A Knife to Remember Read Online Free PDF Page B

had been listening, but her mind had fastened on a detail. “Are there such things as Meissen toilets?”
    Before Maisie could reply, Shelley asked, “So who’s the producer on this production? Anybody we’ve ever heard of?“
    “I’m not sure. It’s a weird thing,“ Maisie said. “It seems to be a consortium of people, but the front man is a little nerd nobody’s ever heard of. He hangs around twitching and gulping nervously and makes lots of phone calls checking in with whoever he represents. That’s him over there on the phone now.”
    Maisie pointed to a rattled rabbit of a man speaking into the set telephone with his hand over the receiver so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Sometimes the money people like to stay in the background and run things from there,“ Maisie went on. “Not often, but it happens.“
    “But you told the person in your office that you were going to be talking to the producer soon,“ Jane said, then regretted this proof that she’d been eavesdropping.
    Maisie didn’t seem to mind. “I lied,“ she said cheerfully. “But it got me what I wanted in a hurry.“
    “I’ve always wondered what a producer does. You always see that on credits,“ Jane said.
    “Oh, the producer’s everything,“ Maisie replied. “The producer acquires the property—the story, that is—hires everybody from the scriptwriter to the janitor, and, most important, rounds up the money to make the film in the first place. That’s a huge undertaking. It costs millions and millions to make a film. Even a television movie costs three or four million these days.”
    Jane was only half listening. Her eyes had strayed from the producer’s representative to Jake, who had reappeared and was having an intense whispered conversation with the young woman Jane had noticed him speaking to earlier—the pretty girl in the sweat-stained, scorched dress. He was looking pleased and smug, but this time the girl was obviously mad as hell. She had her hands on her hips and her pretty face was drawn into an unattractive scowl. She snapped something at him_ and tried to walk away, but he grabbed her elbow roughly and pulled her back. She looked down at his hand with an indignant expression, and he reluctantly turned loose of her. But now he was angry, too. His fair face flushed and his handsome features were pinched. Jane nudged Shelley and pointed discreetly. Shelley, in turn, whispered to Maisie, “Speaking of the devil.“
    “Our little Angela doesn’t seem exactly happy to have him leering over her,“ Maisie said in an undertone. “I’m glad. She seems like a nice girl. I wonder how she got herself tied up with him.“
    “Is she?“ Jane asked. “Tied up with him, I mean.“
    “Good point,“ Maisie said. “Maybe not. He pays a lot of attention to her and acts possessive. But now that you mention it, I don’t recall seeing any signs of his interest being reciprocated.“
    “Who is she, this Angela?“ Jane asked.
    “Just an extra,“ Maisie answered.
    Their conversation was cut short by the entrance of the director into the craft service area—and “entrance“ it was. Roberto Cavagnari was a stocky little tractor of a man with dark, flashing eyes, designer jeans, and a flamboyant green velvet poncho that would have looked effeminate on anybody less aggressively male. He didn’t walk; he strutted. He didn’t speak; he proclaimed. Underlings schooled around him like minnows around a handsome, glittering trout.
    “Call the weatherman,“ he ordered in what sounded to Jane suspiciously like a fake Italian accent. “I won’t have overcast sky today.“ Jane wondered if he really supposed that weathermen ordered the weather rather than merely reporting it. A toady ran to do his bidding.
    “Mister Cavagnari, if I could just have a word wi—“ somebody said.
    But the underling’s request was lost in the next declaration. “I will have coffee. Mocha. Extra sugar,“ Cavagnari announced. Another assistant