“I’ll take six,” Dee said. She took a moment to fantasize about using them to torture the truth out of Michael, then asked, “Is Callan here?”
Elmira gestured toward the café area. “Down there, drinking a cappuccino made from rare beans he imports for himself, has me grind with a special grinder and store in a mini fridge he’s provided that’s calibrated to the exact specificities of the rare beans.” Elmira’s dry recitation told Dee what the proprietor thought of Callan’s grandiose coffee arrangement.
Dee walked down the wide sloping planks that led to the café area. Callan sat at one of its small tables, air pods in, typing away on his cell phone. In his early forties, he had the sculpted look of a man with access to L.A.’s best and most expensive personal trainers. With his high-end exercise togs, stylish stubble, and black hair cut to the latest trend, he projected the self-satisfied confidence that came with being one of the best in a notoriously cutthroat business.
She waited until Callan was done typing, and was about to introduce herself, when he said, “Hi, Dee.”
“You know me?” she asked, surprised.
“Dee Stern, first job On the John, last job Duh!, ten years of jobs in between, some on workhorse shows, some on six-and-out, and a pilot that never made it past script.”
“The network president loved it, but they fired him in the middle of the season and brought in a guy who didn’t want female-driven shows.” Dee cringed at her own defensive reaction, which was met with a skeptical expression from Callan. She forced herself to focus on the reason she was there. “If you don’t mind, I need to ask you something.”
The agent sighed. “I knew this was coming the minute I heard you bought that sad motel. No, I’m not taking on any new clients.”
“It’s not a sad motel,” Dee said, ticked off, “and I’m not interested in having you represent me. I’m out of the business.”
Callan gave a derisive snort. “Please. The only people out of the business are people who couldn’t get into it in the first place, or can’t get back in.”
“You have foam on your nose.”
Callan wiped his nose with a napkin decorated with the store’s logo and slogan, You Foundgold! “Fine. You don’t want to ‘get back in the business.’ ”
Dee congratulated herself at maintaining self-control in the face of Callan’s air quotes. The agent took a sip of his designer coffee drink. “Talk to me.”
“We have a writer staying with us, Michael Adam Baker. We worked together on John, but I wondered if you know anything more recent about him. It would help me as his host.” She added the last sentence to cover why she was nosing around.
“I know a lot about him, because he happens to be a former client. He’s been doing kids’ animation and was trying to get back into adult television, but all his pitches bombed. He went back to the kids’ space, but his pitches bombed there too. He sent me something new to read, but I was on the road coming here and couldn’t get to it. He blew up, and that was that.” He eyed his drink with distaste. “My coffee’s getting cold.”
“Thanks, Callan,” Dee said, knowing a hint when she heard one. “You’ve been a big help.”
Dee returned to the store checkout counter to retrieve her lemon bars. She found Callan’s wife, Serena, waiting for her, baby sling and carriage in tow. The charcuterie artist greeted her with a delicate smile. “Dee, I’m glad I ran into you.”
“Hi. I was just talking to your husband.” As she spoke, Dee took a dog biscuit out of the container Elmira kept on the counter for free treats. She held it in front of the baby sling. “Here, Oscar . . .” Baby Emmy stuck her head out of the sling. “Oops.” Dee pulled her hand back. A bark came from the baby carriage. Dee dropped the biscuit inside the carriage and crunching replaced the barks.
“I came up with graphics of breakfast charcuterie boards that I’d love to send you,” Serena said.
“My partner, Jeff, put up a beta of our website,” Dee said, polite but noncommittal. “You can email them to me through the contact page.”
“Yay! Also . . .” Serena lowered her voice. “I was in the paper goods section and heard what Callan said about Michael Adam Baker. I clean out Callan’s inbox for him and I think I can find whatever material Michael emailed, if it would help you.”
“Really?” Dee’s respect for Serena climbed several notches. “That would be great. But . . . it is a violation of privacy.”
Serena’s pretty face darkened. “I don’t care. I never liked Michael. At parties, he always did that thing to me some people do when they’re stuck talking to the wives of important people.”
Serena mimed being a bored party attendee scanning over Dee’s head for someone more important to talk to, behavior Dee recognized and related to. She’d been the recipient of The Scan herself from people who didn’t rate her as worthy of their time.
“I’ll take whatever you got,” Dee said. “Let’s exchange numbers.”
* * *
With Serena’s promise to let her know by morning if she located Michael’s email, Dee returned to the Golden. As she wiped down picture frame after frame, she replayed her conversation with Callan. Being fired was a blow to any agent, but particularly to one with the outsized ego of a Callan, and Dee allowed herself a brief but satisfying bit of schadenfreude.
Still . . . there had been a warning sign in Callan’s explanation of not having the time to read whatever material Michael had sent him. If Michael was a star client, Callan would have stopped in the middle of the freeway to read it. The fact he didn’t meant Michael Adam Baker was starting the inevitable slide down writer-career mountain.
Dee slept fitfully, knowing morning would bring an aye or a nay re: Michael’s material from Serena. She woke up early and immediately checked her phone. It showed a text from Serena, along with an attachment.
Jeff was on his computer when Dee burst into his cabin. “I was going to call you,” he said. “We got an email from someone named Serena Finlay-Katz with photos of breakfast charcuterie boards she’s pitching. They’re pretty cool. I think we should consider trying them out.” He eyed Dee, who was steaming mad. “But we can put a pin in that. What’s wrong?”
“This.” Dee, furious, waved her phone in the air. “I found out what that pond scum Michael Adam Baker is up to. He’s stealing my new life and career here at the Golden as a premise for a pilot!”
CHAPTER 7
Jeff stared at her, stunned. “What?”
She thrust the phone into her friend’s hand. “Here. Read the scene he wrote. It’s my life. It’s me. Even the dialogue.”
Jeff opened the file and skimmed it. “Wow . . . sonuva . . .” Equally furious, he rose from his chair. “You’re right. It’s you. The whole premise is about a burned-out sitcom writer who buys an old motel in Gold Rush Country. And the writing stinks.” He read from the scene. “ ‘Come on, Mrs. Donner, throw me a bone.’ ” He looked up from the phone, appalled. “That’s a terrible joke. I don’t blame you for being upset. The guy’s a hack.”
“That’s not why I’m upset! And that god-awful joke is mine. He stole everything about my new life, including that.”
Jeff’s eyes narrowed. “I’m gonna kill this guy. He’s not gonna get away with this.”
Determined, he hurried to the door. Dee blocked his way. “No. I love you for caring so much, but I need to handle this.”
Jeff, frustrated, balled up his hands into fists. “You’re my best friend. I can’t let him do this to you.”
“Don’t worry. He won’t.”
