out here.”
“Shut up.”
“Probably be swirling a little white Bordeaux in a silver wine bucket.”
“Champagne,” Candy said.
We were quiet. No one else was in the waiting room.
I had the feeling everyone else called up. The waiting room was probably for deliveries.
A tall woman with prominent teeth and a three-piece gray suit hurried through the foyer and leaned her head into the open door of the office nearest us down the right-hand hallway. With the suit she was wearing a poppy shirt with a small pin-collar and a narrow black knit tie. She hurried back across the foyer. Then a man appeared in the middle corridor and said, “Candy, honey, this is terrific.”
He was tall and slim and had-snow-white hair and a youthful face with a black mustache. He was darkly tanned and-wore a glen plaid suit and vest with a black shirt open at the throat. He might have been forty or he might have been sixty. A small tangle of white hair showed at the V of his shirt. On the little finger of his left hand he wore a gold ring with a red stone.
“Hello, Zeke.”
“Come on in.”
She followed him down the corridor; I followed her. When we got to his office, she introduced me. We shook hands. He had a strong grip, but I was holding back.
He smiled at me. “A little old, I think, to be with the Rams,” he said. “Stunt man?”
“Sort of,” I said.
Candy said, “Spenser is helping me on an investigative series we’re doing.”
The office was on the first floor and had a little bay window framed with gray drapes that looked out onto Sunset and people on the sidewalk. There were several autographed pictures of actors on the wall and a bookcase liquor-cabinet-stereo set up along one side of the room. Besides a desk with two phones there were two more of the leather-and-wood sitting room chairs. Zeke was behind his desk, we sat in the chairs. The walls were pale gray, the rug was charcoal.
“Candy.” Zeke folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward slightly. “How can I help?”
“I need to know some things about Summit Pictures and Roger Hammond.”
Zeke kept his hands folded and leaned back in the chair. The movement slid his hands to the edge of the desk.
He said, “Oh?”
“I need it, Zeke. This is important to me.”
“Tell me about it.”
She did, everything, except the name of her eyewitness. Zeke sat motionless and looked right at her as she talked.
“And if you break this thing open, it will mean a lot to your career,” he said when she was through.
“Absolutely,” Candy said. “More air time, more feature stuff, more hard-news assignments, maybe a shot at the networks, who knows. I know that it’s still hard for a woman to push her way up through the men in the news business. And if I can’t handle a real story when it starts to break, it will be much harder.”
Zeke nodded. He looked at me. I had my arms crossed and was watching the occasional pedestrian go by on Sunset.
“That explains the big fella here,” Zeke said.
“He’s a bodyguard,” Candy said. “He’s not doing the investigating for me.”
“No skill-work,” I said, “just heavy lifting.”
Zeke nodded. He tucked his lower lip under the edge of his mustache and sucked down on his upper lip. “An agent doesn’t make it out here by gossiping to the press about studio heads,” he said.
“I know. It’s background. I’ll never quote you,” Candy said.
Zeke sucked on his upper lip some more.
“It’s not just the career, Zeke,” Candy said. “It’s… the fat son of a bitch beat me up. Dragged me into a van and punched and slapped me and threw me out on the Ventura Freeway like an empty Coke can.”
The tall woman with the gray suit stuck her head in the door.
She said, “Excuse me, Zeke, but we’re going to screen those clips that Universal sent over.” She talked with her teeth clenched and without moving her lips. She was like someone Central Casting had sent over to play an Ivy League
“Shut up.”
“Probably be swirling a little white Bordeaux in a silver wine bucket.”
“Champagne,” Candy said.
We were quiet. No one else was in the waiting room.
I had the feeling everyone else called up. The waiting room was probably for deliveries.
A tall woman with prominent teeth and a three-piece gray suit hurried through the foyer and leaned her head into the open door of the office nearest us down the right-hand hallway. With the suit she was wearing a poppy shirt with a small pin-collar and a narrow black knit tie. She hurried back across the foyer. Then a man appeared in the middle corridor and said, “Candy, honey, this is terrific.”
He was tall and slim and had-snow-white hair and a youthful face with a black mustache. He was darkly tanned and-wore a glen plaid suit and vest with a black shirt open at the throat. He might have been forty or he might have been sixty. A small tangle of white hair showed at the V of his shirt. On the little finger of his left hand he wore a gold ring with a red stone.
“Hello, Zeke.”
“Come on in.”
She followed him down the corridor; I followed her. When we got to his office, she introduced me. We shook hands. He had a strong grip, but I was holding back.
He smiled at me. “A little old, I think, to be with the Rams,” he said. “Stunt man?”
“Sort of,” I said.
Candy said, “Spenser is helping me on an investigative series we’re doing.”
The office was on the first floor and had a little bay window framed with gray drapes that looked out onto Sunset and people on the sidewalk. There were several autographed pictures of actors on the wall and a bookcase liquor-cabinet-stereo set up along one side of the room. Besides a desk with two phones there were two more of the leather-and-wood sitting room chairs. Zeke was behind his desk, we sat in the chairs. The walls were pale gray, the rug was charcoal.
“Candy.” Zeke folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward slightly. “How can I help?”
“I need to know some things about Summit Pictures and Roger Hammond.”
Zeke kept his hands folded and leaned back in the chair. The movement slid his hands to the edge of the desk.
He said, “Oh?”
“I need it, Zeke. This is important to me.”
“Tell me about it.”
She did, everything, except the name of her eyewitness. Zeke sat motionless and looked right at her as she talked.
“And if you break this thing open, it will mean a lot to your career,” he said when she was through.
“Absolutely,” Candy said. “More air time, more feature stuff, more hard-news assignments, maybe a shot at the networks, who knows. I know that it’s still hard for a woman to push her way up through the men in the news business. And if I can’t handle a real story when it starts to break, it will be much harder.”
Zeke nodded. He looked at me. I had my arms crossed and was watching the occasional pedestrian go by on Sunset.
“That explains the big fella here,” Zeke said.
“He’s a bodyguard,” Candy said. “He’s not doing the investigating for me.”
“No skill-work,” I said, “just heavy lifting.”
Zeke nodded. He tucked his lower lip under the edge of his mustache and sucked down on his upper lip. “An agent doesn’t make it out here by gossiping to the press about studio heads,” he said.
“I know. It’s background. I’ll never quote you,” Candy said.
Zeke sucked on his upper lip some more.
“It’s not just the career, Zeke,” Candy said. “It’s… the fat son of a bitch beat me up. Dragged me into a van and punched and slapped me and threw me out on the Ventura Freeway like an empty Coke can.”
The tall woman with the gray suit stuck her head in the door.
She said, “Excuse me, Zeke, but we’re going to screen those clips that Universal sent over.” She talked with her teeth clenched and without moving her lips. She was like someone Central Casting had sent over to play an Ivy League
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