Was this relevant? Smith couldn’t recall Alan Hale Jr. In what films was he the leading man? How did it have a bearing on any of this?
“Another thing that’s just wrong is you spying on my family. I thought I made that clear. Or did Mrs. M mix up the message?”
“She delivered the message. I chose to ignore it.”
“Hold on.” Remo lowered the phone, but Smith could still hear every word perfectly. “Hi, Officer. Sorry for being so loud. I’m talking to a very old man who doesn’t listen well. Maybe you’ve heard of him, Dr. Harold Winston Smith of Rye, New York? He pretends to be the man in charge of Folcroft Sanitarium, but really he’s the head of this assassination arm of the U.S. government called CURE. Okay, I’ll try to keep it down.” Remo came back on the line. “Cop thought I was bonkers. Okay, he’s gone now. As I was saying…”
“You don’t need to continue this,” Smith said. “Don’t sweat it. Nobody believes me. They think I’m some crazy screenwriter. Maybe next time I’ll go somewhere they’ll believe me. You know, some TV news show or something. Now, did you understand that message?”
“Yes,” Smith said tightly.
The connection was severed. The automatic tracing system had it pinned down to a newly activated mobile phone that was, indeed, in Hollywood, California. The phone disappeared from the system a moment later, as if it had ceased to exist.
“Thank God you showed up!” Olaf Dasheway shouted. “You’re late, you know. Three minutes.” He brandished his wristwatch.
“I’m on time. Your watch is wrong. Okay, let’s do this thing.”
The producer glared at him. “You ready to lose the nose wig?”
“Nope.”
“Please.”
“Nope.”
Dasheway sighed. “It’s gonna look kind of silly.”
“So sell it,” Remo said with a shrug. “Tonight at nine—how can a guy this dorky looking get such fabulous babes?”
The producer considered that. “Maybe. You ready to work your magic?”
“Ready,” Remo said.
Chapter 18
The first episode of The Ladies’ Man was in the can.
Olaf Dasheway called all the networks for the screening.
“I’m gonna work this like nothing you ever saw before,” the producer told Remo as show time approached.
“I have to hand it to you,” Remo said. “You got a lot of bigwigs to show up, but they look pissed. Not your kind of pissed.”
Producer Dasheway insisted they have a bourbon to celebrate, but Remo was sure Dasheway had a bourbon or six every night about this time, whether or not a celebration was called for. Remo had politely declined a drink, but Dasheway poured two tumblers anyway, then drank both. At the moment he was on Remo’s third bourbon.
“Good luck,” Remo said as Dasheway slammed down the tumbler.
“You’re all the luck I need, Romeo,” Dasheway gushed as he went to greet his guests.
“What kind of a cheap stunt is this, Dasheway?” a vice president of network programming demanded.
“Not a stunt, an auction. I’m auctioning off my new television show.”
“Like we got money for a new TV show,” barked a woman with a city map growing out of the corners of her eyes. Other than her eyes, she was gorgeous.
“You’ll find a way to bid on this show. It’ll save your network.”
“In case you haven’t read the news, reality shows are a dime a dozen. They’re washed up. I don’t care if you’ve got the President of the United States of America, it’s not gonna get people watching.”
Dasheway nodded confidently. “Development of the Slick Willy show is on hiatus. The former President has nothing to do with the current production. This one is different. We shot the pilot this afternoon, so it’s not perfect—”
“You’re showing us raw footage?” a narrow man with a fat cigar exploded. “You’re out of your mind, Dasheway.”
“Either that or my show is the best reality show of all time. You want to watch it or not?”
The studio executives were desperate enough to stay and watch.
The bidding war started while the footage was still playing.
Chapter 19
Saxony was a phenomenon at sixteen, when her first album, “Look What I Did!”, topped the charts. Countless high-school kids bought her albums. Thousands of their fathers sneaked looks at the sleazy CD covers. Saxony sold forty million CDs in four years.
But the world was less friendly now that she was getting older. Saxony was struggling to command the world’s attention the way she once did. She was only twenty, and yet a new generation was trying to move in on her turf.
’Gettios was just the place for a star who wanted to be seen while acting as if she didn’t want to be seen. ’Gettios was known as the premier spot for al fresco dining in L.A., and the restaurant’s private patios offered just enough privacy. Saxony could eat without passersby gawking at her while the paparazzi clicked away from the buildings across the street. When she felt like she needed a little extra media coverage, she’d show off a little. Remove her jacket and enjoy her “private” lunch in a frilly tube top. Maybe bring her boyfriend du jour for some heavy petting.
Today there were no shenanigans on the menu, just boring business matters and the restaurant’s signature Tortellini Bolognese. The young diva forgot all about investments and ring noodles in tomato gravy when the stranger slipped into her private patio.
“How the hell did you get in here?” she demanded.
“I wanted to have lunch with you, Saxony,” said the stranger, a dark-haired man who leaned over the table, getting close to her. Saxony saw a pair of shockingly cruel eyes that somehow pressed all her buttons.
Her secretary saw a goof in good shoes, bad clothes and a really bad mustache. The intruder had thick wrists and a trim physique. Definitely paparazzi or a stalker.
“Brutus!” the secretary shouted. She was a professional-looking woman in her thirties. Her job was to be the business face for Saxony Corporation.
Brutus jerked the lattice door open, saw the stranger and leaped like a pouncing jaguar. Somehow the stranger moved himself at the last second, and Brutus hit the edge of the marble tabletop with his abdomen.
“Ouch. Sorry. Didn’t mean to cause a ruckus,” said the stranger, his eyes never leaving the face of the world’s biggest female pop star. Saxony, as if hypnotized, never took her eyes off him, either. “I guess I’m not welcome. I’ll go now. Nice to meet you.”
“Stop.” Saxony ordered Brutus, who was getting out his brass knuckles. “Stay, please,” she begged the stranger.
“I’ve disturbed your business lunch,” the stranger said.
“No, not at all,” she said softly, then cranked her head at her secretary and chief bodyguard. “Get out. Both of you.”
There was a ruckus. Saxony was less polite when she asked a second time, but she became sultry as soon as she was alone with the stranger.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I’m Romeo.”
“God, you sure are.”
“I’d like us to get to know each other,” Romeo said.
“Yeah. Okay.” She lip-locked him right then and there, wrapping her smooth tan arms around his neck. The mashing lasted a full minute.
“God!” She sighed.
“Hey, by the way, you’re not jailbait, are you?” Romeo asked.
“Hell no.” She dragged her face forcefully against his.
The camera zoomed in tight on their mashing mouths. Romeo was apparently most concerned about keeping his mustache from migrating too far from under his nose.