Cheating at Solitaire (3 page)

Unlike the woman at Wesley's, Lance suspected that flirting might still work with Tammy, so he thought about Thai food and eased himself onto the corner of her desk.

"Save it," she snapped before he'd said a word.

"I've got to see Dick," Lance started.

"Don't call Richard Stone 'Dick' if you want to work again."

"Like I'm working now?"

Tammy seemed to accept this as a valid point, and Lance wondered if she was an actress herself. She seemed actress-ish— kind of pretty, a little surly, and as if she hadn't eaten enough to fill herself up in at least three years.

"Well, he's not here," she said, as if the matter was completely out of her hands. Not since Pontius Pilate had someone so completely passed the buck.

"Well, what are we going to do about it?" Lance asked.

She flashed a patronizing grin and gestured to the overflowing room. "You could sit."

Lance glanced back and shook his head. "Not good enough."

"You could call," she said and gestured at the ringing phone covered with blinking lights.

"Don't you think you should answer one of those?"

"If it's important, they call back," she said with a flip of the magazine's pages.

"Fair enough." He got off the desk, sunk to a knee, pulled her bony hand into his, and said, "Tell me where he is."

"No."

"Oh, come on," he pleaded. "It'll save me a lot of time and you a lot of hassle. Come on, just a little hint."

She sighed, looked around at the other actors in the waiting room, then leaned close and whispered in Lance's ear: "Lunch. Stella's. You didn't hear it from me."

Lance kissed her cheek. When the phone rang again, he answered for her: "Poindexter-Stone, please hold."

Julia liked Stella's on Seventy-fifth because they knew her there. Not in the "Hey, you were on TV so I should kiss up to you" sense. They knew her in the same way her father was known at her hometown coffee shop in Oklahoma. No big deal in Fall River, but Julia believed that sort of thing should not go unrewarded on the Upper West Side.

In a word, Giovanni, the maître d', was surreal. He never forgot a name or a drink; he remembered birthdays because, once, on that date, your friend had slipped you a card and paid for lunch. He asked if you'd enjoyed the sea bass on your previous visit, and if you felt up to trying the salmon today. He noticed when you cut your hair.

He was smart and attentive, with a sexy little accent and easy access to excellent food, so if Julia hadn't been so happy being a writer, she might have tried to help the single women of the world in a different way. She might have tried to clone Giovanni.

"Oh, Miss James!" He met her at the threshold, took her hands in his, and kissed both her cheeks. "You come back to Stella's! It's been too long. I see the reservation in the book and I pray it be you!"

"Hello, Giovanni. It is wonderful to see you, too."

"I see in the book that we are two for lunch today. Is that so?"

"Yes," Julia said as he helped her remove her coat and scarf. "Is it, by chance"—he cut her a sly look—"a man? Someone special?"

Julia mentally rolled her eyes as she remembered that Giovanni was one of about three people in the world who still tried to set her up. "Yes, Giovanni, he's my agent, and we have a very special
professional
relationship." She didn't go on to say that Harvey was sixty-four with two great passions—food and a wife of forty-one years.

"Oh," Giovanni said, not trying to disguise his disappointment. "At least it will not break my heart to see such a beautiful woman dining alone. Your table is ready. Come."

He led her through the small dining room to a prime table, motioned to the water and bread boy, then excused himself, reminding Julia of why he was the perfect man: He'd known exactly when to disappear, but not before offering H20 and carbohydrates.

Three tables away, two men were finishing their meals. One man stooped low to the table and spoke while his companion ate in slow, even bites. "I think you could use another pair of hands," the talker said. "You've got more clients than you can handle. I've got more clients than I need—and none of them any good. You've got good people and I've got good contacts. What do you say? Want to hang out a shingle?"

The other man motioned to his eggplant. "I'm in the middle of a meal."

"I know, I know. You need some bread. Here, let's get you some bread."

Almost every table was occupied in the noon-hour rush as waiters in long, white aprons scurried around, carrying baskets of bread and plates of pasta. The rich, decadent aroma filled the small dining room and seeped onto the street outside, where Lance Collins stood formulating a plan, watching his agent on the far side of the room. He saw Richard Stone turn and scour the room for someone or something.
He might as well be looking for me,
Lance thought as he mustered his courage and started inside. But he'd hardly passed the threshold when the
maître d
' stepped in his way.

"May I help you?" Giovanni asked.

"No thanks," Lance said. "I see the person I'm looking for." He moved to step around the little man, but Giovanni slid quickly into Lance's path.

"Oh." Giovanni smiled, still studying Lance but seemingly with a new objective in mind. "You are Miss James's agent?"

"No," Lance said, stepping forward only to be cut off once again.

"You have a reservation?" The tone hardened.

"No, I told you. I'm meeting—"

Giovanni stopped smiling. "Miss James is meeting an agent. Mrs. DiAngelo is meeting a daughter. You are no agent, and you are no daughter. You must leave Stella's." He had a hand on Lance's arm and was steering him toward the door, and Lance felt opportunity slipping through his fingers. With one last look at Richard Stone, he grasped for inspiration.

"Representative!" Lance yelled.

Giovanni's grasp on his arm loosened, so Lance carried on, "I don't like the term
agent"
he said, as if he hated to be a stickler for such things. "I prefer
representative."

With that, Giovanni studied Lance, and then he brought both hands to the side of his face. "You are a friend of Miss James?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah," Lance said. "A close
personal
friend."

A giddy grin flashed across the man's face, and he took off through the tables. As Lance followed, he began to worry what he was going to say or do when they reached this woman called Miss James. From across the restaurant, he saw a woman sitting alone at a table, studying a notebook. Lance found himself staring at the graceful curve of her neck and the way her red hair swept across her shoulder. He was instantly glad to be getting an introduction.

Then he remembered that they were already
close personal friends.
He put his hand on Giovanni's shoulder and stopped him. He pulled a rose from a vase on a nearby table and spoke low in Giovanni's ear: "I can take it from here."

Giovanni turned to Lance and said, "Oh, it is a beautiful day!" When he turned and went back to the entrance, Lance realized he was standing alone in the dining room holding a damp, stolen rose and looking at the kind of woman a normal man would probably only approach if he was drunk or on a dare. Behind her, he saw Richard Stone at his table in the back. He could just walk past her, Lance decided, but a glance behind him warned that the maître d’ was watching his every move. Maybe men made a habit of coming there and trying to pick up women who were out of their league? Maybe he was just the latest in long line of suitors to go down in flames, and the little man at the door didn't want to miss the show. . . .

At the back of the restaurant, a waiter cleared Richard Stone's plate.

It was then or never.

Lance shook the excess water from the stem of the pilfered flower and slipped into the chair across from the woman called Miss James. "Excuse me," he said, and the woman looked up. "I don't mean to impose, but do you see that man over there?" He motioned to the two men in the back of the room.

"Yes," she said, drawing out the word as if considering the possibility that she might be on
Candid Camera.

"Well, I really need to talk to him, and the only way the guy at the door would let me in here was if I said I was meeting you. I lied. I'm sorry. You're probably thinking that I'm a terrible person, and you're probably right. But if I could just sit here long enough to keep your boyfriend at the door from getting suspicious, then I'll go talk to that man and you'll never have to see me again. I promise."

Julia surveyed him. "I'm quite fond of Giovanni, my 'boyfriend at the door.' "

"And he's fond of you, too." Lance sat up taller. He gave her a toothy grin, but she didn't budge—not even a smile. He eased to the edge of his chair. "Anyhow, I'm sorry to bother you.

You've been great. Really, very nice. Enjoy your lunch."

He got up and moved slowly, with cautious, backward steps, toward the men. When he saw the rose still in his hands, he tossed it casually to Julia, watched her catch it, and then turned to speak to Richard Stone.

"Richard?" Lance asked, feigning surprise. "Well, this
is
a stroke of luck, running into you like this!" He eased casually into a chair at the table and glanced at Richard's companion. "Hey, how ya doing?" he asked before turning his attention back to his agent. "So, I've been thinking about the types of auditions I've been going out on—"

Richard put a hand out, stopping Lance. "Do I know you?"

Lance looked at Richard, and then at the other man, then choked out a nervous laugh. "This guy," he said to Richard's companion while he pointed to his agent. "Seriously, Richard, I've been—"

"Seriously. I don't believe I have ever laid eyes on you before in my life."

Lance sat, shocked and confused, as he tried to process this one-sentence slam on him and everything he'd ever wanted.

That was his career, or lack thereof, summed up in a single sentence by a man with marinara sauce on his tie. "I’m Lance Collins. You're my agent," he said feebly.

Richard laughed and said to his companion, "I'm his agent. I'm supposed to get him
Hamlet,
and I don't even know who the hell he is." He turned to Lance. "Call my office. Make an appointment. I'm eating my lunch."

But Lance didn't leave. At that moment, he wasn't even sure his legs still worked.

"Look, kid," Richard said. "It's not me. It's you. Everybody's got talent. And you're a good-looking kid, but you can buy looks. Name recognition—now that's the honey. You can't put a price on that. You go get yourself famous, and then we'll talk about the kind of roles you want."

Lance knew there was a cliché about carts and horses, but he couldn't remember how it went.

Luckily, Richard's companion chose that moment to wipe his mouth and ask, "Were you just sitting with Julia James?"

Lance looked back at the woman who sat alone, scribbling in a notebook, and said, "Yeah. I guess."

Richard emitted a little squeal. "Hey, kid, why didn't you say so? That's
great
I mean, that's off-the-charts fantastic. How long you been seeing her?"

"Oh." Lance looked from Richard to the woman and back again. "You've got the wrong—"

"I say what's right and wrong," Richard corrected. "And believe me, this is right! Hey, who needs
Hamlet?
We've got
Taming of the Shrew."
Richard laughed at his own cleverness.

"Whatcha waiting for?" Richard asked. "Tell your girlfriend to come over!"

"You've got the wrong idea. She isn't my girlfriend." "Not your girlfriend?" Richard asked as if this were a kink in his master plan to take over the universe. "Who knows?" "Who knows what?" Lance asked.

"That you're here with her," Richard said, growing impatient.

"I'm
not
here with her," Lance insisted.

"If nobody knows you're not, then you are," Richard said, flipping his hands like a magician who had just made a quarter disappear. "You're here. She's here. A few tasteful photos and—"

"This was a mistake." Lance stood and left the table.

As he headed to the door, he passed Julia and heard her on her cell phone saying, "You can't make it? That's fine. I just hope you get to feeling better. Take care of yourself. Bye-bye." As she hung up, she looked at him and asked, "How did it go?" But the expression on his face must have been answer enough because she said, "That's a shame."

She'd placed his pilfered rose in the vase on her table. Water spots still darkened the linen tablecloth, but it seemed to Lance as if it had been a year since he'd joined her there.

"I'm sorry," she said, no doubt sensing that Lance hadn't enjoyed his time on the other side of the room.

"Thanks anyway," he told her and walked away.

Was it the entire basket of bread that Julia had eaten or the morose look on the man's face as he turned and walked out of Stella's that caused her to lose her appetite? She honestly didn't know. But since Harvey, her agent, wasn't feeling well and wouldn't be joining her for lunch, Julia laid some bills on the table and went to say good-bye to Giovanni.

Two free hours felt like an unexpected blessing. She could window-shop or people-watch in the park—theater of the living, she'd always called it, and Manhattan was its greatest stage. But when Julia stepped beneath the restaurant's awning, a cool, wet wind slapped her across the face. Rain pelted the sidewalks, and pedestrians darted past like darkened blurs with newspapers and briefcases held overhead.

Definitely not people-watching weather. On the street, traffic crawled, so Julia shivered beneath the awning, remembering that sudden thunderstorms always produced a shortage of taxis in Manhattan, while dry weather led to a bumper crop—the very opposite of rain's effect in Oklahoma. Shivering, she considered going back inside to finish her meal when she glanced behind her and noticed she was sharing the shelter of the awning with the same man who, moments before, had shared her table. An awkward pang flashed in Julia's gut, but the rain grew harder, and she wasn't eager to brave the weather and walk away.