People stood and milled, random movements like spooked fish in a tank. I slipped along the wall to where Qwendar was packing up his briefcase.
“Sir,” I said.
He looked down at me. “Yes … Ms. Ellery, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I was wondering if humans ever got to address the Álfar Council, and if there was a mechanism for making such a request?”
“Is this a question on your behalf, or are you asking for your firm?”
“Maybe a little of both. IMG had an Álfar on retainer. He was … assisting me on a case.” I firmly pushed aside the memory of the night John and I had spent together. “When he … we were forcibly pulled into your realm, and John was forced to stay.”
“His mother would dispute your characterization,” he said dryly.
My mouth had gone dry. I swallowed hard. “Oh, so you know her.”
“Yes. She’s a very powerful figure in our world.”
“Maybe so, but she used threats to get John to agree, and then she did something to him.”
Qwendar looked at me intently. “You care for him.”
“He’s my … friend,” I hedged. “And I want to be sure that he’s remaining in Fey because he wants to, and not because he was coerced.”
“Then you are not sympathetic to these nativist humanist hate groups?”
“You know I can’t answer that. And there’s a plethora of these nut jobs. Which group in particular are you talking about?”
“Check out the Human First movement, then maybe you will have a better understanding of my role here and why it’s so vitally important.”
Jeff came up at that moment. “Hey, Linnie, ready to go?”
“Yep, just let me put my things in my office. Meet you at the door?”
“Sounds good.”
“Thank you,” I said to Qwendar.
“I’ll consider your request,” he called after me.
I returned to my office floating on hope.
The Mercedes seemed to dance through the traffic with Jeff driving. Watching him made me realize I needed to embrace my inner formula-one driver if I was going to get anywhere in LA. He took the Barham exit and we went sailing past the Oakwood. I should have driven home and met Jeff out front so he wouldn’t have had to drive me back to Century City. I said as much, and he shrugged.
“Not a problem. I live in Newport Beach. I have to go right past Century City to get home.”
We continued down the hill where Barham turned into Pass Avenue. On our left loomed the walls of massive buildings. They ended up forming a walled-city effect on the edge of the Warner Bros. lot. The walls had been painted with pictures of Batman, Superman, and Sherlock Holmes. Interspersed between the massive pictures of characters were publicity photos of the human cast members of several television sitcoms. We turned in the front gate. Jeff took us around the line of cars inching toward the guard shack to a lane with a card reader. He had the card tucked into the car’s sunshade. A brief wave at the reader, the gate lifted, and we drove through. I was on a movie lot.
On our left were low buildings with tile roofs, and a very Spanish feel. Jeff saw me looking and said, “Those are some of the original buildings from the 1920s. When you get an office in there it means you really rate.” He indicated the big buildings on our right. “Soundstages.”
There were a lot of people walking or biking down the palm tree–lined street while golf carts with candy cane–colored tops wove through them. There were narrow side streets between the soundstages and trucks were parked there, many loaded with equipment. The only thing I recognized were stage lights, and only because I’d been the stage manager on a high school production of Mame. I saw people carrying takeout food containers and beverage cups. It reminded me that I hadn’t eaten lunch. Jeff seemed to read my mind.
“The set’s on lunch break right now, so we can grab a bite. There’s a cafeteria where below-the-line people, day players, and writers tend to eat. Then there’s the restaurant where the studio suits and big-name actors eat.”
“You’re a big-name actor. Where do you eat?” I asked, throwing it back on him.
“In my trailer after sending some gopher out for food, but since I’m a producer and not an actor on this film I can mingle with the hoi polloi.”
“Would I see famous people in the restaurant?” I asked in a small voice.
“Probably.” He gave me a smile. “Restaurant it is.”
We wove down a few more streets, and Jeff went to park. The tire stop was painted with his name. I gave him a look. This time there was a rueful grin. “It’s how we count coup around here. Part of the perks my agent and manager negotiate—a parking space with my name, an office, an assistant.”
“So, is your office in the old buildings?” I asked.
“Well, yes.”
“So, you rate.”
“For now.” His demeanor became sober. “I really need this movie to be a box-office success if I’m going to make the transition from heartthrob and action figure to producer and director.”
“I’m sure it will.”
He recovered the usual grin. “Well, I’ve sure as hell done everything to ensure that happens. I got Boucher to direct, and Jondin to star and Michael Cassutt to write the script. It’s a fucking trifecta.”
He led me across a small park with a small city street on one side. There was a movie theater, and a store that had been decorated to look like a bookstore. There was a famous actor in the center of the park staring in consternation at a giant white pig. I tried to keep from goggling. As we walked past, the man holding the pig on its leash was saying,
“You don’t have to worry. She’s just as friendly as all get-out.”
Once we were out of earshot I gripped Jeff’s arm. “Was that really…?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, wow,” I breathed. “Why is he meeting a pig?”
“I couldn’t say. But I’m sure we can find out.”
The restaurant on the lot was an elegant affair with brushed-glass doors, blue carpeting, and subdued lighting. The hostess started to lead us to a secluded table, but Jeff whispered something to her, and she changed direction, steering us to a table that offered a view of the entire restaurant and the front door. For a moment I felt embarrassed, then I decided to hell with it. This was all totally new and very exciting for me, and I wasn’t going to pretend bored sophistication. It was just too cool.
I settled on a seafood salad and a glass of white wine, and people-watched and eavesdropped on conversations. They ranged from “The second act just doesn’t work” to “Yeah, she’s an idiot, but if we keep her shirt off no one will notice.” A beautiful English actress whose work I’d admired came in with a pair of men in expensive suits and open collars. I saw a couple of people whose faces I recognized from movie posters, if not from the films themselves.
Then, surprisingly, Qwendar entered. He was with a tall, broad-shouldered man with curling black hair liberally streaked with gray. Conversations stuttered and died. Everyone was looking at the Álfar and his companion.
“They act like they’ve never seen an Álfar, but—”
Jeff interrupted me. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s who he’s with. That’s Chip Diggins, head of the studio. Believe me, everybody in the industry knows about the lawsuit. When they see an Álfar with the studio head there’s going to be talk. And doesn’t this violate the rules David set?”
“It’s skirting the edge, but Qwendar isn’t actually a party to the dispute; he’s an observer. But I will tell David.” I had an uncomfortable moment sensing that I was skirting the edge too, but like Qwendar, Jeff wasn’t actually a party to the arbitration. And I did so want to go on a movie set. Also, I had a feeling that David’s order to stay away from the actor had less to do with the case and more with marking territory