This Pen for Hire

by Laura Levine

  Prozac, the little slut, threw herself at Cameron, rubbing her body against his ankles with such abandon, I was afraid that in three months she’d give birth to a litter of baby ankles. Finally, I lured her away with a can of Tasty Shrimp Entrails. While she was busy slurping up her dinner, I grabbed my class looseleaf binder, and Cameron and I made a break for it.

  As we headed down the path to Cameron’s car, I could see Lance peeking at us through a slat in his blinds.

  Hands off, I thought. He’s mine.

  Cameron’s Jeep was a mess. I’d noticed that the night we went out together to see Marian’s movie. The backseat was littered with empty water bottles, old invoices, and books of fabric swatches.

  It was one of the things I liked about him. Not that I admire sloppiness in a man. I just have this aversion to clean cars after living with The Blob. The Blob had an old British Aston Martin that was the love of his life. He was fanatic about keeping it clean. He kept Windex in his glove compartment, a waste basket dangling from his dashboard, and—you won’t believe this—a portable vacuum under his seat. He had a special adapter that allowed him to plug it into the cigarette lighter. Heaven help the poor soul who dropped her gum wrapper on the floor.

  So Cameron’s Jeep was definitely a welcome change of pace.

  I tossed my looseleaf binder into the backseat and climbed in alongside Cameron. I only hoped he didn’t notice what a hard time I was having hauling my petite derriere up into the car. Show me a woman who looks graceful getting into a Jeep, and I’ll show you a figment of your imagination.

  I strapped myself in, taking deep breaths of Cameron’s aftershave. It was a lovely citrusy scent, worlds apart from the eau de sweat The Blob used to wear.

  “So,” Cameron said, as we rode over to a nearby In ’n Out Burger. “Anything new on your ‘case’?”

  “As a matter of fact, I went to Stacy’s funeral today.”

  “You did? What was it like?”

  “Dramatic, to say the least.”

  “Tell me everything!” he said, with the gusto of a dedicated gossip.

  And I did. I told him about how Devon attacked Andy. And about the girl with the purple hair, and King Lear at the Lutheran potluck dinner, and about Andy trying to bribe me with a script deal.

  “Wow,” he said when I was through. “I don’t believe it.”

  “What? The part about Devon attacking Andy, or the part about Andy bribing me?”

  “No. The part about King Lear at the Lutheran potluck dinner.”

  Then he smiled one of his killer smiles, and I made a mental note, which I mentally underlined several times, not to order onions with my burger.

  My students buzzed with excitement as I walked into the room with Cameron. The old ladies nudged each other, nodding and smiling. At last, their teacher-who-wasn’t-getting-any-younger had found herself a boyfriend. They all beamed like proud grandmas.

  Only Mr. Goldman seemed pissed. He snatched up the apple he’d left for me at the head of the table and bit into it so vehemently, I thought he’d lose his dentures.

  Good. Let him think I had a boyfriend. Now maybe he’d leave me alone.

  I introduced Cameron as my “friend,” hoping they’d all think “friend” was a euphemism for “insatiable lover.”

  He took a seat between Mrs. Pechter (“My son, the plastic surgeon”), and Mrs. Rubin (“My daughter, the psychotherapist”). He flashed them his crinkly-eyed smile, and they smiled back, instantly smitten. Mrs. Rubin, giggling like a schoolgirl, reached in her purse and offered him a mint. Later she’d probably offer him her daughter in matrimony.

  I asked who wanted to read first, and Mr. Goldman’s hand shot up like a piston. I nodded wearily, and he launched into the latest chapter of his adventures as a carpet salesman. Tonight’s installment involved a trip to Las Vegas, where Mr. Goldman had been honored by his peers as Broadloom Salesman of the Year. It also involved his meeting Wayne Newton and Lola Falana, both of whom were performing at his hotel. According to Mr. Goldman, “Lola looked at me with bedroom eyes, and if I wasn’t a happily married man, I would’ve done something about it.”

  Dream on, Mr. Goldman.

  As he went off on a none-too-exciting tangent about the evils of area rugs, I glanced down at my blouse. True to my vow, I hadn’t ordered onions with my burger at dinner, but I had ordered ketchup, and now I could see a blotchy red stain on the sleeve. Damn. I couldn’t take myself anywhere.

  When I looked up, I saw that Mr. Goldman had finally finished.

  “Nice work, Mr Goldman,” I said, hoping it wasn’t obvious to everyone that I hadn’t been listening. “Okay, who wants to go next?”

  Mrs. Vincenzo raised her hand. I could see Cameron looking at her with interest as she began to read, at her slim dancer’s body and her silken hair wrapped in a careless bun at the crown of her head. Mrs. Vincenzo’s essay was a wonderful piece about her first job, as a chorus girl at a nightclub in Weehawken, New Jersey.

  Cameron sat there, riveted, as she read. I couldn’t help thinking about his friendship with Marian Hamilton. How much he seemed to care for her, how much he probably missed her. Maybe he came with me to my class, not for my stimulating company, but simply to find another older woman to take Marian’s place.

  I barely heard a word anybody read after that; I was too busy thinking about Cameron—and that damn blob of ketchup on my blouse.

  When the class finally ground to a halt, Mr. Goldman took me aside.

  “Is he your boyfriend?” he asked, jerking his head toward Cameron, who was standing across the room talking to Mrs. Vincenzo.

  I thought about lying, but I didn’t have the energy.

  “No,” I said. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Mr. Goldman said smugly. “He looks like a fairy to me.”

  “That Mrs. Vincenzo is quite a pistol,” Cameron said in the Jeep on the way back to my place.

  “Yeah, she sure is,” I conceded grudgingly.

  “She reminds me of Christine.”

  “Christine?”

  “My ex-fiancée.”

  My heart lurched hopefully. Clearly Christine had to be someone of the female persuasion. Which meant Mr. Goldman was wrong. And all my suspicions were unfounded. Cameron wasn’t gay after all.

  “We broke up two months ago.”

  “How interesting!” I blurted out without thinking. “Not interesting that you broke up with your fiancée. Interesting that you were engaged. I mean, to a woman. I mean . . .” I trailed off feebly.

  “You didn’t think I was gay, did you?”

  “Maybe just a little.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” he smiled. “It happens all the time. I guess it’s one of the occupational hazards of being an antiques dealer.”

  How nice. A non-homophobic heterosexual. Most guys I know fly into a paranoid dither if you think they might be gay. And heaven help you if you dare to buy them a pink shirt for Christmas.

  “No,” Cameron said, as we pulled up in front of my apartment. “Christine is definitely a woman. She’s a ballerina with the Los Angeles Ballet.”

  I could just picture her. Some elfin Audrey Hepburn type with long legs and a swanlike neck.

  Suddenly, I couldn’t decide whether to be glad Cameron wasn’t gay, or miserable that I obviously wasn’t his type. Face it. Men who like delicate ballet dancers rarely wind up with women who’re just inches away from queen-sized panty hose.

  “So how come you guys broke up?”

  Cameron looked pained.

  “She wanted to get married. Unfortunately, not to me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  Then he forced himself to smile.

  “So, how about you? You ever been married? Engaged? Or otherwise encumbered?”

  “Married. Once.”

  “And?”

  “Not exactly a match made in heaven.”

  He nodded sympathetically, waiting for
me to spill my guts. But I didn’t want to bore him with the excruciating details of life with The Blob. (I’m saving that stuff for you.)

  And then, before I knew what was happening, he was leaning toward me. For a blissful minute, I thought he was going to kiss me. But all he did was reach into his glove compartment.

  “Want a Tic Tac?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. Then, much too perkily, “Oh, my! Look at the time. I’d better get going.”

  I reached into the backseat to get my looseleaf binder, my Queen Size fanny jutting out toward Cameron’s dashboard. Good Lord. How humiliating. As I struggled to gather some papers that had scattered to the floor, I pictured the headlines: Giant Ass Attacks Jeep Cherokee, Driver Mistakes It for Inflated Airbag.

  Oh, well. It didn’t matter. He was obviously still in love with his ex-girlfriend.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Creative Talent Agency is in a glitzy high-rise on Sunset Boulevard. The kind of building with wall-to-wall windows and spectacular views. So spectacular that on a clear day, when the fog lifts, you can see the smog.

  As I made my way up in the elevator for my meeting with Andy Bruckner, I went over all the movie ideas I’d dreamed up. Which totalled Zero. Nada. Zip. Here was my big chance to become a megabucks screenwriter, and I was blowing it. But somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to pitch ideas to a slimebag like Andy.

  Instead of dreaming up a high-concept story for Julia or Meg or Cameron, I’d spent the morning working on a mailer for one of my regular clients, Toiletmaster Plumbers (“In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmaster!”).

  I stepped off the elevator onto carpeting so thick, I could barely see my Reeboks. I drifted over to an icy blond receptionist at a brand-new antique desk, reading a paperback copy of Sartre’s No Exit. I could see she was on page three. I got the feeling that she’d been on page three for a long time—that page two was a distant memory, and page four an impossible dream. She looked up from her book, and gave me the once-over.

  “Delivery?” she asked, looking for a package.

  “No,” I huffed. “I’m Jaine Austen. I’ve got an appointment to see Andy Bruckner.”

  “Yeah, right. And I actually understand this crap I’m reading.” Okay, she didn’t really say that, but she was thinking it. What she really said was, “Oh?”

  She picked up her phone and dialed.

  “Hi, Kevin. There’s a Ms. Austen here who says she’s here to see Andy.” She listened to the voice on the other end, then hung up, conceding defeat. “His assistant will be right with you,” she said with a grudging smile. “Have a seat.”

  She gestured to several leather sofas scattered around the room.

  I sat down in one of them, across from two lanky guys sporting scruffy jeans and a colorful assortment of nervous tics. Obviously screenwriters. One of them had a script rolled up in his lap and was going over a page of notes; the other tapped his foot in a compulsive staccato on the thick carpeting.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” the receptionist asked.

  I was just about to say yes, when I saw that she wasn’t talking to me. She was talking to the screenwriters.

  “No, thanks, hon,” the foot-tapper said.

  He turned to his partner with a worried look on his face.

  “You think maybe we need some comic relief in the decapitation scene?”

  I swear, he said that. I’m not making it up. No wonder so many of today’s movies look like something unclogged by Toiletmasters.

  After a while, a svelte redhead in a suit that cost more than my car came out from an impressive set of double doors and breezed over to the screenwriters. She air-kissed them gingerly, careful not to make body contact, then led them back through the double doors into the inner sanctum.

  I sat back and waited. And waited. And waited. People arrived for their appointments, were kept cooling their heels the requisite amount of time, and then were finally ushered through the double doors. I had a mental image of a row of agents, sitting at their desks, playing computer solitaire, counting the minutes till they’d kept their clients waiting long enough.

  Most of the clients in the waiting room were writers. I could tell by the scripts in their hands and the paranoia in their eyes. At one point a gorgeous woman with legs that wouldn’t quit showed up, and was ushered in right away. She had to have been either an actress or a mistress. One guy showed up in an impressive three-piece suit. I could have sworn he was Ted Turner. But he turned out to be the Xerox repairman.

  People came, and people went, and I just sat there. After about forty minutes, I was about to get up and say something to the receptionist when the double doors swung open, and a shorter version of Andy, a curly-haired guy with rolled-up sleeves and Larry King suspenders, came bustling to my side.

  “You Jaine Austen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Kevin Delaney, Andy’s assistant.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  I held out my hand for a handshake. He stared at it as if it were a cockroach on a bed of basmati rice.

  “Sorry,” he said curtly, “but your meeting with Andy’s been cancelled.”

  “What?” I said, anger bubbling up from my stomach.

  “Andy told me to tell you he knows all about you. He called The New York Times. He said he doesn’t do business with liars.”

  “Then I guess he doesn’t work much in this town.”

  “Yeah, right. Biting Hollywood humor. Very funny.”

  He started back toward the double door.

  “Hey! Wait a minute!” I shouted, causing the receptionist to look up, alarmed, from page three of her book.

  Mr. Suspenders stopped in his tracks and turned to me.

  “Yes?”

  “Just when did Andy make this phone call to The Times?”

  “Yesterday, I think.”

  “He made me drive all the way over in rush-hour traffic and kept me waiting forty minutes for a meeting he knew he wasn’t going to keep?”

  “Sure looks that way, doesn’t it?” he sneered.

  He started to walk away, and I grabbed him by the suspenders.

  “Look, you putz,” I said, shouting loud enough for all the people in the reception area to hear me, “you tell Mr. Bruckner that I know all about him, too. All about his affair with Stacy Lawrence. And tell him that my next pitch meeting is going to be with the police.”

  By now, everyone was staring at me. Half of them, I’m sure, were wondering how they could work this scene into their next screenplay.

  As I stomped over to the elevator, I could hear the receptionist calling security.

  It took a while for an elevator to show up. I could feel the eyes of the receptionist boring into my back as I waited.

  When the elevator doors finally opened, two slack-jawed security guards came bounding out. “Some crazy woman is making a scene at the reception desk,” I said, as they hurried past me. Then I slipped into the elevator and pressed the “Close Door” button before they discovered that the crazy woman was me.

  I headed down to the garage and picked up my car from the valet-parking area. A bored cashier held out her hand.

  “That’ll be eight dollars, please.”

  Eight dollars? For a crummy parking spot?

  I ground my teeth as I forked over the money. The cashier smiled and offered me a complimentary chocolate mint. In a wild act of defiance, fueled by my fury at Andy Bruckner, I took two.

  I was halfway home, sucking on my four-dollar mint, when I looked up and saw Palmetto, the restaurant where Devon MacRae worked parking cars. On an impulse, I swung into the parking lot. It was only five o’clock, and the lot was empty. Three valet parkers were standing at the ticket booth in their red jackets, shooting the breeze. One of them was Devon.

  The sign at the ticket booth said, “Valet Parking $4.” I’d be damned if I was going to shell out another four bucks. So I swerved into a spot and parked my car myself. Then I got out and headed over to where Devon w
as standing with the two other valets, both handsome young Mexican guys.

  One of them started to punch me a parking ticket.

  “No!” I stopped him. “I’m not going to the restaurant; I’m here to talk to Mr. MacRae.”

  Devon stared at me blankly, no sign of recognition in his eyes.

  “We met the other day at Stacy’s funeral,” I prompted.

  “Oh, right,” he said, clearly embarrassed that I’d seen him hauled away by The Vale of Peace security guards.

  “Can we talk? In private?”

  “Sure.”

  We walked over to my Corolla. I was trying to decide what profession to assume (lawyer? reporter? police detective?) when Devon made up my mind for me.

  “Wait a minute. Now I remember you. You were standing next to me at the gravesite, weren’t you?”

  “Right.”

  “You must be the newspaper reporter.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Zane told me.”

  “Zane?”

  “The girl with the purple hair.”

  “Oh, right. Zane.”

  “She said you worked for The New York Times.”

  “Mmm,” I said, technically not lying.

  I halfway expected him to take out a flyer for a play he was starring in. But thankfully, he didn’t.

  “I hope you won’t write about that crazy scene at the cemetery. I don’t know what came over me.” He shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. “I was just so crazy about Stacy. I guess I went a little nuts.”

  “Do you really think Andy Bruckner killed her?”

  “Who knows?” he shrugged. “I think he’s capable of it. Or at least, he’s capable of hiring someone to do it.”

  Aha. So my hit-man theory wasn’t so far off base, after all.

  “But that’s not what I meant when I said if it hadn’t been for Andy, Stacy would still be alive today.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “Just that if she hadn’t broken up with me, we’d be living together by now, in a place of our own, and she never would have agreed to go out with that lunatic they arrested.”