head. “Not like you,” he said. “I had gigs, flew around, didn’t see those guys and gals for months at a time. You were there constantly.”
“Besides,” Mary chimed in. “You probably knew everyone. And you most likely knew them better than he did. Braggs here, from what he tells me, just hung out and partied. He was probably busy de-flowering the female population of Beverly Hills.”
“It would be arrogant of me to agree with you, but I must confess that’s a fairly accurate statement,” Braggs said.
“I’m thinking they confided more in you,” Mary said to Ms. Stewart. “You know, crying to the agent about all of their problems and issues. That’s the stuff we need to know about.”
“That’s very perceptive, Ms. Cooper,” Margaret said. “But I was their agent not their babysitter and I did not perform confessions. They didn’t tell me everything because if they had problems, they certainly didn’t want anyone to know about them, especially their agent.”
“Yes, I’m sure all actors and actress prevent their agent from witnessing their neuroses firsthand,” Mary said. “Come on, Margaret. This is L.A. Agents know where all the bodies are buried. Or at least who put the bodies where. And they’re good bodies because it’s L.A. and everyone works out.”
“Here’s what I meant,” Margaret Stewart said. “I just said they didn’t come and blab all of their war stories to me. Yeah, I heard some stories. Some were true, most of them were probably not.”
“Why don’t you tell us about the ones that were probably true? If there actually were any.”
The older woman pushed back from her desk and crossed her legs. She let out a long breath.
“That was a long time ago,” she said. “Let’s see. There was a core group. Brent Cooper was definitely one of the ringleaders. God he was a smartass. Arrogant, pushy, and a vicious mouth. You remind me of him,” she said to Mary.
“That’s one compliment I never get tired of hearing,” Mary said.
“Let’s see, there was also Harvey Mitchell,” Margaret said. “He was a star even back then. God, I had to turn away so much work for him. Even modeling agencies wanted a piece of him.”
“Harvey Mitchell?” Mary asked. “The host of The Night Talker?”
“The one and only,” Braggs said.
The Night Talker was a long-standing hit for NBC. Not quite the Tonight Show, but still a very powerful ratings earner. Harvey Mitchell was the silver-haired host. Interviewing stars, doing skits, and having a great time doing it. Making boodles of cash, too.
“There were so many of them,” Margaret Stewart said. “They floated in and out. Look, why don’t I just do this? When Mr. Braggs called me, I went into my archives and pulled my files for everyone I could think of. Including Noah Baxter’s. Obviously, there’s no longer anything sensitive in them. Half of the people are dead or disappeared.”
She gestured at a chair near a filing cabinet. There was a box full of faded yellow folders, thick with papers inside.
“Like I mentioned before,” Margaret said. “People came, people went. Men, women, kids, animals. Everything that could have possibly gone on among prosperous entertainment people in Los Angeles during those days definitely went on. So you can guess most of what was occurring on a daily, and nightly, basis. Why don’t you just look through all that, and then if you have any questions, call me. It’s not like I have time to sit here and tell you about every last thing, plus, at my age, I’d probably get most of it wrong. So just take the stuff, look it over and call me if you have any more questions. Okay?”
Braggs walked over and picked up the box.
Mary stood. “Thank you Ms. Stewart. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I most likely am going to call you again. I always have questions to ask. It’s one of my character traits that makes me irresistible to both sexes.”
“Brent Cooper. Reincarnated,” the older woman said and turned back to her computer as if they’d already left.
“Ouch,” Mary said on her way out.
Nineteen
Mary ditched Braggs as soon as possible.
“Don’t you want to go through that stuff together?” he’d asked, looking at the files.
“I think we’ve gone through enough together, don’t you?” Mary said.
“Not really,” he said. “But everyone’s certainly entitled to their opinion, no matter how wrong that opinion may be.”
“Very eloquent, Braggs. Almost as good as the racial slurs you dropped on Jimmy Millis.”
“Old news, Mary. Old news. And speaking of old,”