Impossibly Tongue-Tied Page 6

  It was a smart maneuver. Out by the pool the crowd was thinner and definitely choicer: A coterie of starlets had set up camp by the outdoor bartender, who was making appletinis by the pitcher full. Still, there was less of a chance that anyone could overhear what Sam had to say to Hugo:

  That he had to drop a certain husky-voiced siren, appropriately nicknamed O because apparently she was quite an operator. At least she most certainly had Hugo’s number—to the tune of some three thousand dollars a month.

  And, oh, by the way, Lucinda and her accountants weren’t very happy about that at all, either, Sam informed his friend.

  Hugo frowned. “Jeez, Lucinda…knows? I spent…how much? I…I guess I lost count.”

  Sam gave a low whistle. “Hell, Hugo, I think this O character is making almost as much off of you as I did last year. She must have quite some, um, technique.”

  “Yeah, I’ll admit it she’s got quite a turn with a phrase…and that voice of hers…it’s…so…Jeez, Sam, I’ve never heard anyone like her!” He turned to face Sam, head held high. “But I don’t care. It was worth every penny.”

  Sam put a cube of ice in his mouth and sucked on it. He wanted another drink, but the outdoor bartender was still grandstanding for his very giggly, very appreciative audience, and Sam didn’t want to wait in line.

  What was that dude mixing those drinks with anyway, Manolo Blahnik stilettos?

  “Look, Hugo, I think you should own up to the fact that you’re getting somewhat carried away with this ‘hobby.’ No big deal. Hell, every third guy in this town has some PSO on speed dial. But still, it’s got to mean something to you that you’re breaking Lucinda’s heart—”

  Tears welled up in Hugo’s eyes. “Of course I…I never meant to hurt her. I love her. It’s just that…well—I can’t give up O! I just can’t!” Hugo’s frantic whispers were turning some heads now.

  Sam put a hand on Hugo’s arm, to warn him to lower his voice. Hugo took a deep breath, but his still adamant tone was proof that Sam wasn’t changing his mind. “You don’t get it, Sam. It’s…it’s more than just the dirty talk. I mean sure, she allows me to…to fantasize. But also, she…she actually listens to me. She’s the only woman who knows the real me—without really knowing me, Sam!”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “She doesn’t know that…that I’m Hugo Schmitt.” He whispered this, as if he were afraid that even saying it out loud would change that.

  And change how O felt about him.

  Sam laughed out loud. “For sure, that would make a difference. For one thing, her rates would go up.”

  Pained at Sam’s reaction, Hugo muttered, “There’s nothing funny about this! Hell, I thought that, at the very least, you would understand.”

  “Let me tell you what I do understand.” It was Sam’s turn to get serious. “I understand that Lucinda is on the war path. And I understand that if she tells Archie how much you’ve spent on this—this little ‘addiction’ of yours, he’ll pull the plug on Flagrant Films. Hugo, if he’s vindictive enough, we may be talking jail time here! The world as you know it will blow up in your face, all because some certainly-too-ugly-to-be-a-real-hooker chick has a voice that gives you a hard-on!”

  He moved in close so that only Hugo would hear him, and there’d be no mistaking his point. “Hell, Hugo, you haven’t even humped her! That ain’t the Hugo Schmitt I know.” He took another gulp of melting ice. “Hey, has it even occurred to you that instead of yapping O’s ear off almost every night, you could just hire her as your ‘assistant’ and bang her legitimately?”

  At least it would be legitimate by Hollywood standards.

  “Sam, I’ll be honest with you: I haven’t banged anyone since I met her. Not even Lucinda. I guess I feel that would be…well, unfaithful…to O.”

  Sam choked on his ice cube. “Shit, man! No wonder Lucinda’s pissed. You’re—you’re not just obsessed, you’re in love! And it’s not just with a piece of ass. It’s with a voice—which is probably attached to a face that might make you scream if you woke up beside it! You’re about to blow your meal ticket, Hugo! Not to mention, you’re also losing the one woman who will ever love your sorry ass unconditionally. Hell, do you know how lucky you are? And need I remind you that I was the one who set you two up in the first place?”

  No doubt about it, it was truly a match made in heaven: Hugo was a creative genius; Lucinda was a trust fund baby looking to be a muse to a creative genius; and Archie, grateful that she’d chosen a guy in the town who was admired despite the fact that his projects would never be blockbusters like the teen gross-out flicks and the end-of-the-world special effects extravaganzas Archie typically produced. However, Hugo’s “artsy-fartsy pictures,” as he called them, were always up for Academy Awards, which was why Archie was more than willing to finance his son-in-law.

  As the cold, hard clarity of the situation hit him, Hugo’s eyes suddenly got big.

  “You’re—you’re right. I can’t blow this!” He clutched Sam by the elbow of his Piatelli. “You—you’ve gotta help me, Sam! Before…before I chuck it all away!’

  Sam had never seen his buddy this desperate—another reason for needing that damn Scotch. But still there was no break in the drink line. If anything, the all-female crowd around the bar had gotten even thicker.

  Hell, thought Sam, you’d think that bartender was giving away Victoria’s Secret V-string panties or something with each drink…

  Shit, what a great promotion that would be! He’d mention it to Fiona, the publicist on Katerina and Hugo’s upcoming project. Suddenly remembering his promise to Kat, Sam groaned out loud. If Lucinda and Archie pulled the plug on Hugo, that project would go in the crapper, too.

  He’d have to move fast.

  “Look, Hugo, I’ve got a new client who I think would be perfect for the Kat project.”

  “I’ve decided to go with Brad. I think they’ll be a good fit.”

  “Trust me, this guy runs rings around Brad. He really knows how to make love to the camera.”

  “How green is he?”

  “Well, that’s the problem. He’s…he’s only done a couple of indies.”

  “Anything I’ve seen?”

  “Probably not.”

  “What, are you jerking me off? Put some newbie opposite Kat? Hell, she’d eat him up alive.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say that yes, that was what she had in mind, but Sam thought better of it. “Dude, you’ve got to trust me on this one. I’ve got a good gut instinct about Nathan Harte.”

  “Well, at least his name sounds like a winner. If he doesn’t do anything stupid like shorten it, so that it doesn’t sound like a Hollywood nursery rhyme: Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Jude Law…” Hugo’s sense of humor had returned somewhat. “Look, tell you what: I’ll pass on Brad—for Nathan—if you save my ass on this…this other thing. Otherwise, the picture doesn’t get made anyway, with anyone. Heck, Archie pulls out, and we can put Smarty Jones up there with Kat for that matter, right?”

  Considering the horse’s stud potential, she’d probably like that too much, thought Sam, although he didn’t say it out loud.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of your little problem with Lucinda. But that means no more calls to this O person, Hugo.”

  “No, no, no, Sam, I can’t do that!” Hugo started to hyperventilate. “I can keep it on the sly, believe me, I can! But I just can’t go…cold turkey.” His shoulders slumped as he leaned up against his friend, his agent, his protector.

  As he patted Hugo sympathetically on the back, Sam noticed that the crowd around the bar had finally cleared a bit, affording him a glimpse of the Lothario behind the counter, and yep, certainly he could see why the ladies were flitting about.

  In fact, the dude looked familiar…

  Sam shrugged off the inclination to remember who/what/when/how, and focused on reading Hugo the riot act instead.

  “You can’t chance another call, Hugo! What Lucinda wants is go
lden, and that’s all there is to it. Hell, go to a strip club every now and then. Or buy some Viagra and some Femprox and some sex toys, and take Lucinda to some island paradise! We’re talking about your career here, guy.”

  Hugo got it. Sam knew this because Hugo slipped him a business card before stumbling back into the bar.

  On it was written the letter O and a telephone number.

  Sam would call her later that night.

  Then Hugo’s problem would be solved.

  He stared back over at the bartender. Suddenly he realized where he’d seen that face before…

  Just that afternoon, in his office, in fact.

  It was Nathan Harte, the man of the hour.

  And now here he was standing right there in front of Sam: shucking and jiving for tips from tipsy pop tarts.

  Well, Mr. Harte, your luck is about to change.

  “I know you.” Sam swapped the Dewar’s the bartender had left for him on the counter with a ten-dollar bill.

  “Probably not. I don’t swing that way.” The kid—he was maybe a few years younger than Sam, what, maybe about twenty-four, twenty-five, right?—nodded appreciatively if apologetically as he scooped it up and put it in his breast pocket. To make sure he’d made his point with Sam, though, he shot a dazzling dimpled smile at a sitcom actress who had apparently taken up shop permanently on one side of the bar. She preened appreciatively and matched Sam’s tip with a twenty-dollar bill—and her phone number on a slip of paper.

  At the inference, Sam turned a subtle shade of red.

  Smart-ass kid. What, do I look like a fag?

  Right then and there, Sam made up his mind to never wear the Piatelli again.

  Ignoring Nathan now, he turned his attentions to Ms. Sitcom. Handing her his business card, he went in for the kill. “Hi. Sabrina, isn’t it? Thought I recognized you, but you probably don’t remember me. I’m Sam Godwin, with ICA. You’re with…let me see…William Morris, right?”

  As her jaw dropped, her chest shot forward suggestively. Hell yeah, darn tootin’ she remembered him! And she was flattered he remembered her (despite the fact he’d passed on rep’ing her, what, about a year ago, before she lucked out with that pilot? And, admittedly, the pilot’s director, too). Yeah, unfortunately, she was still at William Morris, but you know how that is: They sit on their laurels, take you for granted, never take you to the next level, yada yada yada…

  Sam glanced over at the kid to see if he was taking this all in: her deference to Sam, her fawning adoration of him, the way she was practically creaming her jeans at the thought of working with him…

  Yeah, the kid got it all right. Sam could tell by the hungry look in Nathan Harte’s heartbreakingly soulful eyes. A look that said, I want in. I can play this game too.

  As the girl finally shimmied off to find her posse, Nathan stammered, “Gee, sorry, Mr. Godwin…I didn’t know…I didn’t mean anything by—”

  Sam held out his hand to shake. “No hard feelings. A pretty boy like you must get that all the time, huh?”

  “Yeah, I do get hit on a lot. Girls and guys. Don’t mind the ladies”—he winked at two who were worshipping him from across the pool—“but it still bugs me when a guy does it. And every other guy in the town seems to be light in his loafers, know what I mean? But I keep it polite, ’cause you never know how big a player he may be.”

  Translation: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa. Just tell me where to pucker up, and I’m there…figuratively if not literally…

  He shot Sam a contrite smile, all pearly white. “So, you mentioned you’d, uh, seen me somewhere?”

  “Yes. In fact, I have your reel sitting on my desk now. It’s quite impressive.”

  In shock and awe that anyone of Sam’s caliber would actually say that to him, Nathan puffed up involuntarily.

  Great ego reflexes, Sam thought. Good, ’cause he’ll need them.

  “In fact”—he pulled out another business card and handed it to the kid—“I’d like to represent you. That is, if you don’t already have representation.”

  “No! I mean—”

  The kid didn’t know what he meant, only what his brain was trying to tell him: that one of Hollywood’s most revered agents was asking him, Nathan Harte, if he wanted to be part of his star-filled roster!

  “—not at this time…Jeez, if I did, why would I be standing here?” He pointed to his station behind the bar.

  “Nathan, you’d be surprised how many actors have agents and are still standing there.” He smiled knowingly. “But I’m going to make sure you’ll do better than that. Just come by tomorrow…say, five-thirty? And we’ll talk.”

  As he walked away, he could hear Nathan closing up his station. In the kid’s mind, he was already out from behind that bar.

  And in front of the cameras.

  By the time Sam got home, Chastity had worked herself up into a very un-Zen-like lather.

  Over Sam forgetting her teff.

  And for conveniently forgetting to mention Hugo’s party to her.

  And for his obvious attraction to “some little clerk from Tommaso’s.”

  He didn’t know how she figured all that out, but certainly it opened the door for him to lay it on the line:

  That he had felt that they were growing apart for a very long time now. That he cared deeply for her, and always appreciated how she gave 1000 percent of herself to every endeavor, especially to him. But in truth, he asked, was that fair to her? No, of course not, he answered for her, before she’d had a chance to open her mouth. Not if he couldn’t give her 1000 percent of himself, too.

  And that’s just it: He couldn’t. And she didn’t deserve any less…

  This exact spiel had always worked magic with previous girlfriends—and, ironically, with a few deadbeat clients too. He held his breath for her reaction.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Tearfully, she looked him in the eye, threw the bag of teff at him, and slammed the door behind her.

  Before Sam could find a broom, Towser had lapped up all the tiny purple pellets that had spilled all over the kitchen floor.

  Great! Just great, thought Sam. As if his day hadn’t been bad enough, the teff ensured that the evening would end—literally—on a crappy note.

  And he still had to read that O person the riot act.

  He picked up the dog’s leash and herded Towser out the door, just in the nick of time.

  Nathan burst through the front door as if he were on fire. But before Nina could open her mouth to tell him the exciting news about having given Sam his reel, Nathan informed her that he’d just met with Sam Godwin of ICA not even an hour ago.

  “See, hon? Mailing out all those DVDs finally paid off. He wants to represent me!”

  Nathan picked her up and swung her around, dipped her into a kiss. “Wow, I can’t believe he actually recognized me, you know, behind the bar and all…although that was sort of embarrassing.”

  It would have been more embarrassing if Sam had seen Nathan in his Disneyland costume, thought Nina, but she didn’t say that. Instead she wrapped herself in his arms and laughed. “Don’t be. All of this was meant to happen. Oh, Nathan, I’m so proud of you.”

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him that the contact had initially been made by her.

  What difference would that have made, anyway? Sam Godwin had seen Nathan’s reel out of the goodness of his heart, not because of anything she had said or done.

  Gosh, it was nice to finally meet someone in this town who didn’t have an ulterior motive!

  5

  The Proposition

  Sam’s conversation with O did not go exactly the way he had hoped, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why not.

  He’d had the foresight to tape it, and he was glad he had, for a couple of reasons. First off, it might come in handy legally. Second, he had to admit that, like Hugo, he found himself intrigued with O’s sultry voice, even more so each time he played it to himself:

  SAM: (In
a very businesslike, take-no-prisoners tone) Hello. I’m talking to O, I presume?

  O: (With a soft, tinkling laugh) I can be anyone you want, lover…You don’t mind if I call you lover, do you? I don’t think you mentioned your name.

  SAM: (Pauses to consider the consequence of the nickname “lover.” Because he remembers that he’s taping the conversation, he thinks better of this.) My name is—is Sam. I’m calling about a friend of mine. You know him as…Wilbur.

  O: Ahhhhh…Love Wilbur. He knows just what to say to a woman to…well, get her all hot…and bothered…I’ll just bet you do, too, Sam.

  SAM: Uh, what? What’s that?

  O: (Softly, achingly) I said I can imagine you know how to make a woman…come.

  SAM: (After a long pause) To tell you the truth, O, I don’t want to talk about me. I’d prefer to talk about you and Wilbur.

  O: Right, gotcha. You want me to tell you what we talk about…You want to know what words make him hard…and long…and hot as he imagines me there, beside him…aching for him—

  SAM: (Somewhat desperately) No! I mean—what I’m trying to say is that I don’t want you to take his calls. Ever.

  O: (Sighing) Sam, darling, you really don’t have to be jealous. From what Wilbur tells me, there’s enough of him to go around for the both of us—

  SAM: You think that I—that I…? Listen, babe, you’ve got it all wrong! Hugo—I mean Wilbur and I aren’t lovers. We’re buds! And that’s all. Just two guys who love the ladies.

  O: I get it, Sam. So, what you’re telling me is that you want me all to yourself. Right?

  SAM: Uh…me? Why would I…No, sorry, hon, I like my women in the flesh.

  O: Ohhhh…Fleshy women, huh?

  SAM: Heck, no, I’m not talking about looks. If you must know, I prefer women that actually have something to say. Looks—particularly in this town—are a dime a dozen.

  O: (Laughing heartily) Or as John Donne put it, “Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.”