ingratiate, was the talent agent’s bag,
Les looked up to see which picture he was talking about. Aside from the portrait of his father, there were six other paintings in the room—three on each of two walls, the third wall being an expanse of window, and the fourth, behind the desk, occupied by big Dad exclusively.
“I believe you’re right,” he said. It was a blue and white Picasso, of the “Girls of Avignon” series. “Do you like it?” he turned back to the agent, smiling.
“Terrific,” said the agent, shaking his head in admiration, “fabulous! Jeez, could that guy ever paint!”
I’ll tell Kelly you like it,” said Les, jotting something on a pad, “or at least that you noticed the change.”
Kelly, as she was called, was his personal assistant, or Gal Friday—if one may receive $1,200 a week and still be considered as such; in any case, among her responsibilities was the occasional rearrangement of the office decor, including the choice of paintings—which she selected from the family collection. She regarded this duty less a privilege than a necessity, because Les Harrison—suffering from an affliction that is curiously, even notoriously, prevalent on the executive level in Hollywood—was totally color-blind. So he would tabulate remarks about his office furnishings in much the same way he would study the opinion cards filled out at film previews . . . quite objectively.
“Say, tell me something,” he said, looking from one agent to the other. “The last time you guys were in here—weren’t you wearing shades,” pointing to the younger one, who was not wearing them, “and you,” pointing to the other, who was, “weren’t. Right?”
The two exchanged looks; the older, heavier one gave a low whistle, shaking his head.
“Wow,” said the younger one softly.
“Talk about sharp,” said the heavy. “Jeez, that must’ve been . . . two, three months ago, for Chrissake.”
“How come?” asked Les.
“Huh?” The young one seemed surprised, then slightly chagrined. “Oh yeah, well, it’s . . . it’s kind of silly, I guess. I mean, it’s the old man,” referring to the head of their agency, “he said we shouldn’t both wear them at the same time—said it’s a bad image. Looks spooky, he said.” He shrugged, smiling sheepishly, gestured toward the other agent. “So today it’s his turn.”
Les nodded thoughtfully, head resting on one hand. As he gazed at each in turn, the young agent shifted about uneasily, while the one wearing the glasses had removed them and was polishing them with his tie, chuckling and muttering, “Jeez, Les, that’s some memory you got, for Chrissake!”
Les appeared to be considering it, and it seemed to please him in a vague and absent way—as though this facility might, in some degree, compensate for his being color-blind.
He cleared his throat, and started to speak, but the intercom buzzed, and he hit the switch impatiently. “Yeah, Kelly?”
“Eddie Rhinebeck on two.”
“I’m in a meeting, Kelly.”
“It’s important.”
“Shit,” he said, flicking off the intercom, and picking up the phone. “Bad news, bad news, I can smell it. Yeah, Eddie?”
He listened intently, the frown on his brow growing darker.
“You gotta be kidding,” he said finally, with a remarkable lack of conviction. He closed his eyes, and listened some more.
“The cunt,” he said then softly, through clenched teeth, “the stupid . . . irresponsible . . . vicious . . . cocksucking little cunt!” Sigh. “I just don’t believe it. Wait a minute, Eddie.”
He covered the mouthpiece and looked up at the agents.
“I’m sorry, fellas,” he said, gesturing with his hand, his cool having undergone a Jekyll-Hyde collapse, “its disasterville —I’ll have to talk to you later.”
They rose almost as one, with smiles of perfect understanding. “No biz like show biz, right, Les?” quipped the older agent, winking broadly. “Talk to you later,
Les looked up to see which picture he was talking about. Aside from the portrait of his father, there were six other paintings in the room—three on each of two walls, the third wall being an expanse of window, and the fourth, behind the desk, occupied by big Dad exclusively.
“I believe you’re right,” he said. It was a blue and white Picasso, of the “Girls of Avignon” series. “Do you like it?” he turned back to the agent, smiling.
“Terrific,” said the agent, shaking his head in admiration, “fabulous! Jeez, could that guy ever paint!”
I’ll tell Kelly you like it,” said Les, jotting something on a pad, “or at least that you noticed the change.”
Kelly, as she was called, was his personal assistant, or Gal Friday—if one may receive $1,200 a week and still be considered as such; in any case, among her responsibilities was the occasional rearrangement of the office decor, including the choice of paintings—which she selected from the family collection. She regarded this duty less a privilege than a necessity, because Les Harrison—suffering from an affliction that is curiously, even notoriously, prevalent on the executive level in Hollywood—was totally color-blind. So he would tabulate remarks about his office furnishings in much the same way he would study the opinion cards filled out at film previews . . . quite objectively.
“Say, tell me something,” he said, looking from one agent to the other. “The last time you guys were in here—weren’t you wearing shades,” pointing to the younger one, who was not wearing them, “and you,” pointing to the other, who was, “weren’t. Right?”
The two exchanged looks; the older, heavier one gave a low whistle, shaking his head.
“Wow,” said the younger one softly.
“Talk about sharp,” said the heavy. “Jeez, that must’ve been . . . two, three months ago, for Chrissake.”
“How come?” asked Les.
“Huh?” The young one seemed surprised, then slightly chagrined. “Oh yeah, well, it’s . . . it’s kind of silly, I guess. I mean, it’s the old man,” referring to the head of their agency, “he said we shouldn’t both wear them at the same time—said it’s a bad image. Looks spooky, he said.” He shrugged, smiling sheepishly, gestured toward the other agent. “So today it’s his turn.”
Les nodded thoughtfully, head resting on one hand. As he gazed at each in turn, the young agent shifted about uneasily, while the one wearing the glasses had removed them and was polishing them with his tie, chuckling and muttering, “Jeez, Les, that’s some memory you got, for Chrissake!”
Les appeared to be considering it, and it seemed to please him in a vague and absent way—as though this facility might, in some degree, compensate for his being color-blind.
He cleared his throat, and started to speak, but the intercom buzzed, and he hit the switch impatiently. “Yeah, Kelly?”
“Eddie Rhinebeck on two.”
“I’m in a meeting, Kelly.”
“It’s important.”
“Shit,” he said, flicking off the intercom, and picking up the phone. “Bad news, bad news, I can smell it. Yeah, Eddie?”
He listened intently, the frown on his brow growing darker.
“You gotta be kidding,” he said finally, with a remarkable lack of conviction. He closed his eyes, and listened some more.
“The cunt,” he said then softly, through clenched teeth, “the stupid . . . irresponsible . . . vicious . . . cocksucking little cunt!” Sigh. “I just don’t believe it. Wait a minute, Eddie.”
He covered the mouthpiece and looked up at the agents.
“I’m sorry, fellas,” he said, gesturing with his hand, his cool having undergone a Jekyll-Hyde collapse, “its disasterville —I’ll have to talk to you later.”
They rose almost as one, with smiles of perfect understanding. “No biz like show biz, right, Les?” quipped the older agent, winking broadly. “Talk to you later,
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