“That’s not the way I heard it, Jason. I heard there was a real blowup.”
“Sorry. Nobody died.”
She didn’t look disappointed. There were plenty of deaths in Georgia she could somehow work into a story.
“I hear that Melrose Fleet stormed off the set and refused to finish his scene.”
Carter sipped tea. “It’s been a tough shoot. Mel got a little tired, that’s all.”
He needed for this picture to end. Maybe the next one would be better, he told himself. If he kept calm and did his job, kept throwing himself whole-heartedly into crap like this, he might finally be offered something worthwhile. A role where he’d be given the chance to act instead of pose, to do something more significant than reveal his chest and declaim heroically while flashing his famous smile.
He could always black out his teeth. Envisioning Nahfoud’s reaction to that made him grin.
“Something funny?” Trang Ho inquired hopefully.
“Nothing you can use.” He glanced down at her. Her elfin face and stature gave her the appearance of a harmless waif, but the nonthreatening image was deceptive. Speak softly and carry a big tape recorder, he mused.
“I can use anything. Come on, Jason,” she prodded him. “Give me something I can use. I’ll be good to you. When they print the pictures I’ll make sure they only show your best side.”
I don’t have a best side, he thought. I don’t have a bad side, either. That’s what all the cinematographers kept telling him. He wished fervently they’d quit photographing him like he was a refugee from Mount Rushmore.
“Give me a break, Trang. I’ve never done anything to you. I’m trying to build a career as a serious actor.”
“Serious actor?” She almost but fortunately for her did not giggle. “I know your credits by heart, Carter. The Toxic Waste Monster. Crack Slashers of Manhattan. And what was that Academy Award winner you did last year in Italy? Hercules Meets Jesse James or something?”
Carter counted slowly to five. “The British don’t have this problem. An actor can do Lear one week and pratfalls on The Simples the next. The important thing is to work.”
“Sure. Listen, Carter, you help me and I help you. I’m just trying to get some ink. I get paid by the column inch and page.” She looked across to the trailer which housed the film’s leading lady. “Personally I consider this opus to be a step up in your career.” Her voice fell to a conspiratorial murmur. “Now, if you could just give me something really interesting, something of serious import for our readers.”
“Something juicy?” said Carter.
She was practically salivating. “Yeah.”
“Something like, ‘Jason Carter Fathers Amanda Peters’s Two-headed Baby’?”
She didn’t blink. “That would fly,” she deadpanned. “But since I haven’t seen any evidence of babies on this set, two-headed or otherwise, I’d settle for a clue to whom she’s sleeping with.” Black and claw-like, the recorder hovered below his chin.
“Not Nahfoud … she hates his guts. You? I know she’s got the hots for you, Carter. Every woman in the crew has the hots for you.”
“Well, I don’t have the hots for anybody,” he shot back. “I’m just trying to do my job.”
Her eyes widened hopefully. “Fleet? Or the guy playing the big rapist, maybe?”
“I don’t know whom she’s sleeping with,” Carter said tiredly, “and I don’t care.”
Mercifully the lamprey-like mouth of the recorder retreated. “And if you did you wouldn’t tell me, I know. Or would you? God knows this picture could use some PR.”
Carter eyed her wonderingly. “Is this what your parents became boat people for? Is this why they fled a tormenting and corrupt regime?”
“No. They did it so they could come to the land of the free and the home of the brave. So they could raise three kids on tacos and apple pie and burgers. So their daughter could graduate cum laude from UC Irvine with a degree in journalism.
“But since the editor’s chair at the New York Times seems to be occupied right now and The Economist isn’t hiring any overseas-based L.A. interns, this is the best their daughter can do. And you know what? I make less than the editor of the New York Times but a lot more than The Economist’s overseas interns. And I get to meet people who are much more interesting.”
His felt a flicker of concern. “You think I’m interesting?”
“Not particularly. But you’re about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“God but I’m sick of that. I want people to see me as an actor.”
She stepped back and looked him up and down. “Well, I suppose that’s not impossible. Being blond, six four, and gorgeous shouldn’t be an insurmountable handicap. We all have our crosses to bear. Mine’s a deadline, yours is your appearance. You do realize somewhere behind those deep blue eyes of yours that there are misguided people in this world who would not object to trading places with you?”
“I know, I know. But whether you believe me or not I’d rather not look like this.”
“Not even for one hundred fifty thou per picture? You can always go do Ibsen at the local Y.”
“I have,” he told her.
“Sure, and twenty people came to see it. Keep plugging away, Carter. You’re not such a bad guy, even if you are closemouthed. So I don’t think I’ll do a number on you just yet. Right now I’m more interested in Peters’s mattress wars. We have a lot in common, you and I.”
“We have nothing in common,” Carter told her.
“No? You get the leads in the B-minus pictures, and I get to cover the stars of the B-minus pictures. We’re both working our way up. Down the coast they’re doing that space shuttle hijack picture with Scheider and Kostner. You think I could get assigned to that? No such luck.”
“If you didn’t have the morals of a cobra and the literary aspirations of a turnip I might get to like you a little, Ho.”
“Don’t,” she warned him. “It’s dangerous. You’re too sensitive to like me. Although if you changed your mind about being a source I could do wonders for your career.”
“I’ll handle my career just fine, thank you.”
