“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

“What’re you doing here?” Finger asked. His voice cracked just the tiniest bit.

“You guys have been making life tough for Ron Gabriel. Now I’m going to give you what’s coming to you.”

Fad looked as if he was going to collapse. But Finger stared intently at Cagney’s face.

“Gabriel,” he said. “Is that you?”

“Who else, buhbula?” Ron took his hand from his pocket and scratched his nose. “Now what’s all this shit about going to Canada?”

“The show’s going to be shot in Canada,” Finger said testily. “If I decide to do the show, that is. And how the hell did you get in here?”

“Whattaya mean, if you decide to do it?” Gabriel shot back. “It’s the best damned idea you’ve seen in years.”

“Ideas don’t make successful shows. People do.”

“Which explains why you’ve got a string of flops on your hands.”

“Goddammit Gabriel!” Finger’s voice rose. “I’m not going to take any of your crap!”

“Go stuff yourself with it, bigshot! I’m a creative artist. I don’t need your greasy paws on my ideas!”

Fad edged around the sofa and tried to interpose himself between the two men. “Now wait, fellas. Let’s not...”

“Where the hell’s the phone?” Finger turned as he sat, searching the room. “I’ll get the security guards up here so fast....”

“You reach for that phone and I’ll break your arm,” Gabriel warned. “You’re going to listen to me for a change.”

“I’m gonna get you thrown overboard, is what I’m gonna do!”

“The hell you are!”

“Fellaaas... be reasonable.”

“Loudmouth creep.”

“Moneygrubbing asshole!”

“Fellaaas....”

It was a cosmic coincidence that at precisely that moment the love theme from Romeo and Juliet started on the computer-directed stereo. Such moments are rare, but they happen.

And precisely at that moment, the most exquisitely beautiful girl Gabriel had ever seen stepped sleepily into the living room, rubbing her eyes. She wore nothing but a whiff of a pink nightgown, only long enough to reach to her thighs and utterly transparent. Her long golden hair was sleep tousled. Her face was all childish innocence, especially the sky-blue eyes, although her mouth was sensuous. Her body had everything the eternal woman possessed: the litheness of youth combined with the soft fullness of newly ripened maturity.

“What’s all the shouting about?” she asked in a little girl voice. Petulantly: “You woke me up.”

Finger scowled mightily and got up from the sofa. “See what you’ve done?” he grumbled at Gabriel. “You woke her up!” To the girl/woman he said soothingly, “It’s all right, baby. We were just having a discussion. I’ll be back with you in a few minutes. You just go back to sleep.”

Gabriel remained rooted to the spot where he was standing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. His blood seemed congealed in his veins. It was like being petrified, mummified, frozen into a cryogenic block of liquid helium. Yet his brain was whirling, feverish, spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel shooting off sparks in every direction.

She made a little moue with her full, ripe lips and turned to head back to the bedroom.

“Wait!” Gabriel’s voice sounded strained and desperate, even to himself.

She stopped and looked back at him, with those incredible blue eyes.

“Wha... I mean... who... what’s your name? Who are you?”

“Never mind!” Finger urged the girl toward the bedroom with an impatient gesture.

“No, wait!” Gabriel shouted. He unfroze himself and moved toward her. “What’s your name? I’ve got to know!”

“Rita,” she said, almost shyly. “Rita Yearling. Why do you hafta know?”

“Because I’m in love with you,” answered Gabriel, with absolute honesty.

7: THE AGREEMENT

Bernard Finger was not the kind of narrow-minded man to let his personal life interfere with business.

“Go on back to bed, Rita,” he said in as fatherly a tone as he could produce.

She blinked once in Gabriel’s direction. Finger could see the effect her long lashes had on the writer: the Cagney makeup seemed to be melting and Gabriel shuddered violently.

“Goodnight,” she breathed.

Gabriel watched her go back into the bedroom. To Finger, he looked like a puppy watching its master take a train to Australia. Gabriel was no longer a free-swinging, independent, irreverent sonofabitch. He wanted something that Finger possessed. That was a basis for doing business.

“Ron,” he said, as the bedroom door closed behind Rita Yearling.

Gabriel stared at the door. His eyes seemed to be unfocused.

“Ron!” Finger called more sharply.

The writer shook himself, as if suddenly awakening from an incredible dream.

“Who is she?” Gabriel asked. “Where did you find her?”

Finger indicated the sofa with a gesture and Gabriel obediently sat down. Pulling a chair close to him, Finger said to Fad, “Get us some brandy and cigars.” The producer nodded once, briskly, and went to the phone.

“I’ve never seen anyone like her.” Gabriel’s voice was still awestruck. “Who is she?”

“Titanic’s always searching for fresh talent,” Finger said. “We have scouts everywhere. But we found Rita right here in L.A.; right under our noses.” It was even the truth, Finger realized with an inward laugh.

“She’s fantastic!”

Fad sat at the end of the sofa, close enough to be included in the conversation if Finger so chose, yet far enough away so that he could continue a private-seeming talk with Gabriel. Kid’s got some good sense, Finger noted.