Читать книгу L.A. Confidential - Джулия Кеннер, Джулия Кеннер - Страница 10

THE MANHATTAN OFFICE of Avenue F Films was more spartan than Lisa had expected. A polished metal-and-glass table served as a reception desk, and a few uncomfortable-looking chairs made up the waiting area. An Oriental-style tapestry covered one wall, while the other was decorated with geometrically shaped mirrors. At the far end of the room, frosted-glass panels separated the reception area from the boss’s lair. Overall, the room gave the impression of too much money and not enough taste.

Lisa grimaced. She wasn’t there to criticize Winston Miller’s decorating skills; she was there to interview for a much needed job. The place could be knee-deep in seventies-style shag, and she wouldn’t complain.

Her back straight, she moved forward, letting the frosted-glass door—complete with an ornately etched F—swing quietly shut. She flashed what she hoped was a confident smile at the receptionist, then waited for the girl to finish her phone call. When the petite redhead finally looked up, Lisa’s pasted-on smile had almost faded. “I’m Lisa Neal, Mr. Miller’s four o’clock.”

Apparently not one for conversation, the receptionist gestured toward one of the torture-chamber chairs, her attention now directed at her fingernails. Lisa checked her watch. Four o’clock on the dot. “Is he—”

“Running late,” the girl said, pulling a nail file from a drawer. “Just have a seat.”

Great. Lisa moved across the room toward the chairs, glancing at her reflection in the mirrors as she walked. The chin-length bob she wore had the benefit of not only being easy to fix, but of looking professional. The suit was a cheap designer knockoff, and the shoes were leftovers of her more cash-flush days. Still, the outfit was sharp enough that it bolstered the businesswoman look. Overall, not too bad, all things considered.

As much as she hated needing work, she hated even more looking like she needed work. So much so that she’d almost splurged and put a new outfit on her one credit card that still had some room. But common sense had won out. She hadn’t worked steadily in more than a year, and the money she made from temping didn’t justify a new outfit, especially when she might need her credit card to buy food.

Still, the whole dress-for-success concept made a lot of sense, and yesterday after she’d received her best friend Greg’s message that he’d landed her an interview with Winston Miller, Lisa’d spent an entire afternoon prowling the garment district for something that would at least make it look as if she wasn’t destitute. One thing she’d learned after years of working on the fringes of the entertainment industry, the more someone looked as though they needed the work, the less likely they were to get it.

Smoothing her skirt, she sat on the hideous chair, her tailbone boring into the hard metal. She pulled her Day-Timer planner out of her purse and tried to look as if she had a schedule to keep. She wished she knew more about what Winston needed, but Greg had only left a note on the refrigerator. Though they shared an apartment, they were hardly ever home at the same time, and since he was in the middle of rehearsing for an off-off-off-off Broadway show, she’d been unable to catch him before the interview.

She shot a glance toward the receptionist, who didn’t even look her way. So Lisa spent the next thirty minutes doodling and making anagrams out of her name, until she’d wasted so much time she was beginning to get irritated. Trying for haughty, she stood up, tucked her planner under her arm, and marched toward the anorexic receptionist.

The woman blinked, but didn’t say a word.

“It’s been almost an hour,” Lisa said, trying to remain polite. “I have other meetings that I really can’t—”

“No problem.”

“Great. Thanks.”

The girl poised her pen over the open appointment book. “When would you like to reschedule?”

“Oh, uh,” Lisa stammered. “I guess I’ll have to check my schedule.”

The girl raised an eyebrow and waited, and Lisa knew perfectly well that Miller’s receptionist wasn’t buying it. The question now was, did she keep her pride and walk out, or did she fall to her knees and beg?

“Well?” the girl asked, the end of her pen tapping the appointment book.

“Right.” Lisa started flipping pages. She’d reschedule for tomorrow. That way she’d lose twenty-four hours in her job hunt, but she’d save a tiny bit of pride. “How about tomorrow?”

“No go.” The girl trailed the tip of the pen down the page, then flipped over a few days. “I can squeeze you in next Tuesday.”

So much for pride. Time for some serious begging. “Um, listen—”

“Miss Neal!”

She spun toward the source of the nasal voice, thrilled to be getting a reprieve from her fib.

“Come in, come in.” Winston Miller practically bounded toward her, shook her hand heartily, then led her back into his office. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Been on the phone with Los Angeles all morning.”

Lisa stifled a smile. As far as she knew, there were several million people in L.A.; she doubted Miller had been chatting with all of them.

“So, Greg tells me you’re the man for this job.” He motioned her toward a cushy chair as he slid behind his desk. “I understand you’ve got quite a range of experience.”

“That’s true,” she said, wondering how much her friend had told him. She’d known Greg for almost five years, ever since he’d had a bit part in a Drake Tyrell film that she’d associate produced. Flamboyant and opinionated, Greg had a wicked sense of humor that got her through some rough times during filming, and they’d spent hours eating bad food at the craft services table. By the time the shoot was over, they’d become fast friends and roommates.

Only Greg knew how scattershot her production experience had been. Certainly, she’d never told her family how bad times had become. From script supervisor to art director to property master, she’d held all sorts of jobs she’d never expected and didn’t want. Hardly what she’d anticipated five years ago when she’d followed Tyrell to New York with delusions of producing award-winning films. Still, the odd jobs paid the bills—at least until recently when work had seemed to dry up. Now, though, she couldn’t imagine which aspect of her background Greg thought was worthy of Miller’s attention.

Miller leaned back, his leather chair squeaking. “What did Greg tell you about the job?”

“He told me you’re producing a sequel to The Velvet Bed and that you’ve got some key positions to fill.” The erotic adventure, set in Manhattan’s hot spots, had been a surprise hit, solidifying Avenue F’s reputation as the most important independent film company in the business.

“Half right. I am doing the sequel.” He picked a stack of paper up off his desk and riffled the pages. “I want to start production in about nine months.”

“Oh.” Lisa tried to hide her confusion. “Greg thought you might have a position for me. If you’re still putting together your team, I’ve got several associate producer credits—”

“From when you were with Tyrell?”

“Well, yeah.”

He nodded but didn’t say anything, and she felt a familiar surge of anger rise to the surface. Never in a million years would she have guessed that simply being associated with Tyrell would have so sullied her reputation. But it was her own damn fault. She’d been a naive little girl from Idaho when she’d left Los Angeles with stars in her eyes, so sure that working for Tyrell would put her on the path to fame and fortune.

She’d thought he admired her talent, and by the time she was settled in Manhattan, she’d thought he genuinely cared for her. But Tyrell didn’t care for anyone but himself, and back then she’d just been too starry-eyed to see it. Now she had to live with the backlash from her foolishness, and it drove her nuts that her career was tainted because Tyrell had thrown his life down the toilet.

The whole thing had been a huge scandal. One of the major Hollywood studios had pumped a ton of money into one of Tyrell’s films—a picture everyone involved expected to be a blockbuster. About the time they were supposed to start production, Tyrell started snorting the budget up his nose—and then demanding more money from the studio. He shot some footage, but it was garbage, and eventually the studio shut the project down. Tyrell’s company filed bankruptcy, and Tyrell fled to London in disgrace.

In the film world it was a debacle of Heaven’s Gate proportions. And, unfortunately, Lisa had a producer credit. No real power, of course, since Tyrell never let go of control, but by the time she’d learned about Tyrell’s drug problem and realized he was sinking fast, she’d been stuck. And now her reputation was just as smeared as his.

Miller was still looking at her with that expression of distrust she knew well from so many job interviews. Tyrell had screwed her, and good.

She tried to tamp down her anger. “I’ve worked my tail off, and I’m good. After I left Tyrell, I produced and directed at Cornerstone.” Of course, her films had a shoestring budget, lots of car explosions, and went straight to video, but it was something. Goodness knows, that was what she’d told her mom every time she’d called. “After Cornerstone went under, I got a crew position on one of the late-night network talk shows. And for the last year, I’ve been working a variety of jobs in the industry.”

She didn’t mention that she’d been laid off from the network job due to budget cuts, that lately “variety” meant temping at video rental stores, and that she was now trying her damnedest to get some work lined up in Los Angeles so that she could move back to the coast and start over with her film career. “I’m perfectly qualified. No matter what—”

“Location scout.”

She blinked, trying to follow the conversation. Was he suggesting she work as his scout? Track down the various locations for his next film and get commitments from the property owners? Except for her thesis film and a music video a friend had produced and directed years ago, she’d never done any scouting. “I’m not sure I’m—”

“If I like your work, I’ll set you up as my line producer.”

She snapped her mouth shut, overlooking her irritation at the way he kept interrupting her. The line producer was in charge of the day-to-day operations once filming got under way. Not a bad job, but not her ambition. She wanted to be doing the big-picture stuff. Working with writers and directors. Pulling the project together and getting the financing off the ground. The nitty-grit stuff. The fun stuff.

Still, if he was willing to bargain, maybe she could wrangle a job that would put her back on the map. “I’m not interested in line producer,” she said slowly, knowing her gamble was risky.

He peered at her, the flesh on his forehead creasing. “I’m not sure we’re communicating here. You won’t be my anything unless you’re my scout. And even then, only if you do the quality job I need.”

She shook her head, unable to figure out why he’d be so gung-ho on having her scout his locations. “Why me?”

Miller shrugged. “Greg assured me you’re the one I need. He’s a good actor, a good friend, and I trust the kid.”

“But…I….” She sat up straighter, trying to regroup. What on earth was Greg thinking?

“He tells me you lived in L.A. Know it like the back of your hand.”

“Los Angeles?” He wasn’t making sense. “I haven’t lived in Los Angeles in years.” Sad, but true. And Greg knew it. She was missing something, but she didn’t know what.

The look of anticipation on his face faded, only to be replaced with a cold, wary expression, as if now he couldn’t quite figure out what she was doing there. Too late, Lisa realized her mistake. The Velvet Bed had been set in Manhattan’s hot spots, combining the fictional erotic journey of the lead characters with the real Manhattan landscape. The combination of the real and the fictitious had sparked nationwide interest and certainly contributed to the film’s unexpected success. Miller hadn’t said so out loud, but Lisa would bet money that the sequel would follow the same formula—only this time in L.A.

Which meant she’d just blown her chance at getting the job Greg had so carefully lined up for her. Damn.

“I’m going to set the sequel in either San Francisco or Los Angeles, depending on where I can lock in the more interesting locations. Of course, my preference is Los Angeles, and Greg seemed to think you could help with L.A. But if you don’t know the city—”

“Oh, I know it. I lived there for years.”

He looked dubious. “I need someone who knows it today.”

“I know Los Angeles,” she repeated. “I go back all the time.” That was a flat-out lie, and she hoped he didn’t call her on it. She appeased her guilt simply because she knew that if she got the job she wouldn’t rest until she really did know everything there was to know about the City of Angels.

He nodded, but didn’t say a word. Then he slipped a cigar out of a humidor on his desk, cut off the end, and lit up without asking if she minded. She did, but she kept her mouth shut. After a few puffs he aimed the cigar at her. “I’m gonna be straight with you.”

“I appreciate that,” she said, trying to keep her tone even.

“I keep my office in New York, but I know people on the coast.” He leaned over, gesturing with the cigar. “Finding a location scout’s not a problem. Finding a scout who can get me access to the places I want to be…that’s another story.”

She tried to play it cool as her mind raced ahead at a thousand miles an hour, trying to figure out what the devil Greg could have told him. What places in Los Angeles did he think she had special access to? “What locations are you interested in?”

“Any place conducive to the tone of the film. Erotic. Cutting edge. Heavy on the ambience. I don’t know. Read the damn script. That’s for you to figure out.” He gestured with the cigar again. “Except for one. I’ve got one location in mind for the bulk of the story, and that’s why you’re here now.”

“What location?” she asked, more confused than ever.

“Greg said you’d be able to get the crew inside to film at Oxygen. If you can do that, you’re hired.”

A numbing cold swept over her. “Oxygen?” Her voice was little more than a croak. “You want permission to film in the restaurant?”

“You can arrange it, yes? Greg said you know the owner, Kenneth Hooper.”

“Harper,” she corrected automatically as the room seemed to close in on her. “And yes…I know him.”

Miller leaned back in his chair, his arms spread. “Excellent. So you can do it? You’ll be my new location scout?”

She swallowed, knowing that the odds of Ken wanting to help her were very, very low. But she was out of options. If she couldn’t pull it off, Miller would fire her and she wouldn’t be any worse off than she was right then. But if she could convince Ken to help her…and if she could find some more locations for Miller…well, if she played her cards right, she could be back on her feet within a year.

“Ms. Neal? An answer today would be good.”

She looked up and smiled brightly. “Sorry. Just running through possible locations in my head.”

“So you’ll do it?”

She held his gaze, careful to keep an expressionless poker face. “On one condition.”

He cocked his head. “Condition?”

Her hands trembled, and she held them tight in her lap. “If I pull this off, I want a producer credit. Not associate producer, not line producer. Producer.”

For a long moment he said nothing, just stared at her.

“I want my career back, Mr. Miller.” Her voice shook, and she dropped her eyes, sure he was about to tell her to get the hell out of his office.

Leather creaked as he shifted in his chair, and she looked up to see him looking at her quizzically. “Tyrell screwed a lot of people, Ms. Neal. But there were a lot of folks in bed with him who deserved to be screwed. If I do this for you, I’m taking a hell of a risk.”

“I wasn’t one of the ones who deserved it. I worked my tail off for Tyrell and don’t have a damn thing to show for it.”

He tapped his thumb against his chin, his mouth turning down into a frown. After a moment he stopped and looked at her, his expression stern. “Ms. Neal?”

She fought a cringe. “Yes?”

“It looks like we have a deal. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m really doing this. I must be a total idiot. It’s never going to work. What was I thinking?” Lisa stopped tossing clothes into her suitcase long enough to glare at Greg. “For that matter, what were you thinking?”

Nonplussed, he leaned back against the doorjamb and popped the top on a Dr. Brown’s cream soda. “I was thinking you needed the work.” He pointed toward her bed and the pile of clothes. “They’ll travel better if you fold them.”

She was in no mood for packing lessons, and purposefully crumpled her favorite dress and shoved it into her luggage.

“It’s your laundry bill.”

“I’m not worried about my clothes. I’m worried about this job.” She sat on the bed and then flopped backward to stare at the ceiling. “This is a nightmare.” Rolling over, she propped herself up on an elbow to look at him. “I’m the last person Ken’s going to want to help.”

“The man’s going to jump through hoops to help you. You were the love of his life.”

She cringed, knowing all too well how much she’d hurt him. “‘Were’ being the operative word.” Her eyes welled, and she flashed a weak smile at Greg. “I’m thirsty,” she lied. “Would you get me a soda?”

He nodded, probably knowing she needed privacy more than she needed a drink, and slipped out toward the kitchen.

With a sigh, she rolled over, dragging her pillow across her face. She’d made a huge mistake hitching her star to Drake Tyrell, and made an even bigger mistake leaving Los Angeles in the first place.

She’d been so naive. Working for Drake had been the biggest thrill of her life, and she’d actually seen two movies come out with her name as associate producer…before her world had come crashing down.

At the time she’d smelled success, so she’d thrown herself even more into the work, giving it every ounce of energy she had, knowing there’d be nothing left for a personal life, especially not a personal life an entire continent away. She’d had her eye on the prize, so she’d sucked up her courage and told Ken she wanted some time apart and unattached.

She didn’t regret the decision. Not then, not now. But she’d always regretted the consequences of that decision. She’d hurt Ken, and she’d never really told him how sorry she was.

After the breakup, Tyrell had told her that her sacrifices were worth it because she was going to be a real player someday. Lousy, lying bastard.

He hadn’t meant a word of it—he’d just wanted Lisa in his bed and, by the end of a year, that’s exactly where she was. Ken found out, of course, since the affair was plastered all over the tabloids. Even though they’d already broken up, Lisa’s sleeping with Tyrell had hurt Ken—badly—and she hated herself for it.

When the studio shut them down and Tyrell fled for his native Britain, Lisa was out on her own—and her production credits didn’t mean a thing. She had a scarlet T on her forehead, and it was all she could do to find work on even the lowest-budget flicks.

Greg came back in, jarring her from her thoughts, and she sat up in time to see him flip the desk chair around to straddle. He crossed his arms over the backrest and nodded toward the diet Coke can on her nightstand. “Feeling better?”

“You’re just too damn perceptive.”

“I know. It’s a gift.”

“I feel fine.” She took a sip, letting the fizzy drink work its magic. “I’m not going to be royally humiliated until later when I’m in Los Angeles.”

“If you don’t think you have a chance, why’d you take the job?”

“Because I’m an idiot.” She scooted backward and slipped off the bed to start packing again, this time taking more care to fold each item. After a second she sighed and looked him in the eye. “Okay. You win. I took it because it’s the best shot I’ve had in a long time.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You just want me in L.A. so you can have the bedroom.”

“True enough.”

He laughed, but she knew he was only half joking. They shared the one-bedroom apartment with two others, a flight attendant and another actor/waiter. Each month, one of them got dibs on the bedroom and the others shared the living room with its three foam chairs that pulled out into tiny beds. So much for pop culture’s perception about life in the big city. Monica and Rachel might have their own bedrooms and a humongous apartment, but Friends was a far cry from Lisa’s reality.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, realizing she was biting her lower lip. “Yeah. Just nervous. If I can pull off the locations, I’ll get a producer credit.” She looked him in the eye. “And if the film does well, that means my career will be back on track. I’ve got a lot riding on this job, and for all I know Ken’s just going to slam the door in my face.”

“Then you won’t be any worse off than you are now.” He moved to sit on the bed. “But I think you’re going to do great.”

Her smile felt watery. “Thanks. I appreciate you going out on a limb for me. Really.”

“What can I say? I’m a heck of a guy.”

“You?” she teased. “I hadn’t noticed.”

His grin widened. “No? You should pay more attention.”

At that, she laughed outright then her smile faded to a frown again. “I’m just afraid Ken’s going to laugh in my face. And I wouldn’t blame him one bit. I was a bitch. Self-centered and stupid.”

“Ah, but now you’re a reformed bitch. Or at least you’re a charter member of Bitches Anonymous and firmly on the wagon.”

She managed a smile, wondering if it was true. If it came down to it, would she do the same thing all over again?

“Seriously,” he continued, “there’s no crime in wanting to focus on your career.”

“I know. But I’m sure he thinks I left him for Tyrell, not for Tyrell’s job offer.” She sighed. “Besides, fat lot of good it did me. I came out here expecting to return to L.A. in triumph, and look at me. I’m going back now with less in my checking account than when I was fresh out of school.”

“I don’t think Ken’s going to care about your checkbook.”

“Except to feel some smug satisfaction that I blew it.”

Greg’s smile was patient. Clearly he knew she was in one of her moods. “The way you’ve described him, I don’t think he’s the holier-than-thou type.”

She wasn’t ready to concede. “Maybe not five years ago, but he’s Mr. Big Shot now.”

“And a damn good-looking Mr. Big Shot, too,” Greg said.

“He’s not your type.” She smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“Too bad.”

“Do you know I went to the opening of Oxygen? That was the night he was going to ask me to marry him. Of course, I found that out later, after I told him I was moving back to New York. Not a very happy memory, and now I’m supposed to go back and ask to film there? Do you have any idea how many old wounds this is going to open?”

“So don’t take the job.”

“Ha, ha.” Taking a fortifying breath, she latched her suitcase and tugged it off the bed. “Wish me luck. I’m off to beg a favor from my ex-boyfriend.”

“Good luck.”

She paused in the doorway. “Thanks. I’m going to need it.”