Indian Country Noir (Akashic Noir) (28 page)

"Steve McQueen and Paul Neuman can climb all over me
whenever they want. Here we are," Marissa said, looking up
at the nondescript building wedged between a dry cleaner and
an abandoned music store.

The interior of the building was even less impressive than
its exterior. Harry had seen furrier putting greens than the
threadbare carpet that lined the lobby floor. Come to think of
it, he'd seen cleaner putting greens, and putting greens were
half dirt. It wasn't encouraging and all he could think about
as he and Marissa rode the creaking elevator up to the fourth
floor were the burgers and cheese fries he'd sacrificed to cover
the public transportation. Still, when the elevator jerked to a
stop at four, Harry took his traditional deep breaths and mentally flicked up his on switch. Irv Rothenberg had always said
that no one auditioned like Harry.

"I got stars in my stable, sure," Irv once told a junior associate, "but Harry Garson is the guy who bought my house and
paid for my first son's bar mitzvah. He's automatic, like a given
in geometry. He gets the audition, he gets the part." Problem
was that after Crazy Cavalry, Harry couldn't get many auditions. Charm is less charming on a typecast actor with a bad
off-screen rep and too many years on his bones.

Suite 403

The Rights Agency, LLC

"This is the place," Marissa said, reading Harry's chicken
scratch off the sheet of yellow paper. "The Rights Agency."

Now this was better, Harry thought. The carpeting in the
fourth-floor hallway was clean, and while the pile didn't exactly tickle your shins, it was at least soft under your shoes.
And he liked that the company name was painted in gold and
black on the door the way people with class did it in the old
days. No cheap plastic piece-of-shit sign or gold-plated tin
placard. Class. Harry appreciated class.

"You going to wait for me here or downstairs?" he asked.

"No way, chief, nuh uh. I didn't take y'all to the church
just to get jilted at the altar."

Harry thought about arguing the point, but he knew better than to use up his limited energy on futile arguments. He
knocked, turned the knob, and strode in, his escort looming
behind him. The eyes on the two well-dressed men inside the
office got big as dinner plates at the sight of Marissa LaTerre.
Harry had expected nothing less. Helen Keller, he thought,
would've gotten big eyes in the presence of the power-forward
drag queen, especially dressed up in that outfit.

"I'm Harry Garson," he said, walking up to the older of
the two men. He slid his ancient black-and-white head shot
and CV across the top of the fancy etched glass desktop.

"Paul Spiegelman," the man replied, shaking Harry's hand.
His eyes were still on Marissa. "This is my partner, Mel Abbott." Spiegelman nodded his head at the man at the adjoining desk. Abbott, who looked about thirty-twenty or so years
younger than his partner-stood and shook Harry's hand.

,,And this is . . ." Abbott said, gesturing at Marissa.

"My agent, Marissa LaTerre," Harry said, immediately regretting it. He was more nervous than he suspected he would
be and the words just came out.

The partners managed not to roll their eyes at that. There
was a second round of handshakes.

"Let's get down to business, shall we?" Spiegelman said,
gesturing at the two red leather chairs facing the desks.

Spiegelman was a fit fifty. Compact and thin with probing hazel eyes that looked through Elvis Costello glasses, an
angular jawline, a sharp nose, and a crooked but ingratiating
smile. He was dressed in a gray, light wool pinstripe suit and
his accessories were all silk and gold. To Harry, Paul Spiegelman smelled of Yale Law School and twenty years at a New
York firm, a big New York firm. He was definitely a lawyer or
a money man. In the business, they were sometimes one and
the same. Mel Abbott, on the other hand, was a Hollywood
hyena, all lean and hungry looks. Harry would have to keep
an eye out for him.

"The part," Harry said, unable to contain himself any longer. "What about the part? Where are my lines?"

"Lines?" Abbott asked, seemingly confused.

Spiegelman waved a calming hand at his partner. "I'm
afraid you misunderstand, Harry. This isn't that kind of part."

"Christ, I knew it!" He jumped out of his chair. "What is
this? Listen I-"

"Harry, Harry, please . . . sit down. Relax. Let me explain." Spiegelman kept his voice even and reassuring. But
what Harry found most reassuring were the two bundles
of crisp, rubber-banded bills the older partner was pushing across the top of his desk. "That's ten thousand dollars
there, Harry."

Now it was Marissa LaTerre's eyes that got big. Harry's
weren't exactly squinty either. It was all Harry Garson could
do not to reach out and snatch the money. Instead, he sat
back down and tried not drooling over the notions of what he could do with that much cash. Visions of cheese fries and
hookers, a lot of hookers, danced in his head ...

Marissa decided to take her role as agent to heart. "So
what are you gentlemen speaking about here for my client?"

"It's more theater than film work, though it's a little bit of
both, frankly," Abbott said.

"We want Harry to play the part of an Indian," Spiegelman added. "We need him and only him for the part, and this
ten grand is only a down payment."

Suddenly, the buzz all came back into Harry's bones and
he was rushing harder than a junkie who'd just gotten fixed
with the purest skag on Earth. He was barely thinking of the
money anymore. It was about the role. He was so juiced by
the thought of being in front of the cameras again, he nearly
broke into one of those stupid war dances he'd done in fifteen
movies and on almost every episode of Crazy Cavalry.

"But I'm still not hearing what the role is exactly for Harry,"
Marissa persisted.

"Harry, do you think you can stay in character for a long
period of time?"

"No problem, Mr. Abbott. I worked for some directors
who demanded we stay in character for the whole shoot. It
was a pain in the balls, but I did it. I'm a professional."

"See, Mel, I told you Harry was our man," Spiegelman
spoke up. He then launched into a long stroking session, naming several movie roles and commenting on just how well Harry
Garson had done this or that. "And even in your comedic roles,
you always stood out. My favorite was in the `Bismark Goes
West' episode on CC. Your timing was great when you did the
line about the Goodyear blimp."

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, the trooper asks Bearstein how his
future will be and I say, `It will be a good year. . .'Then I look up and yell, `Blimp!' And there's Bismark and his Siamese kitten Cleo flying overhead in a zeppelin."

Now they were all laughing. All except Marissa. "I'll ask
this one more time. What's the role?"

"Fair enough," Spiegelman said. "Look, we've been hired
to make training films for Native American tribes looking to
set up gaming establishments on reservation lands. It's about
time the indigenous peoples of this country make some profits
off the lands the government ceded to them. It's a difficult
and arcane process, as you might imagine, and it just makes
sense to the lawyers who do this kind of work to have a tool
they can use to train the tribes."

"Okay," Marissa said, "that's better, but-"

Spiegelman held up his palms like traffic cop. "I understand your concerns. Here's the deal. Harry will have to relocate to the Tucson, Arizona area and live as . . ." he looked
down at a sheet of paper, "Ben Hart, the long-lost son of an
elder of the Tohono O'odham tribe, they're a Pima people.
Actually, you'd be part of a subgroup of theirs, but we can
discuss all that later. We will have film crews following you
and have you miked whenever you leave your house. We will
supply you with paperwork, references, etc., and we will walk
you through the process of dealing with government agencies
and the tribes themselves. But you absolutely must remain
in character during this whole period. When you go out to a
store or to a diner or go to the bathroom, you go as Ben Hart.
Do you understand that, Harry?"

"Who's Harry? I'm Ben Hart, the long-lost son of a tribal
elder of the Tohono O'odham," he said, perfectly mimicking
Spiegelman's pronunciation. "When do we get going?"

"Well . . ." Mel Abbott hesitated, "first you're gonna have
to go through some schooling while you're in L.A. We need you to get very familiar with the role and then we'll send you
down to Tucson. It won't be a cakewalk, this will be-"

"Stop being such a worrier, Mel. Harry-I mean, Ben Hart
is up to it. Right, chief?"

"No problem."

"Very well then," Paul Spiegelman said, pushing one of
the money piles toward Harry and pulling the other one back.
"Here's half as an advance. When you complete your education for the role up here, you'll get the second half. I trust you,
but our clients need some guarantees, you understand."

"Well, I don't!" Marissa stood up and walked over to Mel
Abbott's desk. She sensed he was the more easily intimidated
of the two and, at 67", she was pretty intimidating. "What
about a little thing called a contract?"

Abbott's mouth moved silently as he fumbled for an answer. The hyena was looking mighty scared. Harry was enjoying it all and thought Marissa LaTerre born to the role of
agent. An image of Irv Rothenberg in fishnets, a miniskirt,
and high heels flashed through his mind and Harry shuddered.
One of Kitt followed quickly thereafter and Harry almost got
hard. Almost.

"Contract. You want a contract?" Spiegelman asked. "You
got one. We'll have it drawn up, but first we had to see if Harry
would take the part. It's only reasonable, no?"

Harry said sure, sure. Marissa was still skeptical. Harry
took the money and shoved it in his jacket pocket.

"Now, Harry," Mel said, "don't disappear on its with that
five grand."

Harry was really starting to dislike Mel. Most people, he
guessed, would dislike Mel. "Listen, mister, I'm a professional. I
was never late on set in 150-plus movies. I never called in sick
or injured, ever. As hard up as I am, I'm not going anywhere."

Spiegelman chided his partner. "Mel, I keep telling you,
Harry Garson is a pro. Besides, he knows the five large is
bubkes compared to what he'll make for the whole shoot."

"And speaking of that," Marissa chimed in, "what are we
talking about for the whole gig?"

"Minimum of fifty grand, less the ten up front. Depends
how long the shoot goes. Anything over a month, Harry will
receive five grand a week. The clock on the shoot starts ticking once he lands at the airport in Tucson. One month from
that day, the five grand per kicks in. Once the shoot spills over
into the next week, five grand will be prorated. How does that
sound to everyone?"

"Wonderful," Harry said. "When can we sign the papers
and get started?"

Mel answered: "It'll take a day or two to draw up the contract, then we'll have them messengered over to your hotel
and you can have the signed copies sent back here."

Marissa kept at it. "And you have no issue with a lawyer
looking the contracts over?"

"None at all," said Spiegelman. "Contracts are meant to
protect both parties. For now, Harry, go home and enjoy yourself a little. It's going to be tough work once we get rolling."
He stood and offered his hand to Harry and Marissa. "Mel
and I have to get things started on our end, so please excuse
its. I think this is going to work out very nicely. Very nicely
indeed."

In the elevator on the way back down, Harry Garson
peeled off five crisp hundred-dollar bills and handed them to
his new agent. "You should give up the drag queen routine,
kid. You're a natural as an agent."

"Harry, I can't take this."

"Take it. Take it!" he insisted, shoving the money through the low-buttoned chiffon blouse and into Marissa's thickly
foamed bra. "You earned it. Besides, you heard Spiegelman.
I'm looking at home-run city here."

"About that, I-"

"Forget it. When the contracts come, we'll worry about
it."

"But-"

"No buts. Come on, I'm treating for a cab."

Paul Spiegelman and Mel Abbott stood silently, watching out
their office window as Harry Garson and his drag queen agent
stood on Sunset trying to flag down a cab. It was almost as
if they wouldn't speak until the oddest of odd couples was
completely out of sight. Of course they understood that no
one, not even people in the hallway outside their door, could
hear their conversation. Still, they waited. When a cab finally
pulled to the curb out front, gobbled up the two riders, and
sped off, Spiegelman and Abbott sighed with relief. The older
of the two began whistling "We're in the Money," but all Mel
could do was pace.

"Why the fuck did he have to bring that fucking African
queen with him? He- She's gonna fuck everything up."

"Mel, will you calm down, for goodness sakes? You're going to give yourself a stroke."

"`Calm down,' he says. How can I calm down? You know
what's at stake here?"

"I know, Mel. I know."

"I told you we should have sent a car to pick him up. I
told you."

"If we sent a car for him, he would have gotten suspicious.
Harry's dumb and hungry, but he's not stupid. He knows the
business. He knows that someone who hasn't worked in nearly fifteen years doesn't get picked up in a limo for an audition.
That would have queered the deal right there."

"Stooping to puns now, Paul?"

Spiegelman thought about that for a second, snickered
quietly, and said, "I didn't realize."

"Never mind. So what are we gonna do about Sheena,
Queen of the Jungle?"

"Go round up Joey Potholes for me. Tell him I need to see
him here. In the meantime, I've got Harry Carson's contract
to write up."

At 4:27 a.m. the next morning, Marissa LaTerre stumbled out
of Midnight Cruiser, an after-hours club frequented by freaks,
geeks, and beautiful people alike. She'd had a hell of a night,
giving head in a back room to a pretty-boy British film star
and having the favor returned by the guy's fifteen-year-old
date. She'd also managed to spend every dime of her agent's
fee and then some.