“I could help. Except … I’m up for a lead in an Ibsen revival in New York. If I get the part that’ll tie me down until the next picture. If I don’t … how do I get hold of you?”
She ripped a page from a notepad in one of the open boxes next to the laptop, scrawled numbers. “This is my home phone. I’m in the Valley. I ain’t gonna wait around for you.”
He pocketed the slip. “I still think you’re crazy for even thinking about doing something like this on your own.”
“Me, I think it’s the people who don’t do stuff like this who are the crazy ones. I’m fifty-three. What am I, saving myself for the Miss Senior America contest? You go do your Ibsen and let me worry about me.”
“You’re a nice lady, Marjorie. I’d hate to think I had a part in you doing anything that got you hurt.”
“Thanks for the concern, cuddles.” She walked him to the door. “But I usually ain’t the one who ends up hurt.”
He didn’t get the part. His reading was as good as that of any of the actors who auditioned, and he had his growing marquee value going for him. But the producers were of the subspecies that concerned itself more with notices than box office, and they ultimately decided that casting hunky Jason Carter in the role of a mentally tormented intellectual was a cultural risk they weren’t prepared to take.
On the day after his latest rejection he picked up the phone and dialed the number he’d brought from Georgia. He was puzzled to learn that it had been disconnected. That was nothing compared to his surprise when upon further investigation he learned that it had not been in service for almost a year, which implied that Marjorie Ashwood had deliberately given him a wrong number.
He was simultaneously confused and angry, sufficiently so to begin calling all over L.A. in search of her business manager.
When he finally tracked him down the man was reluctant to provide any information.
“I’m telling you,” Carter said smoothly, “she told me to call.”
“She didn’t say anything about you to me.” There was hesitation at the other end. “Tell you what: I’ll call her and tell her you called.”
“I can’t spare the time. We worked together on her last picture,” he said imploringly. “I was the lead.”
“Wait a minute. Jason Carter. Yeah, I know you. You were in that Old World summer hit last year, Black Steel Guts or something.”
Carter winced. The man was not talking Ibsen.
“Sure, I know you.” The manager evinced some interest for the first time since he’d answered his phone. “You played the big cop who crashed the police car into the truckload of chemicals at the end.”
“I want to surprise her.” Carter was at his most persuasive. “I’m in New York. I promise you, I’ll give her several days’ notice before I show up.”
The man sounded wary again. “What’s the big rush?”
“I might have a job for her.”
“Are you putting me on? The only time an actor wants to discuss wardrobe is when his costume binds in the crotch.”
“It’s just that we got along so well on my last film and … Look, if you don’t want to give me her number, we’ll just forget it, okay?”
“Hold on.” Clearly the man was torn between propriety and greed. “If you just want to talk to her …”
“That’s all I want to do.”
“Okay. But don’t tell her where you got the number. Even though I’m acting in her own best interests.”
“No problem,” Carter assured him.
As soon as he was off the phone he called a service he knew and used the telephone number the manager had given him to trace Ashwood’s address.
He was in L.A. the next day. After a brief stop at his own place up in the hills he rolled out the Corvette and crossed down into the Valley. Eventually he found himself in a quaint foothill neighborhood where the trees had matured almost as fast as the property values.
The startled look on Ashwood’s face when she opened the door was worth the trouble it had taken to find her. She recovered quickly, though.
“Hello, cuddles.”
“Can I come in?”
“Sure, why not?”
The older home was furnished with overstuffed furniture and modest bric-a-brac. On the way to the den they passed a small study whose walls were completely covered with autographed photos of the actors and actresses she had dressed over the years.
“How’d you find me?” She sat down in a big flesh-toned armchair.
“I’m not as dumb as people think. Does it matter?”
“I reckon not.”
“I thought you’d be in South America by now.”
She shook her head. “Can’t leave for another week. There’s preparations to be made, packing to be done. It ain’t like I’m goin’ down to La Jolla for the weekend.”
Carter sat on the edge of the couch. “I still want to go.”
“I don’t recall invitin’ you.” She stared hard at him, taking the measure of something more critical than his chest dimensions. “It’d be nice to have company, though, and the muggers’d be less likely to pick on me with you hangin’ around, but you could be a hindrance, too. How spoiled are you, handsome?”
“I’m not spoiled at all,” he said angrily. “I don’t mind roughing it. And I could use the break from work. Might even get a treatment out of it,” he added, thereby contradicting himself.
