"Maybe Kelvin is just a touch effeminate," I said.
Tami frowned heavily. "Lamb White movies always portray genders as very distinct. We see it as our God-given duty to present malleable little minds with role models of real men and real women. Effeminacy is out."
"So," said Quip, busily scribbling notes. "You're asking for an ultrabutch kookaburra." He gave her a sly smile. "Have I got that straight?"
I repressed a grin.
Any impulse to smile rapidly disappeared when I realized Tami's knee was pressing against mine. I moved fractionally. Tami's knee followed. I glanced at her. She sent me a meaningful little smile.
Hell's bells! I was a victim of sexual harassment. Sexual harassment from a sheila who specialized in unarmed combat. Wouldn't it rot your socks!
Sixteen
The script meeting was coming to an end, which was fine by me. I'd managed to move my chair so I was out of reach of Tami's questing knee, but every now and then she unnerved me with a flirtatious glance.
While everyone argued over plot points in the script, I rehearsed several imaginary conversations with Tami. In each I explained kindly but firmly why I wasn't available for hanky-panky. A polite thanks-but-no-thanks approach. Unfortunately, the fact that I was supposedly Alf's girlfriend hadn't dissuaded her, which was a worry. Maybe I'd have to get tough.
Getting tough reminded me of Tami's devotion to unarmed combat. Sure, I'd done a course in self-defense at the Wollegudgerie Police Club, but I had to be realistic. It was doubtful I'd be able to handle a Tami Eckholdt frontal assault. I shuddered at the disturbing vision of Tami pinning me down with some mysterious unarmed-combat hold, and-
"You OK, love?"
"Thanks, Alf. I'm fine."
To banish such horrible images, I forced myself to concentrate on the meeting. Tami was declaring forcefully there was no way Kelvin Kookaburra, as portrayed in this script, would have the moxie to challenge the evil Gordon Goanna in the climactic scene.
"What's this moxie you're talking about?" Alf asked. "Is it something to do with Kelvin's muscles? Kookas are heavy-duty birds, not pushovers like sparrows."
I was also keen to hear what moxie might be, but Tami had no opportunity to answer, as the focal point of the conference room shifted dramatically. Brother Owen swept through the door, closely followed by a bloke in a pinstripe suit.
The yes-men scrambled to their feet. Tami's expression switched from peeved to welcoming yet deferential. "Brother Owen! This is an honor."
Brother Owen had a faint, smug smile on his smooth, fleshy face. He put up his right hand in benediction. "Blessings upon this meeting, and upon each child of God present with us here."
I was puzzling over this, wondering if Brother Owen meant that one or more of us was not a child of God, so it was a selective blessing, when Alf said to the other bloke, "G'day, Marty-O. Long time no see."
So this was the Hartnidges' famous Hollywood agent, Marty O. Ziema. He was average height and very nattily dressed in a blue, double-breasted pinstripe suit, white shirt, and blood-red bow tie. He had gold cuff links, two heavy gold rings, and I caught a flash of gold in one front tooth. I couldn't see it, but I'd take bets his watch would be a heavy gold number.
I recalled Quip describing Marty O. Ziema as ruthless, egotistical, and dishonest-qualities that had made him very successful. "When you've got influence, you have power," Quip had said. "And when you have power in this town, you can do what you damn well please."
I'd imagined a shifty-eyed creature with rat-like features, probably chewing a cigar. Marty-O, however, had no cigar and appeared quite boringly normal, except for the bow tie. Mum always said to watch out for blokes wearing bow ties. "They're a bit off," she'd say. "Not quite your ordinary bloke." Now that I looked at him closely, his eyes were rather beady and close together.
Alf got up to shake Marty-O's hand. "I was just saying to Chicka-when was it, Chicka, yesterday morning?-where the hell's Marty-O got to? Didn't you get our messages?"
"Messages?" said Marty-O. "You left messages?"
A line from my Complete Handbook popped into my head: Liars often repeat questions; it's a stalling mechanism, while the person fabricates an answer.
"We did," said Chicka. "You were always in a meeting, or out of town."
Marty-O's face suddenly transformed from bland to twisted rage. "My fucking assistant's fucked up for the last time. I'll fire the bitch."
Alf looked horrified. "Holy cow, I don't want to get anyone fired."
"Alf," said Marty-O, abruptly becoming calm and very serious, "when one of my clients, one of my major clients, has anything less than the absolute ultimate in unsurpassed service, someone has to pay. Pay dearly." He shook his head ruefully. "I mean, Alf, ask yourself, where would Marty-O be in this town if he didn't promptly return every call?"
One of the yes-men sniggered. A burning glare from Tami sobered him quick smart.
"My friends!" boomed Brother Owen in his deep, resonant voice. Apparently the attention had been off him for long enough. When he had everyone looking his way, he went on, "I am here with a purpose." He flicked a glance at Tami. "Your meeting has concluded?"
"Yes. Yes, it has, Brother Owen."
"Excellent." He indicated Tami's yes-men and Quip. "You may leave us." Then his gaze stopped at me. "Kylie, how delightful to see you again."
I was impressed he'd remembered my name. "Bonzer to see you too."
"I've been wanting to speak with you about something. Something important."
"You have?" I said, astonished. To him I was just Alf's Aussie girlfriend, so what could he want with me?
Quip, who'd gathered up his things and was following the yes-men out of the room, raised an eyebrow in my direction, and mouthed, "Lucky girl."
When the three men had left, closing the door behind them, Brother Owen said to the agent, "Marty-O, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like a glass of mango juice with ice." He gestured toward the refrigerated glass-fronted cabinet.
Marty-O stared at him. "You want me to get you a drink?" He indicated Tami, and then me. "Surely…" His expression made it clear he considered this was women's work.
Brother Owen appeared surprised to have any discussion on the matter. "And while you're there, Marty-O, I'm sure others would like some refreshments too."
Marty-O hesitated, then, face red and lips compressed, he went over to the mini kitchen. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from grinning. Brother Owen was quite an operator. In the clash of titanic egos, it was Brother Owen one, Marty-O nil.
I wandered over to get my own orange juice. Marty-O glanced my way but didn't speak. "G'day," I said. "I'm Kylie." He ignored me.
Brother Owen indicated we should take our seats around the table. "Before we begin, I have an invitation for you all. This Saturday evening the Church of Possibilities will be holding our famed annual fund-raising gala for children stricken with cancer. This exclusive, star-studded event will be attended by the cream of Los Angeles society. As you might imagine, although very expensive, tickets are snapped up months before the gala, leaving many disappointed socialites and other, lesser people."
"One of the events of the year," said Tami.
"Not one of the events, Tami. The premier event of the Los Angeles charity social calendar." He spread his arms wide. "And I'm extending to each of you an invitation to be my guest at the central table of honor."
"We'll be there," said Alf.
Chicka nodded enthusiastically. "Anything to help the sick kiddies."
"Excellent." Brother Owen turned to me. "And you, my dear? I hope you're free?"
Thank heavens I had the perfect excuse to dip out. "It's a blow, but I'm not free, I'm afraid. My aunt has just flown in from Australia."