Box Office Poison

better.”

“No, too many curves and too many accidents,” said the PA. “One wreck and the road is shut down for hours.”

“What if she went down Cahuenga past the Rose Bowl, caught Santa Monica, and headed west?”

The others considered Merlin’s suggestion. “Yeah, that makes sense,” Junie said. “Then she’d have the option to bail out onto Sunset or Melrose depending on what she’s hearing on the radio.”

I just stared at them. I hadn’t seen this much focus since the New York office wrote an amicus brief for the Supreme Court. They correctly interpreted my expression.

Merlin was grinning again. “You have just experienced the most common LA conversation. It breaks the ice, it can be used as a pickup method, and it covers all social gaffs.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve got the same thing in New York. Except we discuss apartments. I would submit that our discussions are ultimately more useful,” I said.

Merlin grinned at me, enjoying the sparring. “Big-city rivalry. We’re more exciting.”

“We’re more sophisticated.”

“We’ve got movie stars.”

“We’ve got skyscrapers.”

He threw up a hand. “Okay, I call it a draw.”

“You do know to tune your radio to 1070 am for traffic updates?” asked the PA. She clearly hadn’t gotten the memo that we were teasing now.

“No, but I guess I do now. Okay, all you California dreamers, this hard-charging New Yorker is going to work.” I gave them a finger wave and went back to my office to prepare for the day’s testimony.

6

David had called for a fifteen-minute recess while we waited for the next witness to arrive. This was going to be the big enchilada, the world-famous director George Campos, who was going to talk about human versus Alfar actors. The previous three hours had been taken up with a statistician, and my brain felt as numb as my butt. Barbara Gabaldon hadn’t even bothered to question the man because she could sense he wasn’t having that much impact. My three days of burrowing into the reports had only intensified the sense that humans were getting the short end of the stick. But what to do about it?

As I bolted for the bathroom I reflected that this was another problem with vampires: they tended to forget that humans had bodily functions. The ladies room was outside the office proper, down the hall past the elevators. Missy had already beaten me to the facility. While I was in the stall I heard her washing her hands, but I didn’t hear the door close. Sure enough, she was waiting for me when I emerged. She leaned against the wall by the towel dispenser and glared at me. I let the warm water roll across my hands and tried to think of something to say. The soap offered a conversational opening, and I seized it like a drowning woman.

“You know, this new foam soap makes me think of shaving cream.” The inanity made me cringe, but the angry silence had just been too much.

“We’re checking into you,” Missy said. She was so stiff I thought her jaw would crack.

“Okay. What else did you say?”

“You’re a whore for the Spooks.”

Spook was an incredibly pejorative term for the vampires, werewolves, and Alfar who made up the Powers, and it offended me. She’d gotten under my skin.

“Okay, I’m not going to take you up on this,” I said. “First, you shouldn’t be approaching me without the other parties being present, and do you really think this is a winning strategy—to be nasty to one of the people judging this case?”

“That’s the problem. There’s only one person judging, and you’re questionable.”

To get a towel I had to stand right next to her, and she didn’t budge. We were inches apart. “I’m going to do you a favor,” I said. “I’m not going to mention this conversation to Mr. Sullivan, but don’t you ever approach me again. Understand?”

“I’m not afraid of you. Once we finish with the Alfar we’ll take care of the others, and people like you, too.” Missy slammed out of the bathroom.

There was a quivering in the pit of my stomach. I waved, the dispenser burped out a towel, and I clutched the material so tightly that my nails broke through the rough paper. We’ll take care of the others? Who was the we? My mind jumped to the threatening phone call from last night. Maybe I should say something to David, but I didn’t want to prejudice the proceedings for all the human actors because Missy was a bitch.

I left and found myself walking with a whip-thin older man whose deep-set dark eyes seemed even blacker when contrasted with his shock of silver hair. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He was also heading for the doors leading to IMG. He held open the door and indicated for me to go ahead, displaying the kind of manners you only saw in vampires and the elderly.

Inside it seemed like the entire firm was milling around in the reception area. Everyone was staring at us. No, correction, they were staring at the old man. He paused for an instant. The young PA from earlier edged closer and said in a breathless voice, “Mr. Campos, it’s an honor to meet you. I think No Miracle was the best movie ever made.”

So, this was the expert witness, the world-famous director whose films had influenced Spielberg, Lucas, and Coppola. I knew from our documents that he was eighty-two years old, and hadn’t worked much in the past twenty years.

“Well, then, you’d be an idiot. Citizen Kane was the best movie ever made,” the man said in a rumbling, gravel bass that could have doubled for the voice of God.

The kid didn’t seem embarrassed; he just seemed dazed that he had spoken to his idol.

“Mr. Campos, I’m Linnet Ellery, one of the arbitrators in this case. I’m heading back to the conference room if you’d like to accompany me,” I said.

“Certainly.”

“Can we get you anything? Coffee? Water? Soda?”

“Water, please.”

There was a scramble as the PA and several others went lunging for the break room. We walked in silence. Then just before the door to the conference room he said, “Nothing’s like it used to be, not the town or the industry. This is just part of the change.” And he once again held the door for me.

* * *

“They’ve been a disaster.” Campos’s words were flat and uncompromising.

“But they are beautiful,” Sheila LeBlanc said. It was more of a statement than a question.

“Oh, yeah, they’re gorgeous, but looks aren’t what makes an actor. Look at Bogart, Astaire, Tracy, Orson Welles, Hepburn—who was, frankly, funny looking. Those were actors. These Alfar, they’re like pretty dolls with just about as much animation.”

There was a stir from Qwendar, and Palendar looked outraged.

“I won’t use them in my movies, and most directors feel the same way if you get them in private.”

I looked down at the statistics I’d compiled and stepped in before LeBlanc could pose another question. “I don’t understand, Mr. Campos. If we extrapolate from your statement, then the Alfar shouldn’t be getting cast. But they are. A lot. The statistics are here.” I held up the papers.

David pinned Sheila with a look. “Is there going to be a long line of directors who support Mr. Campos’s view? Because if so you seem to be making Ms. Gabaldon’s case that the Alfar don’t have an advantage.”

“We’re getting to how this is relevant,” she said. “Mr. Campos, if you would, please.”

Campos jumped in. “They get cast because they whammy the humans when they audition. They’re not winning these parts on merit. They’re cheating. Using their magic.”

Qwendar took to his feet. “That is gross slander, and I object.” It was declaimed more than spoken. I remembered John telling me that the Alfar all lived as if they were in an opera. Qwendar seemed to bear that