Agent to the Stars Read Online Free PDF Page B

told to eject them. On the other hand, as an agent, you’re only as good as your client list. Better bad clients than none at all. I was understanding intellectually that my new “client” was an opportunity that comes along—well, that’s never come along before, now that I thought of it. Emotionally, however, it still felt like I was taking the ascending 747 that was my agentorial career and aiming it into the Pacific, while all the passengers, my clients, were screaming in the coach seats, their little emergency plastic airmasks waving in the turbulence.
    Enough thinking, I decided. I grabbed the first file.
    Tony Baltz. Gone. He was on his way down anyway, since he was too proud to take the roles that had made him famous in the first place.
    Rashaad Creek. Keep. I could work through his mother, who was doing most of the heavy lifting in that partnership, anyway. The unsettling Oedipal overtones to Rashaad’s situation had always disturbed me, but now I could finally use them to my advantage.
    Elliot Young. Keep. Elliot, bless his heart, was not the brightest of studs. I could sit down with him one afternoon and convince him that by buckling down on the series for a season, it would make the transition to films much more profitable in the long run. Who knows, it might even be the truth.
    Tea Reader. Gone. Thank the Lord almighty.
    Michelle Beck. Keep. Of course. Michelle Beck was my cover: when a client can rake in twelve million per film, an agent can’t be faulted for wanting to spend more time concentrating on that client. Also, flying under the radar or not, dropping Michelle after today’s paycheck would be noticed by
someone. Michelle and I were bound together for life, or until she pulled a hissy fit and got new representation. If I didn’t have her, I would be, as my father liked to say, walking through a thick shag carpet of shit. The ambivalence I felt about this fact was staggering in its depth.
    The undercard folks were all toast. It didn’t really matter who agented them, anyway.
    I was finishing up my client triage when Miranda buzzed me. “Mr. Stein,” she said. I could count the times she called me Mr. Stein on one hand, without having to use my thumb or index finger. “Amanda Hewson is here.”
    â€œAccompany her in, please, Ms. Escalon,” I called Miranda Ms. Escalon even less than she called me Mr. Stein .
    Miranda walked in, followed by a gawky blonde who looked like she wasn’t old enough to see R-rated films without accompaniment. Amanda Hewson had graduated from the mailroom just over a month before. Her two clients were a former Mexican soap opera star who wanted to make it big in Hollywood, but didn’t want to learn the English language, and an actor who administered first aid to her after she fainted on mile four of the LA Marathon. She represented him, apparently, largely out of gratitude.
    She was perfect.
    â€œAmanda,” I said, motioning to the chair in front of my desk. “Please sit down.” She did. I regarded her the same way Carl regarded me earlier today. It’s fair; the distance, career-wise, was not dissimilar.
    Amanda was looking around. “Nice office,” she said.
    My office is a dump.
    â€œIt is, isn’t it?” I said. “Amanda, do you know why I asked you here?”

    â€œNot really,” Amanda confessed. “Ms. Escalon”—Unseen by Amanda, Miranda crossed her eyes; she didn’t appear to cotton to all this formalness—“said that it was important but didn’t say what it was.”
    I did some more regarding. It was making Amanda nervous. She looked behind her briefly to see if I was actually looking at something behind her, then turned back, tittered nervously. Her hands, restless in her lap, spasmed lightly.
    I looked at Miranda. “You think she’s the one?” I asked.
    Now it was Miranda’s turn to regard Amanda. I have to admit, she