When Lance reached the office of Poindexter-Stone Talent Agency, he was hit with a wave of deja vu. The crowd was far too reminiscent of his experience at Wesley's, and this time, he was in no mood to stand in line.
Tammy had her great eyes glued to a glossy magazine and was ignoring the multitude of starving future stars who filled the chairs and lined the particleboard walls. She kept the phone in the crook of her neck as she expertly cruised through the ringing lines: "Poindexter-Stone, please hold. Poindexter-Stone, please hold. Poindexter-Stone, please hold."
Unlike the woman at Wesley's, Lance suspected that flirting might still work with Tammy, so he thought about Thai food and eased himself onto the corner of her desk.
"Save it," she snapped before he'd said a word.
"I've got to see Dick," Lance started.
"Don't call Richard Stone 'Dick' if you want to work again."
"Like I'm working now?"
Tammy seemed to accept this as a valid point, and Lance wondered if she was an actress herself. She seemed actress-ish— kind of pretty, a little surly, and as if she hadn't eaten enough to fill herself up in at least three years.
"Well, he's not here," she said, as if the matter was completely out of her hands. Not since Pontius Pilate had someone so completely passed the buck.
"Well, what are we going to do about it?" Lance asked.
She flashed a patronizing grin and gestured to the overflowing room. "You could sit."
Lance glanced back and shook his head. "Not good enough."
"You could call," she said and gestured at the ringing phone covered with blinking lights.
"Don't you think you should answer one of those?"
"If it's important, they call back," she said with a flip of the magazine's pages.
"Fair enough." He got off the desk, sunk to a knee, pulled her bony hand into his, and said, "Tell me where he is."
"No."
"Oh, come on," he pleaded. "It'll save me a lot of time and you a lot of hassle. Come on, just a little hint."
She sighed, looked around at the other actors in the waiting room, then leaned close and whispered in Lance's ear: "Lunch. Stella's. You didn't hear it from me."
Lance kissed her cheek. When the phone rang again, he answered for her: "Poindexter-Stone, please hold."
Julia liked Stella's on Seventy-fifth because they knew her there. Not in the "Hey, you were on TV so I should kiss up to you" sense. They knew her in the same way her father was known at her hometown coffee shop in Oklahoma. No big deal in Fall River, but Julia believed that sort of thing should not go unrewarded on the Upper West Side.
In a word, Giovanni, the maître d', was surreal. He never forgot a name or a drink; he remembered birthdays because, once, on that date, your friend had slipped you a card and paid for lunch. He asked if you'd enjoyed the sea bass on your previous visit, and if you felt up to trying the salmon today. He noticed when you cut your hair.
He was smart and attentive, with a sexy little accent and easy access to excellent food, so if Julia hadn't been so happy being a writer, she might have tried to help the single women of the world in a different way. She might have tried to clone Giovanni.
"Oh, Miss James!" He met her at the threshold, took her hands in his, and kissed both her cheeks. "You come back to Stella's! It's been too long. I see the reservation in the book and I pray it be you!"
"Hello, Giovanni. It is wonderful to see you, too."
"I see in the book that we are two for lunch today. Is that so?"
"Yes," Julia said as he helped her remove her coat and scarf. "Is it, by chance"—he cut her a sly look—"a man? Someone special?"
Julia mentally rolled her eyes as she remembered that Giovanni was one of about three people in the world who still tried to set her up. "Yes, Giovanni, he's my agent, and we have a very special professional relationship." She didn't go on to say that Harvey was sixty-four with two great passions—food and a wife of forty-one years.
"Oh," Giovanni said, not trying to disguise his disappointment. "At least it will not break my heart to see such a beautiful woman dining alone. Your table is ready. Come."
He led her through the small dining room to a prime table, motioned to the water and bread boy, then excused himself, reminding Julia of why he was the perfect man: He'd known exactly when to disappear, but not before offering H20 and carbohydrates.