″That played-out old cow? When′s it coming off, Joe?″
Joe grinned, knowing he had won the game this time. ″October 21, for one night.″
″Got it. By then she will just about be finished with that second-rate film she′s making at—where is it? Ealing Studios?″
″Hollywood.″
″Yes. Now, who else is on the bill?″
″Don′t know. You′ll have to ask the Palladium. You′ll also have to ask them whether it′s true that she′ll be paid fifty thousand pounds for the appearance, because I′m not saying.″
″No, you′re not.″
″Will that make a story for you?″
″I′ll do my best for you, old son.″
Joe grinned again. If the story was good enough to get in the paper on merit, Whitewood would always pretend he was doing the agent a personal favor. If the story was not good enough, the writer would say so.
Whitewood said: ″Now, have you given this to the opposition?″
″Not yet.″
″Are you going to give us an edition start?″
″As a personal favor to you, Jim—yes.″ Joe leaned back in his leather-upholstered chair with a feeling of triumph. Now the writer owed him a favor. Joe had won on points.
″Incidentally, what′s up with your blue-eyed girl?″
Joe sat forward suddenly. Whitewood had a card up his sleeve after all. Joe put a false nonchalance into his voice. ″Which one?″
″Joe, how many of them did I interview this week? The malnourished Miss Winacre, of course.″
Joe frowned into the telephone. Damn Sammy. He was on the defensive now. ″I meant to ask you: how did it go?″
″I got a great story—ʹSamantha Winacre retires.′ Hasn′t she told you?″
Christ, what had Sammy told the reporter? ″Between you and me, Jim, she′s passing through a phase.″
″An unfortunate one, it seems. If she′s turning down good scripts like Thirteenth Night, she must be pretty serious about retiring.″
″Do yourself a favor—donʹt put that in your article. She′ll change her mind.″
″Glad to hear it. I left it out anyway.″
″What line did you go on?″
″Samantha Winacre says: ′Iʹm in love.′ Okay?″
″Thank you, Jim. See you soon. Hey, just a minute—did she say who she′s in love with?″
″The name is Tom Copper. I met him. Seems a sharp lad. I should watch out for your job.″
″Thanks again.″
″Bye.″
Joe put the phone down with a clatter. He and Whitewood were even again in the personal favor stakes: but that was the lesser misfortune. Something was wrong for Sammy to tell the reporter she was turning down a script without telling her agent.
He got up from his desk and walked to the window. He looked out at the usual traffic snarl-up: cars were parked all the way along the double yellow lines. Everybody thinks he′s an exception, Joe thought. A warden strolled along, ignoring the violations.
On the opposite sidewalk, an early-rising prostitute propositioned a middle-aged man in a suit. Cases of cheap champagne were being carried into a strip club. In the doorway of a closed cinema, an Oriental with short black hair and a loud suit was selling a small packet of something to a haggard, unwashed girl whose hand trembled as she gave the man a note. Her gaunt face and butch haircut made her look a little like Sammy. Oh, Christ, what to do about Sammy.
This guy was the key. Joe went back to his desk and read the name he had scribbled on his pad: Tom Copper. If she′s in love with him, she′s under his influence. Therefore it is he who wants her to retire.
People hired Joe to help them make money. People with talent something Joe had never understood, except he knew he didn′t have it. Just as Joe couldn′t act to save his life, so his clients could not do business. He was there to read contracts, negotiate prices, advise on publicity, find good scripts and good directors: to guide naive, talented people through the jungle of the show business world.
His duty to Sammy was to help her make money. But that did not really answer the question.
The truth was, an agent was a whole lot more than a businessman. In his time Joe had been mother and father, lover, psychiatrist: he had provided a shoulder to cry on, bailed clients out of jail, pulled strings to get drugs charges dropped, and acted as marriage guidance counselor. Helping the artist make money was a phrase which meant much more than it said out loud.
Protecting inexperienced people from the sharks was a big part of it. Joe′s world was full of sharks: turn producers who would give an actor a part, make a pile out of the film, and leave the actor wondering where next month′s rent was coming from; phony gurus pushing quack religions, meditation, vegetarianism, mysticism or astrology who would milk a star of half his income; screwball organizations and semi-crooked businessmen who would bamboozle a star into supporting them, and then squeeze every ounce of available publicity out of the association without regard to the artist′s image.
Joe was afraid Tom Copper was one of the sharks. It was all too fast; the guy had come from nowhere and suddenly he was running Sammy′s life. A husband she needed: a new agent she did not.
His decision was made. He leaned over his desk and pressed a buzzer. The intercom hissed: ″Yes, Mr. Davies?″
″Come in right away, will you, Andy?″
He sipped his coffee while he waited, but it was cold. Andrew Fairholm—he pronounced it Fareham—was a smart lad. He reminded Joe of himself. The son of a bit-part actor and an unsuccessful concert pianist, he had realized at an early age that he had no talent. Bitten with the show business bug all the same, he had gone into management and made a couple of second-rate rock groups into big earners. About that time Joe had hired him as a personal assistant.
Andy entered without knocking and sat down in front of the desk. He was a good-looking youngster, with long, dean, brown hair, a wide-lapelled suit and an open-necked shirt with a Mickey Mouse pattern. He had been to university and cultivated a posh accent. He was good for Joe′s agency: gave it a slightly more modern image. His brain and youthful trendiness complemented Joe′s experience and renowned cunning.
″Trouble with Sammy Winacre, Andy,″ Joe said. ″She′s told a newspaper reporter that she′s in love and she′s giving up acting.″
Andy rolled his eyes up. ″I always said that chick was weird. Who is the guy?″
″Name′s Tom Copper.″
″Who the hell is he?″
″Thatʹs what I want to find out.″ Joe ripped the sheet of paper from his pad and handed it over. ″Quick as you like.″
Andy nodded and left. Joe relaxed slightly. He felt better with Andy working on the problem. For all his charm and fine manners, the lad had very sharp teeth.
It was a warm evening, with a summery smell in the still air. The sunset over the rooftops leaked blood into the high, sparse clouds. Samantha turned away from the basement window and went to the cocktail cabinet.
Tom put a jazz record on the player and sprawled on the sofa. Samantha handed him a drink and curled up beside him. He put his large arm around her thin shoulders, and bent his head to kiss her. The doorbell rang.
″Ignore it,″ he said, and kissed her mouth.
She dosed her eyes and worked her lips against his. Then she got up. ″I′d rather keep you in suspense.″
It took her a few moments to recognize the short, velvet-suited man at the door. ″Julian!″
″Hello, Samantha. Am I bothering you?″
″Not at all. Would you like to come in?″
He stepped inside the door, and she led him down the stairs. ″I won′t keep you very long,″ he said apologetically.
Julian looked a little embarrassed when he saw Tom on the sofa. Samantha said: ″Tom Copper, Julian Black.″ Tom towered over Julian as they shook hands. Samantha went to the bar. ″Whisky, isn′t it?″