Catch and Kill, page 14
“I get it, and DreamWeaver is looking really good. But I don’t want to agree to something and then regret it. Can I think just a little more?”
“I understand, it’s a big decision. And if it were up to me, you could have as much time as you want. But the studio needs an answer. I can give you a few more days, but then I have to move on. So let me know by the end of the week. And if you have questions in the meantime, just shoot me an email or call.”
She hung up after a quick goodbye. She thought she was getting good at her job, the negotiating part. Much to her surprise, negotiating on behalf of DreamWeaver came naturally because she believed in the studio’s capability to make an honest, compelling film out of a personal work like Peregrine.
There was a light knock on the door, which Angie usually left ajar, and she looked up to see Nicole. “How’s Mackenzie? Getting close?”
“Still undecided. I told her I need to know this week. I’ve stressed that her kind of dramatic personal story is what this studio does well, so if she wants an opportunity to have an artistically great film come out of her book, she needs to sign with us. Or we can option it if that’s all she’s willing to do. But she’s getting a lot of interest, and she’s nervous about committing.”
“Does it sound like it’s a ‘no’ and she’s just toying with us to see if she can get more money from somebody else?” Nicole leaned against the doorframe.
“It’s definitely not a ‘no.’”
“Hey, there, sorry to interrupt.” A petite Asian woman in black stilettos and a becoming fitted pink dress appeared behind Nicole. “Charles wants to see you before his six o’clock.”
“Thanks, Kristy,” Nicole said as the messenger slipped away as quickly and quietly as she’d arrived.
Nicole addressed Angie again. “I gotta go, but I’m glad you put some pressure on Mackenzie. I don’t want to read in Variety that someone else optioned it and then have to face Charles. Let’s hope she comes around.”
“Let’s hope.” But Angie was barely listening, her heart pounding in her throat. As soon as Nicole was gone, she sprang down the hall, scanning glass-walled meeting rooms that were mostly empty. It was late, and many people were gone for the day.
She took the elevator down a floor to where some assistants sat at desks laid out in quad formations as part of an open plan. A few gathered around a desk, deep in animated conversation, and a woman and a man were typing with headphones on. But there was no one she recognized. Where did you go?
She didn’t know what she’d say when she finally tracked down Kristy, but she had to find her. Angie had read in numerous news articles that a studio assistant named Kristy Wong had found Scarlett’s body. It had to be the same person who’d just talked to Nicole. She’d been hoping to meet her ever since arriving at DreamWeaver, but their paths hadn’t crossed and she’d been too damn busy during the days and too exhausted in the evenings and on weekends to go digging.
Angie was in by nine and usually worked past seven. There were meetings with the development team, reports to write, articles and books to scour, writers and agents to contact, and the studio’s own records of options and productions—a thicket of paper and electronic files—to wade through. She also had to keep abreast of what other studios and streaming services were producing.
Nicole was always knocking on her door, asking about this prospect or that, and priorities shifted all the time, depending on Charles’s mood. One time she stood over Angie’s desk dictating one of his whims. “He wants something set in the post-war period, like the 1950s but not the sock hop 1950s, more like . . .” She had looked down at her spiral notebook and read, “‘Levittown and the GI Bill and the nascent rise of the middle class.’ He’s called me four times in three days talking about it. Do we have anything on that?”
“I haven’t seen anything,” Angie had admitted. “But I’ll go through what’s upcoming at the big publishing houses—”
“Do more than go through it,” Nicole had snapped. “Find something!”
Angie had worked late for days to produce coverage reports on a book, a short story, and an autobiographical magazine article that tapped into Charles’s request. Nicole had been pleased, but when she showed Charles, he’d thought the stories were too bland. They were put on a back burner, and he moved on to another idea.
“So, how goes it?” Scott asked one night just as Angie was getting back to the house, her phone propped between shoulder and ear, attempting to fish her keys out of her purse on the front step.
“Um, I don’t even really know,” she confessed. “I’m keeping up, but it’s all I do. I sleep on weekends and try to recharge so I don’t totally crash and burn. I’m still dealing with books and writing so I’m not completely out of my depth, but there’s a lot more pressure and the pace is fast. I’m not sure how long I can keep it up. And I keep wondering if I’m going to have a panic attack at just the wrong time.”
“You can always come back—”
“Scotty, I’m actually surprised at myself. I mean, I think I’m actually doing okay, just really tired.”
“We miss you, you know, and, if I haven’t said this before, I think this move was good. I mean, I know you have to manage the depression and anxiety, but I’d be sad if you spent your entire life at Rita’s. You have a lot to offer, Ange. You know that, right?”
“Thanks, Scotty, that means a lot. I just hope I can last out here, at least until . . .”
“Until what?”
Angie caught herself. She hadn’t confided in her brother that she went to LA to pursue her questions about Scarlett’s death. She didn’t have the energy to try and convince him. “Oh, you know, just until I get the hang of it,” she finally supplied, and then changed the subject. “How’s Brontë? Adjusting?”
“She’s settled right in. The kids love her.”
Angie was glad for that, and for Scott’s support, but three weeks in she was starting to wonder if she’d ever find Kristy Wong.
As Angie stalked the floor of cubicles, she didn’t spot her among the other assistants, and people were starting to notice her lurking. She couldn’t risk drawing attention to herself, so she strode away from the assistants’ pen with purpose until she turned a corner and nearly slammed into a group of people waiting for the elevators.
“Well, hello. Nice to see you.” Tanya Castillo, wearing an elegant beige suit and a bemused smile, stood with two young men who were probably lawyers but could have been bodyguards. There were guys like that all over the offices. They trailed the top executives everywhere and were never introduced. Angie felt like everyone knew what they did except her.
“Hello, Tanya,” Angie said, trying to think of something, anything to say. “Nice to see you again. And to be working with you . . . here.”
The elevator dinged, and as Tanya’s group moved toward the opening doors, Angie, on impulse, joined them. She had no idea where they were headed, but she had to take every single opportunity that presented itself if she was going to learn anything about the studio, meaning Scarlett.
They rode up in an awkward silence until Tanya finally turned her way. “How are you settling in?”
“Fine, thank you.” More silence. She wondered if they would win a prize for most stilted elevator conversation ever. “I’m working for Nicole in Development, and I’m using my connections in publishing, so it’s working out well.”
“Right. I know.”
God, of course Tanya knew. She was there when Angie interviewed. Until Charles kicked her and Kevin out of his office.
The elevator doors opened, and Tanya strode out, trailed by her entourage.
It was the top floor. C-suite.
Angie followed. She couldn’t have gotten up there without an elevator key, so she was technically somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be on her own. But maybe Tanya doesn’t care. She thinks I’m meek, harmless. Good.
Tanya stopped then. “Angie.”
Angie stopped too. Shit.
“Maybe we should make some time to catch up. My assistant will call to set something up.” Then she continued down the hall, her goons, or junior lawyers, in tow.
Why would the head of legal want to catch up with a lowly CE? Tanya had known Scarlett. And socialized with her. So perhaps that put Angie in a different league. Or maybe she was keeping tabs on her.
It was impossible to discern Tanya’s motive. But Angie could worry about that later. Right then, she was facing the same glass doors she and Nicole had walked through on their way to her job interview. She tentatively held out her arm and gently pushed one door. Unlocked. She looked around. No one in sight. Before she had time to think, she darted through and came to the wide-open reception area that led to Charles’s private office. The blue leather couches, the glass-and-metal tables, the enormous movie posters, the staggering views of the city.
What if someone asks what I’m doing here? Looking for . . . Nicole?
“I don’t give a flying fuck what that asshole says!”
Angie jumped. Charles’s booming voice from down the hall to his inner chamber was unmistakable, but it was impossible to tell whom he was yelling at.
“I can buy and sell that sonofabitch ten times over, you know that? FUCK HIM. He thinks he can tell Vivian Reno not to work with me? Because I’m not nice? Jesus fucking Christ. In a few years she’ll be lucky to get cast on some shit network sitcom. I want her for this. I know she’s right for it. She’ll get an Oscar. We just took home a boatload of fuckin’ Oscars and she will, too, if she does this. Do we have Gary locked in?”
Angie looked around. Still no one. She moved down the hall toward the wood door that led to Charles’s office, her heart pounding in her ears. She thought she could feel her blood pumping through her veins.
She didn’t hear anyone else’s voice. Charles’s got quieter. Was he on the phone? Or were his underlings too cowed to respond? “You call back her fucking agent and you get her to meet with me.” A murmur of a response. Then Charles speaking heartily: “We’ll have lunch. A nice lunch. Very easygoing. She’ll see that I can be very easy to work with. Congenial. I’m a congenial guy. And she will understand that there is no part better than the one I’m dangling in front of her that will ever give her the kind of clout or exposure she’s fucking lucky to get at her age.”
“Angie, do you need something?”
Angie jumped again. No more than four feet away stood Charles’s right-hand man himself—the tanned and funkily tailored-to-perfection Kevin Li.
“Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “But I don’t usually see you up here.”
“Yes.” Angie couldn’t figure out what to say next. She instinctively backed away from the door to Charles’s office. Had it been obvious she’d been eavesdropping? “I was, um, trying to catch Nicole before her meeting with Charles. We just had a meeting, but it can wait. It sounds like he’s got people in there.”
Kevin held her gaze. “Oh, I see. Well, yes. Nicole’s in that meeting, but better to wait unless it’s an emergency. Charles doesn’t like to be interrupted.”
“Of course. No, not an emergency. I can tell her later. Thanks, Kevin. Nice to see you again.”
She made her way toward the suite door.
“Angie?”
She froze for a moment then turned back to him. She couldn’t get a read on the guy.
“How’s everything going for you out here?”
“You mean here at work? It’s good. Everything’s good, though, you know, a bit difficult at times as I get my sea legs. Lot to learn.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.” There was a bit of an awkward pause. “Well, I’ll tell Nicole you wanted her when she comes out.”
“Thanks, that’s . . . thanks.” Angie moved briskly to the elevator, rode back down to her floor, and walked down the hall and into her office, where she shut the door and leaned against it, finally letting out her breath.
Well, she’d heard Charles Weaver’s temper firsthand.
Her phone beeped.
Up for Happy Hour?
Nicole. Apparently the meeting ended moments after Angie fled.
Sure, sounds good.
Angie had been slowly getting to know Nicole better since she’d started. Nicole had started taking Angie to lunches with producers, managers, and writers, ostensibly to expose her to the larger movie ecosystem, but Angie thought it was actually to leverage her post-Oscars profile for the studio’s benefit.
“This is Angela Norris,” she’d say by way of introduction at one of their various meetings around town. “She’s just joined our development staff at DreamWeaver. You probably heard her speak at the Oscars this year?”
But Angie didn’t care if she was being used. The reality was that she had the right skills for her job and was getting better at it all the time. If she was hired as much for Scarlett’s name as her abilities and contacts, so what? It got her where she needed to be. It’s not like she didn’t have her own ulterior motives.
Though finding answers about Scarlett was even harder than she’d thought it would be. DreamWeaver was a tightly controlled environment. When she’d first arrived, she’d assumed she’d hear some talk about what went on behind closed doors. But no one openly gossiped. Angie only ever heard chatter about the business at hand or innocuous mentions of what was happening at other studios or who had spotted which actors or directors at which restaurant or film premier or screening. And people got suspicious if you poked around too much.
She cautiously broached the topic one morning with Sandra, another CE, as they chatted at the studio’s espresso station. “It seems pretty buttoned-up around here.” It was an awkward opener and Angie knew it the second it was out of her mouth.
“What do you mean?” Sandra was a bit reserved and smart, a Midwesterner by birth, and Angie and she had become friendly, if not exactly friends.
“I think I was expecting more of an open culture.” Angie chose her words with care. “There are so many creative people around, but I never hear any discussions, people giving their opinions about this actor or that project. But maybe it’s happening and I’m just not part of it.”
Sandra gave a short, tense laugh. “No, you’re not missing out, it’s just not a place where people talk freely outside their own responsibilities. Charles doesn’t go in for a lot of freethinking. He prefers to set the agenda.”
I’ll bet.
“Plus, well, we had something happen once,” Sandra said as they sat at a small table with their coffees.
“Something?”
Sandra hesitated, then started typing into her phone. “Someone talked to a journalist who was doing a behind-the-scenes look at how stories make it to the big screen. They were quoted, anonymously, saying that some studios try to lock in A-list actors for future projects that aren’t even far along in development yet, just to keep them away from rivals. Anyway, once the story came out, Charles went crazy.” She looked around before lowering her voice. “We had all these new people show up around the studio, and everybody thought they were private investigators who were trying to find the leak. Two days later, we got this.”
She slid her phone over to Angie. It was open to an email attachment, which read:
To the DreamWeaver staff:
By now we’ve all seen the Hollywood Highways story. I was deeply disappointed to see that one of our own spoke to the press under the cloak of anonymity.
Perhaps I have not been sufficiently clear. For those of you toiling under the assumption that you are free to speak to reporters, allow me to clarify: You are not.
We have a media relations department staffed by professionals who are paid to handle such inquiries. If there is something particular someone outside that department should speak to, the department will authorize an interview, with my express permission and questions approved beforehand.
We work in a highly competitive industry. We guard our trade secrets. They help us succeed and make the kinds of films we can all be proud of.
I’m personally hurt that one of us would breach the trust of the DreamWeaver family. My door is always open if any of you have concerns or questions. In the meantime, I trust I shall never again open a newspaper to find an unvetted, anonymous quote from someone in my employ.
~C.
“Did they ever find who gave the interview?” Angie asked when she was finished reading.
Sandra shook her head. “But, like, half a dozen people were fired. That was the rumor anyway. I think they signed NDAs, so no one talked about it officially, like in the entertainment press. But everyone knew what happened. And after that, no more anonymous comments showed up in the news.”
***
“You’re good at this,” Nicole said that evening at a trendy bar on Wilshire, all wood and exposed brick with some neon to give it a kick. The crowd was a nice mix of business professionals, hipsters, and, it appeared, screenwriters who sat with their laptops, drinking cocktails, thinking pensively, and then furiously typing when inspiration struck. “You rip through reading and write good coverage reports, but you also handle yourself pretty well with people when we’re talking business. You’re sure you’re an introvert?” She grinned then took a long sip of a blood-orange margarita.
“I’m not great at socializing but talking about books and stories, it’s what I know, and how stories might work as films just seems to come naturally.”
Angie felt comfortable with Nicole. But she also had to remind herself not to relax too much. She was there for a reason and if she got found out before she could uncover what had driven Scarlett to suicide, everything she had done so far would have been for nothing.
