parties. This was an intelligent woman who knew what she wanted and had no fear of pursuing it. For a moment he forgot she was the enemy. “Can I offer you a drink? Apple juice, Diet Coke . . .”
“How about I buy you a coffee, somewhere other than your office.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, please,” she said lightly, playing with him. “I know the game. Your eleven-thirty is running five minutes late—I don’t think so. Why don’t we get out of here, drive somewhere, grab a coffee and talk about how you got into this business? People would kill to know how you got started.”
“Now let’s not get dramatic.”
“I promise I won’t pry into your personal life. I merely wish to portray you as an ordinary human being who has achieved great power, not as some ice-cold Hollywood mogul—which is the impression everyone has of you.”
He couldn’t help laughing, which he found to be a relief after the stress of the last twenty-four hours. “You’re very persuasive . . . Madison. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind getting out of here, it’s been one of those mornings.”
“Can I buy you a coffee then?” she asked, fixing him with a strong gaze.
She was a beautiful, smart woman, and smartness had always intrigued him. “Why not?” he said, surprising himself. “I suppose I can live dangerously for once.”
He got up from behind his desk, and together they walked out of his office.
Ria gave him a stony stare. “Mr. Leon,” she said, her voice full of disapproval. “What about your eleven-thirty?”
“Postpone it,” he said easily. “I’ll be back in an hour. Miss Castelli has persuaded me to play hooky.”
Ria frowned. It was unlike Freddie Leon to be so lighthearted. “Very well,” she said, tight-lipped. “If you’re absolutely sure.”
“Yes, I’m sure, Ria.”
“And if the hospital calls—”
“You have my numbers.”