Impossibly Tongue-Tied (6 page)

It was just as Nina had always envisioned a Hollywood agent should live.

And now, if all went well, this particular Hollywood agent would be Nathan's…

…and maybe, every once in a while, they'd be invited over to watch the sunset and splash around in the tide.

With Nathan's agent, Sam Godwin, right there alongside them.

Heck, she reasoned. Then they
would
be living the California dream!

Considering Sam had agreed to see Nathan's DVD, Nina felt that the least she could do was make sure he got what he had come to Tommaso's for in the first place. So she had looked up Sam's home address in Tommaso's VIP database,
and after her shift ended, she picked up Jake and Plum from Sage Oak, then headed out on Highway One, toward the Malibu colony until she found Sam's place.

The moment she pushed the cottage's security bell, a dog started barking from inside. The voice that answered, a bit breathy and certainly annoyed at the interruption, demanded that she walk through the courtyard to the front door.

It was too much to hope that Sam would be home to greet her. More likely he was commandeering what she imagined was a football-sized corner office on the top floor of the three-story Frank Gehry-designed ICA Tower on Wilshire Boulevard at Rodeo, chatting up one of the Toms, or maybe Denzel, or perhaps even Nicole. Still, any brownie points she could secure on Nathan's behalf was her goal, even if that meant dropping off Sam's teff with his housekeeper.

Or, in this case, a very pretty, very agile, and certainly very buff Danskin-clad girlfriend, and an overly friendly Labrador retriever.

“Down, Towser, down,” grumbled the girlfriend, seemingly helpless in controlling the friendly pup. Nina patted him on the back, then gave him a command to heel. Immediately Towser went down on all fours with a look of adoration in his eyes.

“So, you're delivering the teff.
Hmmm
. Well,
that's
certainly…surprising.” Cocking her head in consternation, Sam's girlfriend ignored Nina's offering. Instead she reached languorously behind herself to grasp an outstretched leg.

Quite frankly, the position reminded Nina of one she had learned in a free pole-dancing class that Nathan had insisted she take when he'd seen it offered by the gym down the block from their apartment.

Scrutinizing Nina, the human pretzel then asked pointedly, “Say, what sign are you?”

Nina blew the bangs out of her eyes. She suddenly realized that she had forgotten to push the child-lock button on the backseat windows of the car, and Jake had already wrestled Plum's favorite Diva Starz from her with the aim of tossing it out onto the Pacific Coast Highway and causing a three-car pile-up. “Taurus,” she answered. As if
that
mattered. “It won't affect your plans for the teff, will it?”

Slinky blinked twice. Obviously, it did matter, because she said with all seriousness, “Maybe. That depends.”

“On what?”

“On why he left it on the counter in the first place.” She let her leg snake vertically up the wall. Giving Nina the once-over, she added: “Believe me, if Saturn weren't in retrograde, I
wouldn't
be worried.
At all.
”

“Stop me if I'm wrong, but the fact that you brought it up in the first place makes Saturn's orbit immaterial, doesn't it?”

That notion suddenly made Slinky uncomfortable. With a barely civil nod, she snatched the plastic bag of teff out of Nina's hand and shut the door.

By the time Nina reached the car, Plum's Diva Starz pop tartlet had already been flattened by southbound traffic.
Great,
thought Nina. That little problem could be easily rectified with a stop at the closest Toys “R” Us, but she knew that doing so meant being bombarded with cries of “Buy me! Buy me!” from both Plum—a child who had yet to learn the meaning of the word no—and Jake, who, when the situation merited it, could be the perfect mimic.

Considering the day she was having, Nina couldn't endure that.

Instead she endured Plum's high-pitched howls of mourning until the kids were shuttled inside the Hartes' third-story apartment.

It was only after Jake and Plum had loaded up on Cap'n Crunch—her son's usual after-school treat—and were jumping off his tiny, messy bedroom's walls by using his bed's very thin, very cheap Sleep Train mattress as a trampoline, that Nina realized she had forgotten Becca's grocery order. The afternoon's only saving grace was that Ylva showed up not just one hour later but two, giving Nina enough time to swing back by Tommaso's for the groceries, and for precious Plum to crash from her sugar high.

By the time Sam had arrived at the Chateau Marmont for the after-party celebrating Hugo's latest film,
Very Bad Boys,
the booze was flowing as freely as the hyperbole coming from the mouths of all in attendance. From what Sam could hear, everyone was in development (as opposed to Development Hell); So-and-So was just a
dream
to work with (not, as had been previously reported in Page Six or Ted Casablanca's “Awful Truth” column or Defamer.com, an unparalleled bitch/raving lunatic/burned-out druggie); and everyone agreed that Hugo's latest film was “another winner from a true artist with a unique idiosyncratic vision…”

“Who do these fuckheads think they're kidding?” Hugo growled as he waved Sam over to the barstool beside him, then downed another Dewar's on the rocks. “They wouldn't know a hit if it bit them on the ass. These clowns are all here for whatever poontang they can scrape up for later tonight, not for my
movie. Besides, by Monday, when the box office numbers are in, they'll all be back to calling me a has-been.”

Because the bar's lounge was small, the crowd had naturally flowed into the restaurant and out by the pool on the terrace, which was why Hugo always chose the Marmont for his after-parties in the first place: It was a great place to hide in plain sight while he drank away his angst, ogled the glamorous women hovering about, and most importantly, avoided his constantly hovering wife, Lucinda…

Particularly when he had a reason to avoid her.

That reason being his infatuation with a phantom.

O.

“You know, Hugo, this bar is your purgatory. You sit right there on that same stool after every premiere and whine that same tune.” Sam signaled the bartender that he'd have the same as his soused host. “Face it. You love what you do, and your public loves
you.
” Taking the glass placed before him, Sam tipped it in honor of Hugo and gulped it down.

“What good is that, if…” Hugo's voice trailed off.

“If what?” asked Sam.

“If you can't share it with someone you really love?”

Oh, shit!
thought Sam.
This infatuation is worse than I thought.

Still, he wasn't ready to turn over that Ben Franklin to Lucinda without first putting up a good fight.

Sam signaled the bartender for another. Grabbing the glass offered, he motioned for the director to follow him out into the Marmont's less crowded terrace.

It was a smart maneuver. Out by the pool the crowd was thinner and definitely choicer: A coterie of starlets had set up
camp by the outdoor bartender, who was making appletinis by the pitcher full. Still, there was less of a chance that anyone could overhear what Sam had to say to Hugo:

That he had to drop a certain husky-voiced siren, appropriately nicknamed O because apparently she was quite an operator. At least she most
certainly
had Hugo's number—to the tune of some three thousand dollars a month.

And, oh, by the way, Lucinda and her accountants weren't very happy about that at all, either, Sam informed his friend.

Hugo frowned. “Jeez, Lucinda…
knows
? I spent…
how much?
I…I guess I lost count.”

Sam gave a low whistle. “Hell, Hugo, I think this O character is making almost as much off of you as
I
did last year. She must have quite some, um,
technique.
”

“Yeah, I'll admit it she's got quite a turn with a phrase…and that voice of hers…it's…so…Jeez, Sam, I've never heard anyone like her!” He turned to face Sam, head held high. “But I don't care. It was worth every penny.”

Sam put a cube of ice in his mouth and sucked on it. He wanted another drink, but the outdoor bartender was still grandstanding for his very giggly, very appreciative audience, and Sam didn't want to wait in line.

What was that dude mixing those drinks with anyway, Manolo Blahnik stilettos?

“Look, Hugo, I think you should own up to the fact that you're getting somewhat carried away with this ‘hobby.' No big deal. Hell, every third guy in this town has some PSO on speed dial. But still, it's got to mean something to you that you're breaking Lucinda's heart—”

Tears welled up in Hugo's eyes. “Of course I…I never
meant to hurt her.
I love her
. It's just that…well—I can't give up O! I just
can't
!” Hugo's frantic whispers were turning some heads now.

Sam put a hand on Hugo's arm, to warn him to lower his voice. Hugo took a deep breath, but his still adamant tone was proof that Sam wasn't changing his mind. “You don't get it, Sam. It's…it's more than just the dirty talk. I mean sure, she allows me to…to fantasize. But also, she…she actually
listens
to me. She's the only woman who knows the
real
me—without
really knowing
me, Sam!”

“I don't get it.”

“She doesn't know that…that I'm
Hugo Schmitt.
” He whispered this, as if he were afraid that even saying it out loud would change that.

And change how O felt about him.

Sam laughed out loud. “For sure,
that
would make a difference. For one thing, her rates would go up.”

Pained at Sam's reaction, Hugo muttered, “There's nothing funny about this! Hell, I thought that, at the very least,
you
would understand.”

“Let me tell you what I do understand.” It was Sam's turn to get serious. “I understand that Lucinda is on the war path. And I understand that if she tells Archie how much you've spent on this—this little ‘addiction' of yours, he'll pull the plug on Flagrant Films. Hugo, if he's vindictive enough, we may be talking
jail time
here! The world as you know it will blow up in your face, all because some certainly-too-ugly-to-be-a-real-hooker chick has a voice that gives you a hard-on!”

He moved in close so that only Hugo would hear him, and there'd be no mistaking his point. “Hell, Hugo, you
haven't even
humped
her! That ain't the Hugo Schmitt
I
know.” He took another gulp of melting ice. “Hey, has it even occurred to you that instead of yapping O's ear off almost every night, you could just hire her as your ‘assistant' and bang her legitimately?”

At least it would be legitimate by Hollywood standards.

“Sam, I'll be honest with you: I haven't banged
anyone
since I met her. Not even Lucinda. I guess I feel that would be…well,
unfaithful
…to O.”

Sam choked on his ice cube. “Shit, man! No
wonder
Lucinda's pissed. You're—you're not just obsessed,
you're in love!
And it's not just with a piece of ass. It's with
a voice
—which is probably attached to a face that might make you scream if you woke up beside it! You're about to blow your meal ticket, Hugo! Not to mention, you're also losing the one woman who will ever love your sorry ass unconditionally. Hell, do you know how lucky you are? And need I remind you that
I
was the one who set you two up in the first place?”

No doubt about it, it was truly a match made in heaven: Hugo was a creative genius; Lucinda was a trust fund baby looking to be a muse to a creative genius; and Archie, grateful that she'd chosen a guy in the town who was admired despite the fact that his projects would never be blockbusters like the teen gross-out flicks and the end-of-the-world special effects extravaganzas Archie typically produced. However, Hugo's “artsy-fartsy pictures,” as he called them, were always up for Academy Awards, which was why Archie was more than willing to finance his son-in-law.

As the cold, hard clarity of the situation hit him, Hugo's eyes suddenly got big.

“You're—you're right. I can't blow this!” He clutched Sam by the elbow of his Piatelli. “You—you've gotta
help
me, Sam! Before…before I chuck it all away!'

Sam had never seen his buddy this desperate—another reason for needing that damn Scotch. But still there was no break in the drink line. If anything, the all-female crowd around the bar had gotten even thicker.

Hell, thought Sam, you'd think that bartender was giving away Victoria's Secret V-string panties or something with each drink…

Shit, what a great promotion
that
would be! He'd mention it to Fiona, the publicist on Katerina and Hugo's upcoming project. Suddenly remembering his promise to Kat, Sam groaned out loud. If Lucinda and Archie pulled the plug on Hugo, that project would go in the crapper, too.

He'd have to move fast.

“Look, Hugo, I've got a new client who I think would be perfect for the Kat project.”

“I've decided to go with Brad. I think they'll be a good fit.”

“Trust me, this guy runs rings around Brad. He really knows how to make love to the camera.”

“How green is he?”

“Well, that's the problem. He's…he's only done a couple of indies.”

“Anything I've seen?”

“Probably not.”

“What, are you jerking me off? Put some newbie opposite Kat? Hell, she'd eat him up alive.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that yes, that was what she had in mind, but Sam thought better of it. “Dude, you've
got to trust me on this one. I've got a good gut instinct about Nathan Harte.”

“Well, at least his name sounds like a winner. If he doesn't do anything stupid like shorten it, so that it doesn't sound like a Hollywood nursery rhyme: Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Jude Law…” Hugo's sense of humor had returned somewhat. “Look, tell you what: I'll pass on Brad—for Nathan—if you save my ass on this…this
other
thing. Otherwise, the picture doesn't get made anyway, with
anyone
. Heck, Archie pulls out, and we can put Smarty Jones up there with Kat for that matter, right?”

Considering the horse's stud potential, she'd probably like that too much,
thought Sam, although he didn't say it out loud.

“Don't worry, I'll take care of your little problem with Lucinda. But that means no more calls to this O person, Hugo.”

“No, no, no, Sam, I can't do that!” Hugo started to hyperventilate. “I can keep it on the sly, believe me, I can! But I just can't go…
cold turkey.
” His shoulders slumped as he leaned up against his friend, his agent, his protector.

As he patted Hugo sympathetically on the back, Sam noticed that the crowd around the bar had finally cleared a bit, affording him a glimpse of the Lothario behind the counter, and yep, certainly he could see why the ladies were flitting about.

In fact, the dude looked familiar…

Sam shrugged off the inclination to remember who/what/when/how, and focused on reading Hugo the riot act instead.

“You can't chance another call, Hugo! What Lucinda wants is golden, and that's all there is to it. Hell, go to a strip club
every now and then. Or buy some Viagra and some Femprox and some sex toys, and take Lucinda to some island paradise! We're talking about your
career
here, guy.”

Hugo got it. Sam knew this because Hugo slipped him a business card before stumbling back into the bar.

On it was written the letter O and a telephone number.

Sam would call her later that night.

Then Hugo's problem would be solved.

He stared back over at the bartender. Suddenly he realized where he'd seen that face before…

Just that afternoon, in his office, in fact.

It was Nathan Harte, the man of the hour.

And now here he was standing right there in front of Sam: shucking and jiving for tips from tipsy pop tarts.

Well, Mr. Harte, your luck is about to change.

 

“I know you.” Sam swapped the Dewar's the bartender had left for him on the counter with a ten-dollar bill.

“Probably not. I don't swing that way.” The kid—he was maybe a few years younger than Sam, what, maybe about twenty-four, twenty-five, right?—nodded appreciatively if apologetically as he scooped it up and put it in his breast pocket. To make sure he'd made his point with Sam, though, he shot a dazzling dimpled smile at a sitcom actress who had apparently taken up shop permanently on one side of the bar. She preened appreciatively and matched Sam's tip with a twenty-dollar bill—
and
her phone number on a slip of paper.

At the inference, Sam turned a subtle shade of red.

Smart-ass kid. What, do I
look
like a fag?

Right then and there, Sam made up his mind to never wear the Piatelli again.

Ignoring Nathan now, he turned his attentions to Ms. Sitcom. Handing her his business card, he went in for the kill. “Hi. Sabrina, isn't it? Thought I recognized you, but you probably don't remember me. I'm Sam Godwin, with ICA. You're with…let me see…William Morris, right?”

As her jaw dropped, her chest shot forward suggestively. Hell yeah, darn tootin' she remembered him! And she was flattered he remembered her (despite the fact he'd passed on rep'ing her, what, about a year ago, before she lucked out with that pilot? And, admittedly, the pilot's director, too). Yeah, unfortunately, she
was
still at William Morris, but you know how
that
is: They sit on their laurels, take you for granted, never take you to the next level, yada yada yada…

Sam glanced over at the kid to see if he was taking this all in: her deference to Sam, her fawning adoration of him, the way she was practically creaming her jeans at the thought of working with him…

Yeah, the kid got it all right. Sam could tell by the hungry look in Nathan Harte's heartbreakingly soulful eyes. A look that said,
I want in. I can play this game too.