“How appalling. I could never live here,” David stated. “Is everyone auditioning all the time?”
Jeff shrugged. “Pretty much. You make a point of being friendly and charming because you never know who might be seated at your table, whose car you might be parking, whose pool you’re cleaning.”
“But he wasn’t charming,” David complained.
“He’s a puppy. I wasn’t any different when I moved out here. You learn to be a little tolerant.”
I spoke up. “Look, I get why you’d get the full court press, but why include me? I’m nobody?”
“You might be a casting director or my new squeeze, so he doesn’t want to offend me by ignoring you.”
“An impression you fostered outside,” David said, then added, “And why leave me out?” David asked.
“You’re piqued by that,” I said and choked on a laugh.
David glared at me. “I am not. I’m just trying to understand the dynamics at work in this insane town.”
“Vampires have never been big players in this town,” Jeff said. “Maybe most of them have your attitude,” but he smiled to pull the sting out of the words. “The major players in town from the Powers are, of course, the Álfar, and there are a couple of powerful werewolf agents. My guy, Scott, is a hound—nobody drives a harder deal. But vampires, not so much.” He grinned and looked like a mischievous ten-year-old. “We’re too déclassé for you guys.”
After that we engaged in social chitchat until the appetizers arrived. Then I raised a point. “Look, David is the AAA-approved arbitrator. I’m here to assist him, but are any of the parties likely to raise an objection because you’re meeting alone with him? And me?” I added as an afterthought.
“As I understand it, SAG isn’t a party to the arbitration,” Jeff said.
David shook his head. “Not quite correct. You are designated as an interested party, so I think there can be no objection.”
Jeff shrugged, his expression rueful. “Yeah, and since both sides hate me probably more than they hate each other, I don’t think anyone’s going to kick up a fuss.”
“Hate you, why?” I asked, and found myself adding, “I think it would be very hard to dislike you.”
He gave me a suggestive smile. “I work very hard at it … being charming.” He leaned in close.
He was clearly overplaying it, and I picked up on the game. “Be careful you don’t sprain something,” I shot back. Montolbano laughed and leaned back. I tried a bite of crab cake. It was very good, and the chili didn’t send me diving for my water glass.
“I didn’t want this in the courts, and I didn’t want the organization I love to tear itself apart over this fight. I went back to the constitution and the bylaws of the Screen Actors Guild and found a clause about arbitration. Our lawyers said the wording was vague, but I decided to interpret it my way.”
“That being?” David asked.
“That I can force everybody into an arbitration when it’s an in-house dispute. The human actors screamed and the Álfar actors screamed, but I don’t give a crap. I want this settled peacefully. The studios and networks and producers fuck us over all the time. Weakening ourselves by fighting each other is just stupid.”
“So, what are you looking for?” David asked.
“Everybody to stop fighting,” Jeff said. He reacted to David’s expression. “I know, I’m being naive. Look, the human actors have real grievances. I know. Hell, I’ve started to lose roles to Álfar, but there has to be a solution.”
“Quotas?” I suggested.
“Which have had less than stellar outcomes,” David said.
“And have, at times, been absolutely necessary,” I countered.
“I kind of hate that,” Jeff said. “It’s like getting a part out of pity.”
“So, every part is won on pure merit?” I couldn’t hide the sarcasm. “Guess the casting couch is just a myth.” For some reason I was feeling argumentative.
“No, it’s real, and of course people get parts for reasons aside from merit. It happens because of family connections, because they’re owed, or because someone wants to get in their pants. But to force a set quota on the industry—” He shook his head.
“And the Powers wouldn’t much like it either,” David said in his dry way. “We’re a very small percentage of the population. We don’t want the perception that we wield disproportionate power.”
“Worried about peasants with pitchforks,” I said.
“Always,” David said, then added, “Well, tomorrow we’ll start hearing evidence and see if we can find that solution.”
Our main courses and the stack of exotic french fries arrived, carried by a young, very pretty waitress. I wondered if she’d bribed the waiter to get to bring the food or if there was an unwritten rule about giving every aspiring actor a shot at the famous actor-producer-director?
“Who are you planning to have eat with you?” David asked. “I’ve watched Linnet eat. Birds consume more.” It was spoken in that way men have when they are trying to prove they know more about you than the other male in the room, which meant I couldn’t let it pass.
“First off, birds actually eat a lot considering their size, and you know I’m always hungry … especially when I get nervous or stressed.”
“Are you nervous now?” Jeff asked with a teasing grin.
“Well, duh. I’m having dinner with a famous movie star and heartthrob.”
“Well, good, then you’ll help me with the fries.”
For a few moments Jeff was busy doctoring his gigantic hamburger while our waitress hovered; she kept leaning across the table to offer both David and Jeff an unrestricted view of her décolletage. She seemed to focus more on David—there is something so alluring to women about a man who seems unattainable. I wanted to take her aside, and tell her it was probably hopeless. Some vampires and werewolves would skate dangerously close to the edge of the ban on turning women by forming relationships with them—I’d had a client who was married to an abusive werewolf, and of course there was my own stupid and disastrous one-night-stand with a vampire lawyer in our office—but many followed an almost monastic rule and just didn’t get involved. David struck me as that sort. The waitress seemed to get my telepathic message because she moved away from the table.
I took a sip of my lobster bisque, and nibbled on a Cajun fry. Then a sweet potato fry. Then a garlic parmesan fry. Add to that the crème fraîche in my soup, and I mentally added another twenty minutes to the time I would spend in the gym tomorrow.
“So, Linnet, I checked you out. Both of you,” he added with a nod to David. He turned back to me. “But you’re way more interesting,” Jeff said. I was once again treated to that total focus that locked his eyes on mine. “But I’m nosy, so I’ve got to ask: You were fostered in a vampire household—what does that mean, exactly?”
“That when I was eight years old my parents sent me off to live with a vampire in his household.” I wasn’t surprised at the question. Most human families never meet a vampire, much less send a child to one, and the whole custom must seem strange.
“Why would they do that?” Jeff asked. “It seems sort of cruel.” He laid his hand lightly on mine.
“For access,” David said in a too loud voice. I slipped my hand from beneath Jeff’s, and David seemed to relax. “We tend to be rich and successful. Easily accomplished when we live for centuries. Humans are attracted by power and money.” He shrugged. “We have both.”
“You used to be human,” Jeff said. David just stared at him. It’s hard to meet a vampire’s direct gaze, and David was giving it a little more punch than normal. Jeff proved to be no different than any other human. The actor cleared his throat and asked, “Okay, maybe not so much, but what’s in it for the vampire?” Jeff asked. “Why raise a human kid? Looking for a steady supply of food? Kidding,” he added after David stiffened.