On some of the other chairs sat people trying to look in control while they waited hopefully. There was a guy in a silk tweed jacket and starched jeans carrying a manila envelope that reeked of manuscript. He had no socks on, and his ankles were tan above the low cut of his woven leather loafers. Under the silk tweed he wore a tuxedo shirt, open at the throat. Agents, mostly men, mostly young, strolled through the waiting room to and from the inner spaces, carrying themselves as insiders always did in the presence of outsiders.
A good-looking young woman with more hair than the switchboard ladies came out from one of the doors behind the switchboard. She wore a cobalt silk dress spattered with red flowers. Her hips rolled as she walked.
“Mr. Spenser?” she said. Her eyes sparkled, her smile gleamed.
I nodded.
“Hi, I’m Jasmine, Ken’s assistant. Ken’s on the phone long distance to London and he asked me to see if you wanted coffee or anything.”
“Hot diggity,” I said.
Jasmine’s smile gleamed even more brightly. “Excuse me?” she said.
“London is exciting,” I said. “I mean, how would I feel if you came out and said I’d have to wait because Ken was on the phone to Culver City?”
Jasmine seemed a bit confused, but it in no way interfered with the luminosity of her smile.
“Exactly,” she said. “Did you say you wanted coffee?”
“No, thank you, Jasmine.”
“Tea, juice, Perrier?”
“No, thank you, Jasmine.”
“Well, you be comfortable, and Ken will be with you as soon as he can get off the phone.”
“Sure,” I said.
Jasmine rolled her hips away from me, walking with a long stride on high heels which emphasized her natural wiggle. I waited. Behind the switchboard operators was a floor-to-ceiling picture window for looking at Twentieth Century. On either side were doors that opened into the working spaces of the Robert Brown Agency, where clients and agents conspired on who knows what unspeakable project. A fat woman with extensive make-up came in carrying an animal that looked like a fluffy rat. She was wearing a fur coat, though when I’d come in a half hour ago the temperature at Century City had been eighty-seven. Her hair in its natural state was probably brown turning gray. In its present state, however, it was the color of a lemon, and stiff with hair spray so thick that you could cut yourself on her curls. She spoke inaudibly to one of the switchboard operators, then took up a seat with the fluffy rat on her lap, and gazed at the room before her the way Marie Antoinette must have gazed at the crowds in Paris. The small white animal wiggled out of her lap and waded through the pale green carpet and stood in front of me and began to yap. It was a persistent high yap that had the same metronomic quality that the ladies of the switchboard displayed.
“Oh, Beenie,” the fat blonde said, “stop that noise right now.”
Beenie paid her no heed at all.
“He won’t hurt you,” the blonde said.
“That’s for sure,” I said.
The blonde looked startled. “Well, he won’t. He’s usually very good with strangers.”
The yaps continued. It was a piercing sound. Even the two switchboard receptionists turned glazed eyes toward the sound.
“What kind of rat is this?” I said politely.
“Rat?” The blonde’s voice went up an octave in the middle. Not easy to do in a one-syllable word.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Of course he’s not a rat. Guinea pig maybe?”
“You fucking creep,” the blonde said.
Jasmine appeared radiantly at the door. She frowned a little, but only for a moment, at the yapping and the “fucking creep” and then smiled even more brilliantly than before and said, “Ken can see you now, Mr. Spenser.”
I scooped up the yapping animal and dropped it into the blonde’s lap as I headed for the office door. “Spenser,” she said. “I’ll remember that name.” I smiled my killer smile at her. She remained calm.
I followed Jasmine through the door. I went down the long corridor lined with glass-partitioned cubicles. At the end was a bigger office, with real walls as befits a senior agent representing the highest TVQ in the industry. He stood and walked around his desk, a tall elegant man in a double-breasted blazer and a soft white shirt. He had the kind of tan that would soon lead to basal cell carcinoma, and his dark hair, touched with gray at the temples, was combed back in easy waves, longish in the back. His grip was firm as we shook hands.
“Ken Craig,” he said. “Really glad to meet you.” There was a faintly British sound to his speech, either long forgotten or recently cultivated, I couldn’t tell which. His office was done in the same beige and green tones and the walls were covered with abstract art which lent color, but no meaning, to his surroundings. It was a corner office and you could look at the Twentieth Century lot from two different angles.
“Please,” Craig said, and gestured toward an armchair done in pale peach. I sat. “I know you’re helping Jill out with that trouble in Boston,” he said. “How can I help?”
“Tell me a little about her, Mr. Craig.”
“About Jill? Well… brilliant talent, truly. And a real pro. A pleasure to work with. I consider Jilly not only a client but a friend.”
“No,” I said, “I’m talking about Jill Joyce, the former Jillian Zabriskie.”
“I beg your pardon?”
I put my left ankle over my right knee and laced my fingers behind my head. My New Balance running shoes were getting a little ratty. If I was going to be in show business I might have to spring for some new ones.
“I’ve worked with her too, Mr. Craig.”
“Ken.”
“And I know what you must know… that she’s an imperial pain in the ass.”
Craig stared at me politely for a moment and then his face slowly creased into a smile.
“Of course she is,” he said. “But she is also the number one television star in these United States.”
“Which means she’s a valuable commodity.”
“Exactly,” Craig said.
“So tell me about her as, what we investigators like to call, a person.”
Craig frowned.
“You know, what’s she like? What causes her pain? What gives her happiness?” I said.
“Talk about her not as a client but as a friend.”
Craig continued to frown. “I don’t…” he said and paused and seemed to be trying to regroup. “I don’t really think… ah…”
“These questions too hard for you, Ken?”
“Well, perhaps I shouldn’t, you know. Perhaps I’m not at liberty… ”
“Perhaps you don’t know,” I said. I could feel the telltale stirring in the trapezius muscles. I was tiring of the television business. “Perhaps that stuff about her being client and friend was bullshit, and you don’t know how to say anything that isn’t bullshit.”
“Wait just a minute,” Ken said. “I’m responsible for Jill’s professional life. Her personal life is hers.”
“You ever meet her family?”
Craig looked surprised. “No,” he said. “I didn’t know she had any.”
“Un huh.”
188
“Well, that’s not quite true. She has a father. I met him once.”
“Run into him at Spago?” I said.
Craig snorted. “Hardly,” he said. “He came here once. Looking for money, as I recall. Said he couldn’t get a response from Jill. We ushered him out, politely.”
“What did he want the money for?” I said.
“Down and out, I assume. He didn’t look very successful.”
“What was his name?” I said.
“Zabriskie, ah, Bill, Bill Zabriskie.”
“He live around here?”
“I don’t know,” Craig said. “I assume he lives somewhere in Los Angeles.”