"Excuse me?" Richard asked, jerking his head like he'd had water in his ears and hadn't heard correctly. "What did you say?"
"They're lies. Take them back," Lance said, growing stronger.
"Take them back? I hate to break it to you, Romeo, but this isn't second grade."
"She's a nice woman," Lance shot back. "We shared a cab and bought some toys, and now she's suing my ass!"
Richard stood, but with his small stature, standing behind the enormous desk made him appear even less powerful. "Are you growing a conscience on me?" he cried. "It's a tuna-fish world, and I'm offering you filet mignon, and you're growing a conscience?" He held up a stack of movie scripts and shuffled through them like a deck of cards, flashing the cover sheets as if asking Lance to pick a card, any card. "You see the names on these? You see the parts I have for you?"
The roles and projects that passed before Lance's eyes were, in a word, legitimate. Not B-level films or infomercials. Far better actors had started with far less. It would take one, just one . . . Lance felt himself reach for a script, but then he snapped back into the moment. "It's over. No deal."
"You don't even know her," Richard cajoled.
"Uh, yeah," Lance snapped. "That's kind of the point."
"This is America. Land of the tabloid. Home of E! Entertainment Television. There's no such thing as bad publicity! She owes you. You"—Richard pointed a Vienna sausage-shaped finger at Lance—"owe me."
When Lance turned to leave, Richard yelled out, "I can get you a baked potato to go with that steak." Lance took another step. "You're doing her a favor."
Lance wheeled and yelled, "You don't even know her!"
With eyebrows raised in the ultimate portrayal of irony, Richard said, "Neither do you." He sank back onto the throne of Poindexter-Stone and continued. "A buddy of mine in the book business just called. Her stuff is flying off the shelves, single-day sales records all over the place. Rumor has it they're gonna ink a seven-figure deal this afternoon. All because of our little project." "I don't believe it!"
"Oh, believe it," the little man said. "Thanks to you, she's Cinderella."
***
The temperature had dropped, and the weather forecasters predicted that a late-spring snowstorm could blow in overnight. But when Julia wrapped a scarf around her head, it was as much to keep hidden as to keep warm. She pulled her hands into the hot-pink mittens Cassie had given her for Christmas, so when her cell phone rang, she had to struggle to flip the tiny device open and say hello.
"Julia?" the soft voice asked, and she almost couldn't make out her own name amid the noises of the city.
With her hands cupped around her ears, she replied, "Yes?"
"Julia, dear, it's Francesca." Then a mental image popped into Julia's mind to match the voice on the phone. Harvey's Francesca, the delicate, beautiful woman who had been her agent's world for more than forty years.
Julia darted into an apartment building alcove, ignored the stares of the doorman, and listened closely.
"Dear, I got your messages. ..." "Francesca, I've got to talk to Harvey. Could you ..." "No." Her response jolted Julia. "No, dear, that's why I'm calling. Harvey's in the hospital."
Hospital?
"He went to get the paper this morning and had a heart attack at the newsstand."
Shock forced Julia against the wall. She leaned against the glass doors, not caring about the mitten print she was leaving on the pristine glass. "Francesca"—she stumbled for words— "I'm so sorry. Is he ..." How do you ask a woman this about her husband? Julia wondered. "Is he . . ."
"He's resting. The doctors say that's what he needs after surgery. No visitors," she added quickly. "By the way, dear, congratulations."
"Oh, Francesca—"
"It's a lovely picture. Harvey was clutching a copy when . . . the paramedics saved it for him."
When this is over, Julia thought, I'm going to need a very good shrink.
Back on the street, Julia began a list of reasons she shouldn't walk in front of a bus. Harvey wasn't a young man. In a city full of walkers and joggers and yoga-ers, she'd seen him break a sweat while heading to the bathroom. It was ridiculous to think that she had caused his heat attack. Then she rounded a corner and passed a newsstand, and her own heart nearly stopped beating.
Her cell phone rang, and she opened it quickly, anxious for news.
"Hi." It was a voice she recognized immediately. Surely he wasn't calling her. Surely no one in their right mind had given Lance Collins her private number. "Hello?" he said. "I was calling for Julia—"