Little Lies

by Cherie Bennett

  I’d rather have days of humiliation than one moment of that kind of temptation.

  At 11:00 a.m. on the dot, my father and I parked the Saturn in the spot that the guard had assigned us at the Universal lot in Burbank. Actually, my dad parked it, since he was driving and I was navigating. My navigational role had already paid off, since two main roads in Burbank had been closed due to police activity and I’d had to use my GPS app to find an alternate.

  My dad’s first meeting was with Avi Marcus Productions, at Universal. Then there would be meetings at Warner Bros., Paramount, and Sony.

  That was just for today.

  The Working Stiff television studio was cool, but it was nothing compared to a movie studio. The Universal lot was huge, almost like a town, with soundstages, sets, offices, and production facilities that sprawled in all directions. We came on through a controlled gate where the guard asked us for ID and verified our names on a computer. Not on the list? No entry.

  Avi Marcus Productions was housed in one of a double row of small gray bungalows at the east end of the lot, about a half-mile walk from where we’d parked. As we reached this area, it was hard to imagine that blockbuster movie scripts and TV shows were developed here.

  Marcus’s bungalow was like all the others. With its screen door and weathered gray siding, it looked more like a camp bunk than anything else. It was identifiable only by a small sign near the sidewalk. We opened the screen door and stepped inside. A receptionist with gargantuan breast implants and bleached-blond hair past her tush greeted us.

  “May I help you?” She had an annoyingly girly voice.

  “I’m Charlie Shelton,” my father told her. He’d dressed conservatively for these meetings, in black trousers, a white shirt, and a gray sport jacket. I was in jeans and a long-sleeve gray blouse. “This is my daughter Natalie. We’re here to meet Avi Marcus.”

  “Oh! Yes!” The receptionist had a high enthusiasm factor. “Avi’s eleven-fifteen. He’s expecting you! Can I get you guys something cold to drink? Coffee? Tea? Vitamin Water?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Melissa. I’ve got it covered. Hi, guys. I’m Avi.”

  I turned. A short young guy wearing jeans and a tennis shirt and holding a manuscript stood in the doorway. Though we were indoors, he still wore shades.

  I was shocked. This was Avi Marcus? The Avi Marcus who’d produced two blockbusters the year before? He couldn’t have been more than thirty years old!

  Avi shook my dad’s hand. When he talked, his delivery was rapid-fire. “It’s great to have you here. And this is …?” He paused for air.

  “My daughter. Natalie. Navigator in chief for the day.”

  Avi offered his hand to me. “Nice to meet you, Natalie. As long as you’re not an agent! You’re not an agent in disguise, are you? Why don’t you join us? Come on, follow me, follow me. You know what I’m saying?”

  My dad and I exchanged looks. This guy was wired. But we followed Avi to his office, which was nice but hardly fashionable. Utilitarian couches, chairs, and bookcases. The only things that made it say “Avi” were framed publicity posters from his movies.

  “My assistant was up all night with your manuscript,” Avi told my dad even before he’d ushered us onto a plaid couch. “She couldn’t put it down. I read her coverage and it blew me away. I love Inside Doubt. I want to make it. I can make it. The studio loves me. I bring them something I want to make, and they throw money at me. Let’s do the deal. You know what I’m saying?”

  My father was circumspect. After all, Avi had just admitted that he hadn’t personally read the manuscript.

  “I’m … I’m honored that you think my book would work as a movie.”

  Avi never sat. Instead, he paced around his office, gesturing as he talked. “Think it will work? I know it will work. It will work like no movie ever worked. It’s genius, you know what I’m saying?” He looked right at me. At least, I think he did, since his sunglasses hid his eyes. “Natalie, your father is a storyteller. I mean, a real storyteller. I mean, a real, real, real storyteller. You know what I’m saying?”

  Avi put “you know what I’m saying” at the end of every thought. Mega-annoying. You know what I’m saying?

  “I do know,” I told him.

  “We’ll make some plot adjustments, of course, so we can sell the thing overseas.” Avi’s delivery sped up to Mach 5. “The heroine? Dru? I’d like to spell her name Drew, D-R-E-W, and make her a him. Not a transsexual, but a guy. It’s more bankable overseas if it’s a guy. Girls go to see guys, and guys go to see guys, but guys don’t go to see girls, you know what I’m saying, unless their girlfriends make them, and in this case, since it’s a thriller, it’s the guy picking the movie and buying the ticket, you know what I’m saying?”

  Whew. I glanced at my dad. What was this guy on? Then it was off to the races again.

  “So with the girl now a guy, I want to give it a science fiction spin. These scientists want to influence Drew, and they figure the best way to do it is to implant a personality-changing microchip in the heart he’s about to get—it’s like an experiment. So what happens is that Drew becomes a three-personality psycho. His own personality, the personality of the person who gives him the heart, and the microchip personality. Imagine the scenes when they’re all fighting with each other. I’d pay to see that. And I haven’t even started to think about casting, but Owen Wilson is a good buddy of mine. Or maybe Tommy. Tom Hanks, if we want that everyman thing. He’s a good buddy too.” He pointed at my dad. “I’ll give you an associate producer credit and make you a story consultant. That’s my gift to you, you know what I’m saying?”

  More whew.

  My dad had obviously heard enough. He stood, his jaw set that certain way he had when he was unhappy.

  “Avi,” he said politely, “it was good hearing what you had to say. Natalie and I have to run to our next meeting.”

  “Of course, of course! So tell me, Charlie. Who’s your representation? CAA? WMA-Endeavor?” Avi didn’t realize he was being snubbed.

  “No agent,” my father said gruffly. “I’m not a big fan of agents. All they do is take your money.”

  Even through his sunglasses, you could see Avi’s eyes light up at this. “Then I’ll just email an offer sheet over to you, you know what I’m saying?”

  My father touched my shoulder gently. “We need to get to our next meeting. Let’s go.”

  The receptionist with the basketballs attached to her pecs saw us out the door, and my dad put a finger to his lips until we were several hundred feet from the Avi Marcus Productions bungalow. Then he hit himself on the forehead with his palm..

  “That was an experience. Could you imagine working with that lunatic?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know. What was he on?”

  “What wasn’t he on? I don’t care if he offered me a million dollars! No, no, no, no, no! You know what I’m saying?”

  That made us laugh, big-time.

  I took out the appointment sheet. Our next meeting was at Warner Bros. at one-thirty p.m. Warner was so close to Universal that we had time to kill. We decided to find someplace on Yelp that looked interesting and have an early lunch right here in Burbank. Still laughing about Avi Marcus—neither my dad nor I could believe that the guy could produce an iPhone video, let alone an international blockbuster—we retraced our steps to the parking lot.

  The walk took us past a movie exterior set that looked like small-town America and made me momentarily nostalgic for Minnesota. Then a Universal Studios open-air tour bus rolled past, filled with gawkers and visitors. A few people waved. We waved back. As the bus pulled away, we heard a voice call to us.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t Shelton pere and fille being kind to the tourists!”

  Kent Stevens. He strode toward us, smiling hugely. He wore black jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black baseball jacket. “What brings the Sheltons to U? Someone else get wind of that great book of yours, Charlie?”

  My dad n
odded. “Exactly.”

  “May I ask who?”

  “Avi Marcus.”

  Kent couldn’t control himself. “Avi Marcus? That lunatic? Charlie, I don’t care if you never listen to another thing I say for the rest of your life. But for God’s sake, do not allow that coked-up, methed-up mental case anywhere near anything you write, or you will live to regret it. You know what I’m saying?”

  My father and I grinned.

  “That’s about right, Kent,” my dad acknowledged.

  “How did he even become a producer?” I asked.

  “Family money,” Kent confided. “His father got rich in the foam plate business. He has a decent eye for spectacle and can make big offers. His weaknesses are everything else. Who set this meeting for you, Charlie?”

  My dad looked Kent right in the eye. “He called me directly. I don’t have an agent.”

  “Really.” Kent checked his Rolex; he was one of the few people I knew who still wore a watch. “Look. I’ve got about an hour before my meeting. The commissary is about five minutes’ walk. Can I buy you guys some coffee or lunch and give you some unsolicited advice about the movie business? Charlie, I swear I’m not after your manuscript. In fact, after everything that’s happened, it’s better for everyone that I don’t try to make a movie from it. What do you say?”

  I thought my dad had nothing to lose. What if the rest of the meetings he’d set for himself turned out like the last one?

  Wisely, my father said yes. Maybe the clincher was that Kent claimed the commissary—movie-speak for “cafeteria”—made one of the best pastrami sandwiches in the Valley.

  On the way to the commissary, Kent asked my dad why he’d never gotten an agent.

  “They take fifteen percent, don’t they? Plus I’ve already got relationships with my publisher and editors,” my father explained.

  “Out here, if they rep you for everything, it’s just ten percent,” Kent said, correcting him. “Which means that if an agent can get you eleven percent more money—any competent agent can do that—you’re ahead. But a good agent can get you way more than that.”

  Huh. It made sense to me. Especially if movie agents took less than book agents did.

  We reached the commissary, which was more like a food court than the Craft Service tent at Working Stiff. It was as big as a soccer field, with wooden tables and chairs spread across the hardwood floor, and there were stations for salads, sandwiches, Italian, Chinese, American, and vegetarian specialties. The lunch rush hadn’t started, so we were served quickly. My dad insisted on paying for himself and me. Kent didn’t argue.

  Kent was right. The pastrami rocked, though Kent claimed this was nothing compared to Langer’s delicatessen downtown. “But back to the movie biz. Can I say a few things?”

  My dad nodded. Not that he could talk. His mouth was full of the scrumptious pastrami. Kent held forth. Even to me, it was riveting. He talked about specific producers whom he respected, and others we should avoid like hepatitis C. He talked of the studios that were stable, and those where there had been a recent change at the top or where a change in leadership was being contemplated.

  “You don’t want to be someplace at the start of a new regime,” he warned. “Because the new boss will automatically chuck all the old boss’s projects.”

  My dad dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “That sounds stupid.”

  “Not hardly. Who would want to make the old chief’s stuff into a hit? That just makes it look dumb that he or she got fired,” Kent explained.

  That made sense, too. From the look on my dad’s face, I could tell he agreed with me.

  “It’s different from the book biz, huh?” he asked Kent.

  The producer who didn’t want my dad’s novel nodded. “That’s why you need an agent. They’ve got information you don’t. They can call in a favor. They can even suggest a package deal of a star and a director from their agency. If you’re lucky, they can touch off a bidding war.” Kent reached for a sour pickle, seemed ready to nibble it, and then put it down. “No point polluting the pastrami,” he joked. “Anyway, if you’re interested in an agent, I’ll be happy to call anyone you want. To grease your skids, so to speak. It’ll save a lot of time. Just let me know who—”

  His cell rang discreetly. He checked caller ID, told us he needed to take it, and then moved off to talk.

  “So, what do you think?” my dad asked when we were alone.

  “Of the pastrami?” I smiled slyly. “I could live on it.”

  “Kent’s right. I need an agent. But who?”

  I got a great idea. Without telling my dad whom I was calling, I dug out my iPhone and punched the third number on speed dial.

  “Who are you calling?”

  I help up a finger, hoping Brett wasn’t shooting a scene at Working Stiff. That would be the only thing that would stop him from answering.

  “Hey, gorgeous Minnesota girl,” he answered. His voice was deep and rumbly.

  “Hey yourself. Have a sec?”

  My dad’s eyes were curious. I still hadn’t told him whom I was calling.

  “Just about. I’m waiting for the director to call me in.”

  “Then I’ll be quick. My dad—I told you about him, he’s the mystery writer? I think he needs an agent. Who should he talk to?”

  My instincts were right. Brett had the definitive answer.

  “Paradigm. They’re big enough to matter, but not so big he’ll get lost. They’re professional, they’re honest … and they represent me.”

  I laughed. “That’s a good rec.”

  “I agree. Okay, gotta go. Use my name. I’ll call you later.” He clicked off. I turned to my dad.

  “That was Brett. He said start with Paradigm.”

  My father drank some water. He’d demolished the rest of his sandwich while I had been on the phone. “Can’t say I know them. Paradigm, you said?”

  “Paradigm? Fantastic agency.” Kent came back to our table. “One of my faves. You want a meeting there? Good. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to call them for you, and you’re going to call your appointments and cancel. You don’t need a reason. Just say something came up and you have to reschedule. ‘Reschedule’ is the magic Los Angeles word. Everyone here reschedules all the time. Corpses reschedule their own funerals.”

  “But why?” my dad asked. “Why don’t Nat and I hear these people out?”

  “Because your new agent won’t want you at any meeting without being there, too. Or at least setting it.”

  My dad took out his cell. So did Kent. Thirty seconds later, my dad had canceled at Warner Bros. and Kent had an announcement to make.

  “Congratulations. You’ve got a five o’clock with Norm Aladjem at Paradigm.”

  My dad’s thank-you was heartfelt.

  I was impressed. Kent had gone out of his way to help us when there was really nothing in it for him. If being part of my mother’s congregation at the Church of Beverly Hills had something to do with that? So much the better.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Thanks, Natalie. Great shift. And you kept yourself spotless. We love that at Whitehall. Good work.”

  I smiled and checked out my white men’s cotton shirt and white above-the-knee skirt. Not a speck. I’d just finished a busy Tuesday lunch shift and had made a bunch of money. It wasn’t like working the dinner shift, but I was still $143 ahead for three and a half hours’ work. Not only that, but Gabi had moved me into the main dining room and given me four tables instead of just three. It boded well.

  “Thanks, Gabi,” I told the manager. “It’s actually fun.”

  “I wish all our new waitresses made as good a start as you have. I’m going to put in a word for you with corporate. Maybe the big boss will send you something. He gave me a catamaran when we passed two million in gross sales.”

  Whitehall was owned by a private corporation. The lead owner was a mysterious character who Gabi always called “the big boss” and who preferred to k
eep a very low profile. As long as the restaurant was making money, everyone was happy.

  “I’ll never meet him?” I asked.

  Gabi shook his head. “He doesn’t even come to the holiday party. Anyway, we’ll see you tomorrow at lunch and Thursday for dinner. Have a great afternoon. And about not working Saturday night? No worries.. Not when you’re doing such a good job.”

  I practically skipped out of Whitehall. I was psyched that Gabi didn’t have a problem with my staking off Saturday night, but that wasn’t why I was skipping. I had the rest of the afternoon and evening in front of me, and plenty of money in my pocket. I had the car, too. I planned to drive to Santa Monica to visit a famous guitar store called McCabe’s. It advertised itself as the biggest and best in Los Angeles. Not that I wanted to buy another ax. I had two. That was plenty. But that I could afford another if I wanted one made a bigger difference to me than I would have imagined.

  The truth was I had a bigger acquisitional priority. My folks had talked vaguely about buying me a car. If I kept earning like this, I could afford to buy a car for myself, and sooner than I could have dreamed.

  I strolled to the Whitehall lot down the street with a new appreciation for window-shopping. Once, everything had been out of my price range. Now a $350 red leather Fendi handbag was a possibility. Plenty of girls would buy that bag. Alex owned a couple. Brooke probably owned a dozen. If I wanted one, I could have one, too. But who’d want to spend money like that on something to hold your wallet, lip gloss, and used tissues? Ridiculous.

  The thought that I could afford the bag but would never buy it made me feel good. In fact, there was a lot to feel good about. I felt good that my dad had had a great meeting at Paradigm late the day before and was going back in that day. I felt good about Gemma, who’d been full of enthusiasm at breakfast about her improv classes. Even if no one had yet told her that she didn’t have a future as a comedienne, she was having fun and meeting people. That was the most important thing.