Box Office Poison

The human actors were represented by Sheila LeBlanc. She was midfifties, fit and tan, with flint gray eyes, too black hair, and designer glasses that sported bling and harkened back to the batwings of the 1950s. I recognized her because every time there was a high-profile case in California she ended up on CNN or some other cable station, either representing some side in the issue or commenting on the case.

The client of record on the human side was Missy (short for Melissa) Able. She was on the shady side of forty; her eyes seemed odd, and then I realized part of her face wasn’t moving. The wonders of Botox. She didn’t look much like the younger ditzy sister she had played on a twenty-year-old sitcom that I had caught in reruns on Nick at Night during my college years. All the Botox in the world couldn’t hide the downturned mouth and angry expression. Especially when she looked over at Jeff.

Even if there were no Alfar, I’m betting you wouldn’t be getting parts, I thought, then tried to forget I’d ever had the nasty little thought because we were the arbitrators and we were supposed to be impartial.

Representing the studios and networks was an enormously fat man with luxuriant light gray hair that set a sharp contrast with his black skin, a lazy smile, and a southern accent that poured honey over you. This was Gordon McPhee, and when he enfolded my hand in his own pillow-soft hand I took note of an antique signet ring and the suit vest crossed with an elaborate watch chain and fob. I looked up and meet his basset hound eyes, and caught the sharp glint of calculation beneath the sleepy demeanor. Yeah, cunning as a fox, I thought. He’s the one to watch.

His clients were a gaggle of sharp men in expensive suits, the heads of various studios and networks, and two women. One was young and self-effacing, Valerie Frank, who was the newly appointed head of Paramount Pictures, and the other woman made Sheila LeBlanc look like Mother Theresa. Ginjer Balkin was the head of the NBC network and all its cable subsidiaries. She was sharp-featured, with perfectly coiffed, highlighted hair, super- high-heeled Christian Louboutin shoes, a pencil skirt, and an inhuman coldness in her eyes that made me wonder if she was a vampire even though I knew that to be impossible.

The various talent agencies—William Morris, CAA, etc.—had hired Stan Brubaker. Midforties, gray-blond hair, a megawatt smile, surfer’s tan, and a hard-charging werewolf litigator. I didn’t want to be a bigot, even in the privacy of my own head, but after what had happened last year when a dispute over ownership of a powerful werewolf company had led to no fewer than six werewolves trying to kill me, it didn’t matter that they had all ended up dead and I was fine: I wasn’t real comfortable being around them.

And there were three more hounds among his clients. Like the studio executives the agents tended to be male and intense but with readier smiles, and their attire was more casual than the network and studio executives.

Representing the Alfar was Barbara Gabaldon, a very pretty woman in her thirties with tawny skin, liquid dark eyes, and black hair that showed what natural black hair should look like. She was very stylishly dressed, with lots of gold jewelry that looked great with her Latin looks. The Alfar actor who was the client of record for that side was Palendar, who had made a career out of turning Japanese anime into live action movies. There was no question that the look of anime characters had been affected by the advent of the Alfar into our world, and Palendar looked like he could have modeled for those early comics and movies. Like many Alfar he had multicolored hair; his tended toward an unusual lavender mixed with white and silver. He had narrow features with upturned eyes and a pointed chin, and he was so thin I wanted to offer him a donut. Like his human counterpart, Palendar glared at Jeff and ignored the human’s outstretched hand.

I had about reached the conclusion that actors tended to act like bratty kids when they weren’t inhabiting a role. Then another Alfar entered, accompanied by Pizer, and he stopped me in my tracks because he actually looked old. I knew from John that the Alfar aged very slowly, so I couldn’t begin to guess his age. He was dressed in a bespoke suit of silver gray with blue highlights that picked up the color of his eyes. His hair, which hung to the middle of his back, was nearly pure white with a few dramatic streaks of black and red. He was handsome in the way of all Alfar, but wrinkles lay like cobwebs across his skin.

“Qwendar,” he said softly, and shook hands with the various principles.

David was frowning at the elderly Alfar, and he turned to Gabaldon and asked, “May I inquire as to why Mr. Qwendar is present?”

Qwendar didn’t give her the opportunity to answer. “I am here on behalf of the Alfar Council. To assure ourselves that these proceedings are conducted fairly, and that it doesn’t become an opportunity to demean and degrade our people. There’s been quite enough of that in this state recently.”

David and I exchanged a glance. Was this about Kerrinan’s arrest, or was something else going on? Pizer stepped in close, put a finger to his lips, and said softly, “I’ll fill you in later.”

“That would be nice,” David replied, and the muscles in his jaw were clenched. Like most vampires, he hated surprises.

Pizer leaned in to David and me. “Look, this all happened at ugh o’clock this morning and just got resolved. I got the call literally moments ago.”

“It should have been cleared with us.”

“Yeah, well, it came down ex cathedra from people with a way higher pay grade than yours or mine,” Pizer said tensely.

There was the buzz of conversation punctuated occasionally by quick bursts of laughter like lightning against the dark of a rising storm. People fortified themselves with beverages. I noticed that only McPhee touched the donuts and he took three. Of the beverages only water, coffee, and the diet drinks were touched. I gave one final longing glance at a glazed, raised, chocolate donut, but the peer pressure was too much. I poured myself a black coffee and took a seat at the end of the conference table where I could see all the parties. David took the seat at the other end. People took the cue and settled into the remaining chairs.

“Thank you all for coming,” David began. “This is an arbitration and the hope is that we can reach some agreement and consensus without resorting to the courts. This process does share certain similarities with a judicial proceeding. We will take evidence and interview witnesses. Such testimony can be under oath at the discretion of the arbitrator, and it’s my intention to require that an oath be administered. I find it tends to focus the mind.” He paused and gave them all a thin, closed-lip vampire smile.

“My associate”—he nodded at me—“and I will question the witnesses, and your representatives will be allowed to question the witnesses. We will begin with the claimant”— David indicated Missy Able—“who will go first, and make the claim for the human actors. After their arguments have been presented, the other parties will present their defense.” He pinned the gaggle of studio people, the agents, and the Alfar with a glance.

“I expect this to be handled civilly and discreetly. I don’t want to read about these proceedings in the press.” Here he paused to glare at Jeff. “Or hear about it on Access Hollywood.”

That amazed me. The idea of David sitting in front of a television, watching the entertainment news show with its breathless hosts, had me hiding a smile. Once again I wondered when he had been made? You didn’t expect vampires to keep up with current events or cutting-edge technology. In contrast Palendar, who wasn’t listening to a word David was saying, was unpacking his man purse setting out an iPhone and an iPad.

David continued. “This is a judicial proceeding though it is taking place outside the confines of a court. I expect decorum to be observed.”

It was a very vampirelike statement. Everyone nodded somberly. Then McPhee drawled out, “Will we begin presenting testimony today, or was this just a little mill and swill?”

Everyone looked to Sheila. I had to hand it to her—she was unperturbed. She rose to her feet in one smooth motion and gave McPhee an ironic nod. “I’m quite prepared to make an opening statement. I indicated that we were going to begin with an expert witness. In the interest of not wasting my client’s money I did not have him standing by because I wasn’t certain if you would actually begin hearing testimony today. But as I said, I can make my opening remarks.”

“Then please do,” David said. “And we will hold off on starting testimony until tomorrow.”

Sheila walked behind her chair and gripped the high back. She had long nails painted a deep crimson that matched her lipstick. I wondered if they were artificial or if she grew them herself? She did sort of give off that whole dragon lady vibe. They were probably hers.

“People are losing their livelihoods. I’m sure…” Here she paused to look at Gabaldon and her clients, Brubaker and McPhee and their clients. “I’m sure that some in this room will argue it’s happened before. When talkies replaced silent films. When computers replaced the need for extras in crowd scenes. But this is different.