“Who is this?”
“You filthy, scum-sucking piece of shit!” She was screaming now.
“Who is this?” Stone said, then held the phone away from his ear as the screaming continued. “Stop it!” he shouted, and she did for a moment. “Now, let’s start over. Who is this?”
“This is the best actress working in movies,” she said, “the one who’s not going to get a nomination next year.”
“Charlene? Is that you?”
“How could you do it?”
“Do what? What on earth are you talking about?”
“My part in Peter’s picture — you gave it to Susannah Wilde, who won’t have the slightest idea what to do with it!”
“I didn’t give Susannah anything,” Stone said. “Peter is in charge of his own work and I stay out of it.”
“Then how is it that she’s staying at your house and she just happened to turn up at Peter’s bungalow for lunch today?”
“I set up the lunch because they both wanted to meet.”
“And he gave her my part just like that! That horrible, preposterous bitch, who can’t act her way out of a paper bag!”
“Charlene, you’re not yourself. Let’s talk another time when you can be more civil about this.”
“And thank you so much for getting me involved with that slimy adulterer Marty Stanton.”
“I didn’t get you involved — you said you wanted to meet him, so I introduced you.”
“And now my picture is on the front page of half the newspapers in the country with an infamous adulterer!”
“Two things, Charlene. When did you start giving a hoot about adultery? And when did you not like having your picture on the front page of half the papers in the country?”
“The whole world knows his wife just walked out on him and endorsed Kate Lee.”
“The whole world including you,” Stone pointed out. “He didn’t take you to dinner at gunpoint, did he?”
“I’m ruined. It’s all over the trades that I had the part in Peter’s film.”
“And who gave that to the trades?” Stone inquired. “Might it be your publicist?”
“And now fucking Susannah Wilde has the part. It’s on Entertainment Tonight right this minute, I’m watching it. Oh, shit, they just said that Peter dumped me for her!”
“Charlene, you’re behaving like a petulant child. You know how the game is played out here. You shouldn’t have given that information to the trades until you’d signed a contract. Do I have to explain that to you?”
“I will never forgive you for this, Stone, never! And you tell that friend of yours Mike never to call me again!” She slammed down the phone.
Stone hung up. Everybody was staring at him.
“What was that all about?” Dino asked.
“Did I hear my name mentioned?” Mike asked.
“I’m afraid you were right, Mike, you’ll never get laid again. At least not by Charlene Joiner.”
“What’s going on?”
“I arranged for Susannah to have lunch with Peter and Ben today, and Charlene seems to think that they offered her the part that Charlene thought she had.”
“Did they?” Dino asked.
“I don’t know,” Stone said. He looked up to see Ed and Susannah getting out of a car and waved them over to poolside. “But I think we’re about to find out.”
Ed and Susannah sat down, and Manolo brought them their usuals.
“Congratulations on the new role,” Stone said tentatively.
“Oh, thank you, Stone. How did you know? Did you speak to Peter?”
“No, I spoke to Charlene Joiner — or rather, she spoke to me.”
“Uh-oh,” Susannah said, then she grinned impishly. “Did she think she had the role?”
“So I gathered,” Stone said, “between the screaming and the name-calling.”
“Well, if anybody knows how this town works, it’s Charlene.”
“I said something to that effect to her,” Stone said.
“I’ve always thought she didn’t like me,” Susannah said.
“I think that has been confirmed. And what’s more, she blames me!”
“Well, you did put me together with Peter and Ben,” Susannah said. “Are you upset with me?”
“No, no, not in the least. I’m happy for you and the boys. I’m just a little shaken — no woman has ever talked to me in quite that fashion.”
“Don’t worry about it, Stone, you just got between two actresses who wanted the same part.”
“I’ll make a point of never doing that again,” Stone said.
Ann arrived and was given a martini. “Stone,” she said tentatively, “I think we may have made a wrong move.”
“What did we do?” Stone asked.
“We got Marty Stanton into the newspapers with a movie star on his arm.”
“Why wasn’t that a good idea?”
“Well, there was an overnight poll and Marty picked up eight points on Kate. They’re tied now.”
“What?”
“Apparently white males over thirty-five now think Marty is the greatest swashbuckler since Errol Flynn.”
Ed Eagle spoke up. “From what I’ve heard, that’s not far off the mark.”
“What’s the percentage of white males over thirty-five on the California delegation?” Stone asked.
“Sixty-one percent,” Ann said. “And the convention opens tomorrow night.”
15
Stone, the Eagles, and the Bacchettis were driven to the Staples Center in two Arrington SUVs. Somehow, Bentleys didn’t seem appropriate for a Democratic convention. They were driven into the underground garage, where every convention ticket, skybox pass, and driver’s license was checked and every one of them photographed for a convention ID, then they were admitted to a secure part of the garage by the sticker on their windshields. There were no photographers or TV cameras present here. They rode up in an elevator with an armed guard to the top of the hall. Stone had a pocketful of keys and he passed them out to the Eagles and Bacchettis. “Just in case there’s a remote possibility you might want to leave the skybox.” He had already given Ann her key.
They found the numbered door along a corridor, and Stone let them inside. They entered a foyer that contained a mahogany table with a large flower arrangement on it and a number of very nice art prints on the dark green walls. There were also doors to the men’s and ladies’ rooms. They then walked through a set of mahogany doors into what amounted to a large living room that had been decorated by Peter’s production designer at Centurion Studios.
“Can I live here, please?” Dino asked.
“Sure, Dino. There’s even a shower in the men’s room.”
“I didn’t bring a change of clothes,” Dino lamented.
There was a dining table set for twelve with Wedgwood china, Baccarat crystal, and linen napkins, and a buffet table where a waiter was placing platters of canapés from the adjacent kitchen. In a corner of the room was a well-stocked bar manned by a uniformed bartender.
They were separated from the convention by an eighteen-foot-long picture window, which was mirrored on its outer side. They could see the heads of conventioneers bobble past the window; a woman stopped and checked her makeup, not realizing she was being watched from inside.
On another wall were half a dozen large flat-screen TVs tuned to the three networks, plus Fox and MSNBC. The last was tuned to a football game, in case someone got bored. There was low-volume classical music playing in the background; otherwise the room was silent. Stone picked up a remote control unit from a coffee table in front of a sofa facing the huge window and pressed a button. Suddenly, the room was filled with the noise of the convention. Some governor or other was speaking, largely ignored by the huge crowd filing to their floor seats. The governor finished, and a band began playing “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Stone pressed the button again and they were back to Mozart.