she was going to embarrass him.
Frances leaned back behind her desk and adjusted the diamante'studded
glasses covering her flinty eyes. "Go ahead," she drawled, challenging
him.
"Don't try me, lady," he warned, still trying to figure her out.
Frances laughed-a big bawdy laugh. "The kid's got attitude. I like
it."
He didn't appreciate her talking down to him. "The kid is a hell of an
actor. What I need from you is a job."
Coolly Frances appraised him, dragging on her cigarette. "What's your
professional experience?"
"I done a lot of stuff," he mumbled.
Frances' expression said she didn't believe him. "Do you have a
resume'? A tape? Photographs?"
"Uh . . ." He trailed off. She wasn't going to do anything for
him.
He'd made the trip to her fancy office for nothing. Frances Cavendish,
casting agent. She must have known he had no experience. The old
broad probably got off on humiliating people.
Frances continued to drag on her cigarette and squinted at him.
"Are you fucking Joy Byron?"
"Now wait a minute-" "No. You wait a minute," she said sharply. "You
slouch in here in your tight jeans with your bad-ass scowl expecting
exactly what?"
"You asked me to come," he fired back.
"Did I?" She took off her glasses and studied him further.
He felt her gaze penetrating beneath his clothes. She wanted a fuck.
That's what they all wanted. And if he wasn't giving it to Joywho at
least treated him like a human being-he certainly wasn't giving it to
this one. He turned, making his way toward the door.
There was no point in hanging around.
Frances stopped him at the threshold, her voice strong and
commanding.
"I'm sending you on an audition."
He threw her a look. "Yeah?"
"It's a small role-but juicy."
"I got all the juice you want."
"I'm sure you have," she said coolly, putting her glasses back on.
"What?" he asked suspiciously.
"Take my advice and get rid of Joy-she'll hang around your neck like a
cement block. Oh, yes, and stay away from agents like Ardmore
Castle.
If you get the part I'll recommend a legitimate agent to take care of
you.
He felt obliged to defend Joy-after all, she'd been good to him.
"Joy's a great teacher," he said.
Frances was having none of it. "Joy's an old hack living in the
past.
Drop her now, Nick, before it's too late."
"You're a hard lady."
"I'm honest-an almost impossible attribute to come by in this town."
He wondered what she wanted. Then decided he had nothing to lose by
asking. "So. . . uh . . . what am I gonna owe you?"
"Occasional escort services. When I need you. Get yourself a
tuxedo-you already have the attitude." She paused, inhaling deeply,
heavy smoke drifting from her nostrils. "Escort duties end at the
door.
Which is more than you can say for Joy or Ardmore. Do we have a
deal?"
This was some straight-talking old broad. "What's the part?"
"Small-time hood with a heart of mush. It's a minor role-but showy.
I'm sending you over to meet the director and producers. If they ask
about experience, lie. Tell them you've done stock, Off-OffBroadway
and commercials. If they ask for photos refer them back to me. I'll
make an appointment for you to have photographs taken later this
week.
You'll pay me back when you get your first check."
He couldn't figure her out. "Why are you doin' all this?"
"Because when you make it you owe me. I like that. Write down your
number. I'll call you tomorrow and give you their reaction."
He was apprehensive. "You mean I'm going' on an audition now?"
She stubbed her cigarette out in a full ashtray, immediately reaching
for a fresh pack. "Unless you'd prefer to wait a day or two."
He didn't hesitate. "Lady-I'm ready."
"That's exactly what I thought."
"You'll do things my way, or you're gonna find yourself doing nothin'
at all." So spoke Reece.
Cyndra felt a shiver of fear. This was not the man she'd marriedthe
laid-back cowboy with the big promises. This was someone elsea
stranger. "You'd better stop getting on my case or I'm likely to
walk," she said sharply, challenging him.
He caught her with a slap to the face, taking her by surprise. "Get it
into your head-you're my wife," he said harshly. "My wife, do you
understand me? I fucking married you-that means you belong to me, and
you'll do anything I tell you to do."
Her hand flew to her face, stinging from his slap. "I don't belong to
anybody!" she yelled.
"That's where you're wrong," he yelled back. "And if you don't believe
me, maybe you'll believe this."
To her horror he pulled a gun from his belt and waved it in her
direction.
She backed into a corner of their motel room, her eyes wide with
fear.
"Reece . . . Reece, what are you doing?"
"What the hell you think?" he replied.
"Where did you get a gun?"
He strutted around the room. "I always had it. Never know when it
might come in useful. Man's gotta protect himself."
She took a deep breath and tried to stay in control. "Put it away put
it away now.
"I got your attention, huh?" He smiled slyly, pleased with himself.
"So maybe you'd care to give some of that attention to my friends stead
of making me look like a jerk."
Her mouth was dry, she couldn't believe what was happening.
Within the last few minutes her life had crumbled around her. Wasn't
it enough that she'd had to escape from Bosewell? Did she have to
escape from this man, too?
"Listen to me good, bitch," Reece said. "I found you bumming around
New York-now you're singin' in Vegas, so don't ever forget it's me got
you here. An' if I expect you to be nice to my friends, then you'll do
it. Understand?" As he spoke he waved his gun in the air.
"Yes, Reece," she whispered.
"Say it louder," he commanded.
"Yes."
"That's what I like to hear." He stuck the gun back in his belt.
"Tomorrow night mebbe I'll have a coupla guys join us after the show,
an' you'll be nice to em, honey. You'll do whatever I tell you
t'do."
She nodded blankly.
Later, when he was asleep, she thought about creeping from the room and
running. But where could she run to? If she took off she knew Reece
would come after her.
With a feeling of deep despair she realized there was no escape.
Once more she was trapped.
Nick did exactly what Frances had told him to do. He lied. When they
asked him about his experience, he made up a traveling stock company
he'd performed in, then mentioned a few commercials and several
original Off-Broadway plays. In fact, he lied pretty good.
There were two producers in the room-a tall nervous man who sat in the
background staring, and a middle-aged woman with great legs that she
kept on crossi
ng and uncrossing. The director was Italian-American,
short, with swarthy features and a shock of greasy brown hair.
Nick checked them out. Three assholes all in a row. Fuck it. He
wasn't nervous-although the casting assistant was really pissing him
off When they read together she didn't know acting from shit. But
still, the three assholes seemed to like him-in fact they made him read
through the scene twice.
When he'd arrived the receptionist had handed him several pages of
dialogue. He'd had half an hour to study them. He'd also had half an
hour to study the other actors waiting to go in. Talk about a cattle
call-you could feel and smell the competition.
He remembered Frances' words-"small-time hood with a heart of mush"-and
that's who he became. Not Nick Angelo, an actor chasing a role, but a
small-time hood with a heart of mush. Some fucking description!
He finished reading the second time and waited for their reaction.
"Good seeing ya, Nick," said the director, dismissing him as though
they were old friends.
"Thank you," said the woman producer, crossing her legs again while
eyeing him contemplatively.
The tall man said nothing.
Before he could think about it he was out of there.
He stopped at the reception desk and spoke to the girl. "How long
before I get to hear?" he asked.
She looked amused. "New at this?"
"Nah . . . Well, yeah, I guess. I'm new in town. I was, uh workin'
in Chicago an' New York."
"Oh, you're a New York actor," she said, a little bit impressed.
"Don't worry, you'll soon get to know the routine. Sometimes these
auditions go on for months. They see you, like you, then they see
fifty other guys. After that maybe they'll call you back. You never
know."
"So it's like a long wait?"
She shrugged. "Face it. This town is a crapshoot."
She was using his dialogue! He wondered if she ever got to listen in
on the producers' conversation after the actors left the room.
"Hey, what's your name?" he asked, going for the friendly apnroach.
"And when do you wanna have dinner?"
"Marilyn," she replied, still smiling. "Married Marilyn," she added,
holding up her hand to display a wedding ring. "But thanks for asking
anyway.
Outside in the parking lot he contemplated driving back to Frances'
office and giving her a report.
Nah. Instinct told him he should wait until he heard from her. But
now he was high from the audition and there was no way he could sit
around waiting for the phone to ring. He decided to pay Annie a
visit.
She was vacuuming when he arrived and didn't look thrilled to see
him.
"Oh, the big star is here," she said, continuing to vacuum.
He pulled the plug from the outlet. "What is this crap with you?"
She sighed. "How many times have we had this conversation? Like last
night-why didn't you join us at Hamburger Hamlet? What did you do,
take off with Ardmore Castle?"
"You calling me a fag, Annie?" he said, feigning indignation.
"I'm not calling you anything, but you . "She shook her head.
"Oh, I don't know, Nick. You confuse me."
"I went home-alone."
"That's nice."
"I met this casting director-Frances Cavendish. I dropped by and saw
her today and she sent me on an audition."
"What audition?"
"Small part in a movie.
"Did you get it?"
"Dunno."
"Did you read?"
He grinned. "I was great!"
"Mr. Modest."
"Listen, if I don't sing em, who will?"
She pushed the vacuum over to a corner closet and stored it. "Are you
coming to Joy's class tomorrow night?"
He wandered around her small apartment. "I kinda figured I might drive
to Vegas, see Cyndra. Beats sitting around waiting for the call to
tell me I didn't get the part. This is like difficult shit."
"Nobody ever said it was easy."
"Whaddaya think? Should I go to Vegas?"
"How long's the drive?"
"Five, six hours, I'm not sure."
"Wanna come?"
She shook her live dangerously.
encouragingly.
Annie began to relate a list of excuses.
Nick shot them all down.
An hour later they were on their way.
head but he could tell she was tempted. "C'mon, Throw a few things in
a bag. It'll be fun," he said Back in New York Lauren refused to talk
about her L.A. trip.
"What happened?" Pia was anxious to know.
"Nothing," she replied quickly. "Exactly nothing."
"Why aren't you telling me anything?" Pia complained. "And how come
if Nature calls you don't want to speak to her? Something must have
gone on.
Lauren's only desire was to forget about L.A and with that in mind she
threw herself back to work. In her spare time-of which there was
little-she began attending a self-defense class, studying French and
also taking a gourmet cooking class. These activities left her no time
for a social life, and if anyone tried to fix her up they got a blank
"No thanks."
Shortly after getting back she attended Pia and Howard's wedding in the
garden of his uncle Oliver's house in the Hamptons. Oliver Liberty was
one of the founders of Liberty and Charles. He was a
distinguished-looking man in his late fifties, with a dry sense of
humor -the complete opposite of his wife, Opal, a vacuous blonde he'd
married on the rebound after an expensive divorce from his first wife
of thirty-one years.
It was a beautiful wedding. Lauren sat back and daydreamed about hew
it might have been if things had been different with Jimmy. She even
allowed her mind to drift back to Nick. So many years ago but when she
thought about him it still hurt and she shut off the thoughts
abruptly.
After dinner Oliver Liberty strolled over and sat down beside her.
"I hear you and Pia are building quite a business," he said, one eye on
his flashy wife, who was cavorting on the dance floor in a too tight
red dress.
"We're doing okay," she replied, adding with a smile, "I'm sure you
can't wait to steer all your clients in our direction."
He nodded. "Always thinking ahead. That's what I like-a smart
woman.
If that's what he liked, how come he'd married the blonde-who,
according to Pia, had an IQ of zero?
"So . . . will we be getting your clients?"
He smiled. "I'm sure, Lauren, you always get exactly what you want."
Shortly after Pia moved out the calls started. The first one came at
two o'clock in the morning. Lauren groped for the phone in her sleep,
mumbling a groggy "Hello."
"I wanna talk to you," a familiar voice said.
She knew immediately it was Emerson Burn. For a moment she held her
breath before quietly replacing the receiver.
He called back within seconds. "Don't ang up on me," he complained.
"That's not nice."
"What do you want?" she asked, amazed at his nerve.
"It's abo
ut time we got together," he said confidently.
"Are you crazy?" she said, struggling to sit up.
"Seems like a normal request to me.
"Have you forgotten what happened in L.A.?"
"Nothin' happened."
"That was because Nature came back."
"What are you getting' so uptight about? So I came on to you. Big
deal. Most girls would give their left tit to ave me come on
t'them."
"I don't believe this. You tried to rape me, and the only reason you