Box Office Poison

doing more.”

“I agree, but even vampires are wary of the Alfar.”

“Not a comforting thought,” Jacobs concluded.

* * *

Merlin hadn’t steered me wrong. The Barham Oakwood was built on a series of hills that separated the San Fernando Valley from the LA Basin and it was quite pretty. Feeling paranoid about earthquakes I had requested a one-bedroom apartment on the third floor. I had seen the pictures from the Northridge quake. Things fell down, and if you were in an underground parking garage or on the bottom floor in a building you got squashed. I also figured that, along with the on-site gym, walking up the stairs would be good exercise. The cool, rainy weather made the outdoor pools less attractive.

I stood on my balcony and looked out at the iconic water tower on the Warner Bros. lot. Even though I’d been in the apartment for three days it still gave me a shiver and a giggle. Hollywood really was the domain of American royalty. Even the most cynical were starstruck, and I was no cynic.

Behind the studio hills climbed toward a cloud-drenched sky bare of those unique LA structures—houses on stilts. That was because the hills were part of Griffith Park, donated to the city by Colonel Griffith J. Griffith back in the 1890s. There was a theater on the property, the famous Griffith Observatory, a merry-go-round, and a riding stable. I hadn’t checked it out yet because I didn’t love riding stable horses. They were usually old, tired, and sour. Or once people figured out I knew how to ride I got assigned the angry, young problem horse to “fix,” and because I was small I often got stuck with fixing cranky ponies.

The phone rang. I went back inside to answer it. There was a long silence. This had been happening with increasing regularity over the past few days. In the beginning I did the hello, hello, hello? thing in ever-increasing tones of testiness. Now I just answered and stayed silent, waiting to see if anyone would speak. I was just about to hang up when a harsh voice whispered,

“Elf whore.” There was the click of a disconnected line and I stared in shock at the handset.

Elf whore? What the hell did that mean? Because I was an arbitrator in this human-Alfar case? But I wasn’t representing the Alfar—I stood in the position of a judge. Had someone found out that John and I had been intimate? It wasn’t a secret, but who the hell would care? And that was just too creepy for words. A shiver ran through me. I hurried over to the white brick gas fireplace and turned it on. Blue and yellow flames played like coy children around the artificial logs. I sat down on the floor, rubbed my arms, and contemplated the fire.

John. Last summer I’d had what I thought was contact with him. I’d dreamed he was in my bedroom with me, and when I’d awakened there had been a flowering branch at the foot of the bed. Even now I could recall the perfume from those flowers. Since then—nothing. Had he been punished for that incursion into our reality? Or had he just moved on and forgotten about me? Come to accept his life in Fey? That I didn’t buy. He seemed to have an active dislike, if not downright hatred, for the Alfar and a deep love for his human family and human institutions. My mind returned to that hateful phone call. Why not vampire whore? I worked for a white-fang law firm. I couldn’t find any rational explanation.

Giving myself a shake I stood up and went into the tiny kitchen area. I opened the fridge, contemplated the contents, and decided to settle for a Trader Joe’s prepackaged seafood salad. After dressing it, and dumping it out onto a plate I wandered through the apartment, nibbling. The call had really disturbed me. It had left me shaky and very sad. Was this any less depressing than a hotel room? I missed my female colleagues back at the New York firm. Suddenly the city seemed very large and I seemed very small, lost in a vast, sprawling web of lights, roads, houses, and people.

The phone rang. I studied it with apprehension, forced my feet to move, and picked up the handset.

“Hello?” came Jeff Montolbano’s voice. “Linnet? Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Hi, Jeff, what’s up?”

“I just got word that there’s only going to be a morning session tomorrow because of some of the participants’ shooting schedules. That made me think, hey, I bet Linnet has never been on a movie set.”

“You’d be right.”

“Want to change that? I’m an executive producer on a new spy thriller starring Jondin. I was going by the set tomorrow afternoon. I could take you along.”

Jondin was the female version of Kerrinan, who was now occupying a cell in county lockup. “This isn’t going to be a repeat of Ketchup, right? Not using me for a prop.”

“No. This is me trying to make up for that.”

“In that case, I would love to go with you. Where are they filming?”

“On a soundstage at Warner’s,” he said.

“Well, it just so happens I was looking at the water tower at Warner’s from my balcony this evening.”

“Perfect. How about we just go from the office tomorrow. We can grab lunch in Toluca Lake.”

“I rented a car and it will be at the office.”

He dismissed the problem. “I can take you back there after we’re done.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

* * *

This was going to be my first day driving myself to the IMG office, so I left absurdly early. And found myself in a long line of cars inching their way up Barham Boulevard. Apparently everybody had the same idea. I had rented a portable GPS system when I rented the car, and I had the address to the office entered into the Garmin. I selected a male voice as the guide because the default woman reminded me of a first-grade teacher I had really hated. The softly accented Brit voice, which I had dubbed Nigel, suggested I take a right in five hundred feet onto Highway 101.

Nigel guided me onto the I-405 freeway heading south. Now it was easy. Just ride this to the Santa Monica exit. I listened to the radio as I drove, flipping back and forth between a contemporary pop and a classical station. My average speed seemed to hover around five miles an hour. Getting to shoot up to fifteen miles an hour was exciting, but this was quickly dispelled when the traffic would inexplicably stop. After twenty minutes I gave up stressing about it, and cultivated a Zen attitude. It would take as long as it took.

Eventually I reached the office and pulled into a space reserved for IMG employees. I dumped my computer and the files I’d been reading at home and headed into the break room for a cup of coffee. It was a more utilitarian space then the opulent kitchen on the partner’s floor in New York. White refrigerator and microwave, no china plates or cups. A toaster but no stove.

Merlin, Junie, and a few other people were present, toasting bagels, doctoring coffee, brewing tea. Merlin was drinking a Coke and eating a cupcake. He grinned at my expression.

“Breakfast of champions,” he said.

“Ugh,” was my articulate response. I poured out a cup of coffee and the rich smell was like a hug. I wasn’t really hungry, but I opened up the full-size refrigerator just to see what might be lurking and found myself staring at a carton of nonfat half-and-half surrounded by premade salads and lots of diet drinks.

I took out the container of half-and-half and held it out to the room. “What is the point?”

“Calories,” said Junie. “But if you want real half-and-half just put it on the shopping list. She indicated a small notebook.

“No, thanks. I take mine black,” I said.

“Like your heart?” Merlin asked.

“No, like my mood.”

“You do look frazzled,” Junie remarked.

“I am. I drove for the first time. How do you people stand it?”

“How did you come?” a young male PA asked.

“The 101 to the 405.”

“Well, there’s your problem,” Merlin said. “Where do you live?”

“I took your advice. I’m in the Barham Oakwood.”

“Okay.” He took a big swig of Coke. “You’ve got to use surface streets to get over the hill and into the Basin. You want to get on Riverside and go down to Laurel Canyon and over.”

Junie was shaking her head. “No, Laurel Canyon’s a nightmare at rush hour. Coldwater Canyon is