Agent to the Stars by John Scalzi (top novels of all time TXT) 📖

and a half hours for lunch?” Miranda said, as she followed me into the office. “Even by Hollywood standards, that’s a little extravagant. Your boss would kill you, if it weren’t for the fact you had lunch with him.”

“Sorry, mom,” I said. “I’ll do all of my homework before I go out tonight.”

“Don’t get fresh,” Miranda said, “or you’ll get no dessert. Would you like to hear your messages, or do you want to give me more lip?”

“Oh, I’d like messages, pretty please,” I said, sitting.

“That’s better,” Miranda said. “You have six, count them, six messages from Jim Van Doren. In one two hour-period before your lunch. I think that qualifies as stalking by California law.”

“I should be so lucky,” I said. “What does he want?”

“Didn’t say. Didn’t sound particularly happy, however. I suspect if he hasn’t been raked over the coals by his editors at The Biz, he may be in the process of being torched right now. Carl called me this morning to get some information on the mentor program of yours. He mentioned that he was planning to rip Van Doren and The Biz new assholes in the Times. Not promising for either of them, if you ask me.”

“God,” I said. “That’s just going to make them both more annoying. Anyone else?”

“Michelle called. She’s apparently having some sort of difficulty with the Earth Resurrected folks. She said something about a latex mask. It didn’t make much sense to me. She also said that Ellen Merlow is definitely out of Hard Memories, and that she now felt she was up to the role, because she read ‘Iceman in Jerusalem’.” Miranda looked up at me, confused. “She can’t possibly mean Eichmann in Jerusalem.”

“Give her a break, Miranda,” I said. “She got two-thirds of the title.”

Miranda snorted. “Yeah, well, and I bet she’s averaging that for the rest of the words, too. Anyway, she’ll be calling back later. Last message, from your mysterious friend Joshua. He says he’s fine now, and not to call, he’s busy at the moment but he’ll be there when you get there, whatever that means. Dealing with shady characters again, Tom?”

“You have no idea,” I said. Why wasn’t I supposed to call? Despite Joshua’s reassurance, I was worried. I fought the urge to grab the phone right off. I decided to think about another entirely futile task instead. “Miranda, could you get Roland Lanois on the horn for me?”

“Absolutely. Who is he?”

“Miranda,” I said, pretending shock. “You’re so low class. He’s the director and producer of the Academy Award-nominated motion picture The Green Fields, and also of the upcoming Hard Memories. His production company is on the Paramount lot, I believe.”

“What?” Miranda said. “Tom, you can’t be serious. You’re not really going to try to get Michelle that part.”

“Why not?” I said. “It’s not totally outside the realm of possibility that she could get the role, you know.”

Miranda rolled her eyes and looked up, with upturned palms. “Take me now, Jesus. I don’t want to live here no more.”

“Oh, stop it, and get Roland for me.”

“Tom, the gods of common decency implore me to stop you from making this call.”

“There’s a ten percent raise in it for you if you get Roland on the phone for me, right now.”

Miranda blinked. “Really?”

“Got it approved by Carl at lunch. So you have a choice. Common decency or a raise. Your call.”

“Well, I’ve done my part for humanity for today,” Miranda said. “Time to cash in.”

“That’s what I love about you, Miranda,” I said. “Your firm bedrock of moral values.”

Miranda did a little step as she exited the office. I smiled. Then I grabbed the phone and made a quick call to Joshua’s cel phone.

No answer.

*****

Roland was in a meeting but his assistant said that he’d be happy to chat if I wouldn’t mind dropping by the offices in an hour. “Roland hates talking business over the phone,” the assistant said. “He says he likes to have people within stabbing distance.” It was already past 4:30; if I was going to make it to the Paramount lot in an hour, I’d have to leave at that moment. I left instructions with Miranda to call me immediately if Joshua called, and then headed out.

About halfway there, on Melrose, I realized that I was actually being tailed. A white Escort three cars behind me remained three cars behind me constantly; whenever one of the cars between us changed lanes, the Escort would swerve dangerously into another lane, let another car pass, and then swerve dangerously back into the lane, properly spaced. The constant honking that these maneuvers caused were what brought the car to my attention in the first place. In a way it was a relief — if it had been the Government or Mafia hit men, they wouldn’t have been so inept.

I was coming up at a light; I purposely slowed down to miss the yellow — the first time that I could recall ever doing that — and when the light turned red I took the car out of gear, set the parking brake, popped the trunk, switched on my hazard lights and got out of the car. I reached into the trunk just as the driver behind me, in a rusted-out Monte Carlo, started yelling at me in Spanish. He stopped when he realized I pulled out an aluminum softball bat, left over from last season.

The guy in the white Escort didn’t even see me coming; as I walked down the road, he was furtively talking into a cellular phone. The guy’s white, pudgy features became recognizable as I got closer. It was Van Doren, of course.

I stopped at the driver-side window, flipped the bat around so I was holding the thick end, and rapped hard on the window with the handle end. Van Doren jumped at the noise and looked around, confused. It took him about five seconds to realize exactly who it was banging at his door. He spent another three seconds trying to figure out how to make a break for it before he realized he was boxed in. Finally, he smiled sheepishly and rolled down the window.

“Tom,” he said, “isn’t this a small world.”

“Get out of your car, Jim,” I said.

Van Doren’s eyes made a beeline for the bat. “Why?”

“As long as you’re following me, you’re a danger to other motorists,” I said. “I can’t have anyone’s death but yours on my conscience.”

“I think I’ll stay in my car,” Van Doren said.

“Jim,” I said, “If you don’t get out of the car in exactly three seconds, I’m going to take this bat to your windshield.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Van Doren said. “You’ve got a whole street full of witnesses.”

“This is LA, Jim,” I said. “No one’s going to whip out a camcorder unless I’m wearing a badge. One. Two.”

Van Doren hastily opened his door and undid his seat belt.

“All right,” I said, once he had gotten out of his car. “Let’s go. We’ll take my car.”

“What about my car?” Van Doren said. “I can’t just leave it here.”

“Sure you can,” I said. “The police will come by any minute now to pick it up.”

“Please,” Van Doren said. “I can’t. It’s a company car.”

“Should’ve thought of that earlier. Come on, Jim. Less talk. More walk. The light’s changed already.” I nudged him with my bat. He went. We got in my car and made it through the tail end of the next yellow, thus restoring my traffic karmic balance.

Van Doren watched as his Escort faded in the distance. “I want you know, this qualifies as kidnapping,” he said.

“What are you talking about,” I said. “There I was, at a light, minding my own business, when you open my passenger side door and plop yourself into my car. You started asking me harassing questions. A real pain in the ass. But, of course, you’ve done this before. You left six messages at office just today, in fact. I’m driving you around just to humor you. After all, you are acting erratic. If anyone’s in danger here, Jim, it’s me.”

“You’re forgetting the witnesses again,” Van Doren said.

“Oh, come on,” I said, getting into a left turn lane. “Anyone who was there has now gotten out from behind your car and driven off into the sunset. The only thing anyone’s going to see is a deserted car in the middle of a major traffic artery. If I were you, Jim, I’d start making up a cover story right about now. Normally, I’d suggest saying you were carjacked, but no one’s going to believe that. You were driving an Escort.”

Van Doren stared at me for a few seconds, then buckled himself in, almost as an afterthought. “I think I was right,” he said. “You are completely off your rocker.”

I sighed and turned north. “No, Jim, but I am tired of you. Your story about me was a tissue of lies from start to finish. It caused two of my most important clients to bolt. There’s not a single thing in it that’s true, and you caused my career a lot of damage. I could probably sue you and The Biz for libel and get away with it.”

“You’d have a hard time proving malice,” Jim said.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “After all, you did come looking to profile me, and then, after I refused, this thing came out. Given the amount of utter bullshit that floats to the surface of your magazine each week, I think a good lawyer could probably convince a jury you were gunning for me. Bet our lawyers are better than your lawyers.”

“Why are you threatening me?”

“Simple. I want you to leave me alone. I haven’t ever done anything to you, or anything other than try to be the best agent for my clients. I don’t use crack cocaine. I don’t have sex with little boys. I don’t cut up animals for fun. There’s no story, Jim. Just leave me alone.”

“Well, there’s one problem here, Tom,” Van Doren said. “I don’t believe you. Maybe you’re not losing it, though I doubt that at the moment. But you are up to something, and something weird.” He held up a hand and started ticking off points. “First, my boss got a phone call from the Times this morning about your ‘mentor program.’ They say Carl Lupo said that this program has been in place for a while. But I know for a fact that this isn’t the case — my guy inside your company told me so.”

“This wouldn’t be the same ‘inside guy’ who used your story to snake one of my clients, would it?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Jim said. “Though I have heard you broke another agent’s nose the other day.”

“It’s not broken,” I said. “Merely bruised.”

“Second,” Van Doren continued, “you had lunch with Carl Lupo today for over three hours. Three hours, Tom. The last time Carl Lupo did lunch for three hours, he joined Century Pictures as their president. Something is definitely up between the two of you.”

“You watched us for three hours, having lunch?” I said. “Jim, you need to get a life.”

Van Doren cracked a smile. “This may be so. Or maybe I have a life, chasing the biggest story in Hollywood, one that will actually get me away from writing lousy little pieces about agents that no one really cares about. You could just make it easy for me and tell me what it is, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Fine,” I said. “Carl and I are laying the groundwork for an encounter between humans and space aliens. He even went up to their ship.