Jerry Morgan had two hysterical unemployed actresses in his waiting room, one tightlipped producer who was trying to break into comedy writing, and a receptionist who had just given two days' notice. The actresses and producer were all formerly employed by Titanic Productions: a significant phenomenon, as Sherlock Holmes would have said if he'd been a theatrical and literary agent with an office off the Strip.
At the moment Morgan had a worse problem on his hands: a morose Ron Gabriel. It wasn't like Gabriel to be downcast: ebullient, brassy, argumentative, noisy, egregious, foolhardy, irreverent—all those yes. Morgan was accustomed to seeing Gabriel in those moods. But morose? And—fearful?
Morgan studied his client's face on the big view screen set into the wall of his private office. He had considered getting the phone company to put in a three-dee viewer, but so far hadn't gotten around to it.
"So it's been more than a week since Brenda brought the idea to Titanic," Gabriel was saying, his voice low, "and I haven't heard a word from her or anybody else."
"Neither have I, Ron," said Morgan as pleasantly as he could manage. "But, hell, you know Finger. He never moves all that quickly."
"Yeah, but Brenda would've gotten back to me if there'd been some good news . . . ."
Morgan glanced at the outline and fact sheet for "The Starcrossed" that rested on a corner of his desk.
"Did you give her the same poopsheet you gave me?" he asked.
Gabriel nodded. "We did it that morning, right on the voicewriter. Haven't seen her since. She just took off . . . ."
"She's probably waiting for Finger to finish reading it. You know he can't get through more than one page a day. His lips get tired."
Not even the joke stirred Gabriel. "They've torn it up," he said miserably. "I know they have. Finger took one look at my name on the cover and tore it into little pieces. Then he must've fired Brenda and she's too sore at me to even let me know about it"
"Nonsense, Ron. You know . . . ."
"Call him!" Gabriel said, his face suddenly intense, his voice urgent. "Call Finger and find out what he did with it! Make a personal pitch for the show. I'm broke, Jerry. Flat busted. I need something! That show . . . ."
With a sigh, Morgan said, "I'll call Les Montpelier. He'll know what's happened."
Morosely, Gabriel nodded and shut off the connection.
Three hours later, Morgan took off his sunglasses and peered into the dimly lit bar. Vague shapes of men and women were sitting on barstools; beyond them, the narrow room widened and brightened into a decent restaurant.
The hostess was dressed in the very latest Colonial high-necked, long-sleeved, floor-skirted outfit with the bosom cut out to show her bobbing breasts.
"Lookin' for somebody?" she said in her most cultured tones.
"Mr. Montpelier was supposed to meet me here," Morgan said, still trying to make out the faces of the men at the bar.
"Oh yeah, he was here, but he went on back into the restaurant. Said he couldn't wait and you could find him at his table. Big tipper."
Silently grumbling at the Freeway traffic jams that had made him late, Morgan worked past the executives and bar girls and quickly found Montpelier sitting alone at a booth near a window.
He waved and put on his heartiest smile at he approached the booth. The slim, redbearded Montpelier smiled back and Morgan saw a mirror image of his own phony graciousness.
"Hi, Les! How the hell are ya?" Morgan said as he slid into the booth.
"Just great, Jerry! And you? Geez, it's been a helluva long time since we've seen each other."
As Montpelier motioned for a waiter, Morgan said: "Well, you know how this town is. You can be in bed with the same guy for months and then never see him again for years."
"Yeah. Sure."
The waiter was professionally icy. "Cocktail, m'seur?"
"A Virgin Mary for me, please," Morgan said.
Montpelier grinned at him. "Off the toxics?"
Morgan grinned back. The Game, he sighed to himself. The everlasting Game. "I was never on it, Les. I drink a little wine with a meal, that's all. The hard stuff never appealed to me. I prefer smoking."
"Then why the camouflage?"
"The Virgin Mary? I like tomato juice . . . and besides, there are people in this town who don't trust an agent that doesn't drink."
"Hell," Montpelier said, "I've seen it just the opposite. I know an agent who drinks nothing but milk in public. Says, 'What kind of an agent would people think I am if I didn't have an ulcer?' One of the biggest juicers in town, in private."
You got that from an old TV show, Morgan replied silently.
The waiter brought Morgan's drink. Montpelier clinked his own half-finished rum sour with it and they began the serious business of inspecting the menus.
It wasn't until the salads had been served that the conversation got to the subject. Morgan deliberately avoided an opening gambit, which in itself was one of The Game's most frequently used opening gambits: let the other guy bring up the subject, makes him appear to be more anxious than you are.
"What's this brilliant new idea Gabriel's got? Brenda seems very impressed with it."
"I thought you knew about it," Morgan said.
"Yeah—in general. B.F.'s got it tucked under his arm, though. Hasn't let anybody see any details yet."
Morgan munched a lettuce leaf thoughtfully, then said, "It's the kind of idea that could save Titanic from the wolves."
"Wolves?" Montpelier looked startled. "There're no wolves at our doors."
With a shrug, Morgan said: "I must have heard wrong, then. Anyway, it's a powerful idea. It's got scope."
"What's it all about?"
Morgan leaned back and put his fork down. This was the part he liked best. It was like fishing. Only instead of standing hips-deep in an Alpine stream, he was sitting in a plush restaurant, wearing last year's zipsuit, trying to hook a wary young executive who was dressed like Buffalo Bill Cody. Trout are fairer game, Morgan told himself.
"It's got everything you could ever want in a successful series. Drama, action, love interest—a couple of attractive young central characters, lots of continuous characters and color. Plus exotic new settings every week, with plenty of scope for guest stars and in-depth characterizations. Plenty of spinoffs, too. And byproducts . . . ."
"What is it, for Chrissake?"
Morgan inwardly smiled. Montpelier had blown his cool: Twenty points for our side.
"It's called 'The Starcrossed.'"
Montpelier's anxious frown dissolved as he savored the title.
"The Starcrossed,'" he murmured.
"It draws its dramatic punch," Morgan quoted from Gabriel's poopsheet, tucked into his zipper pocket, "from the depths of the human heart in conflict with itself. The origins of this idea trace back through Shakespeare and the Renaissance, back into Medieval romance, and even . . . ."
Montpelier's face went sour. "It's not that damned 'Romeo and Juliet' thing he was trying to peddle at Mercury, is it?"
"Of course not," Morgan snapped and immediately wished he hadn't. Too quick, he sees through it. Lose ten points.
"Well, what is it then?"
"It draws on some of the same material as the 'Romeo and Juliet' idea . . ."
"Ah-hah!"
"But it's a completely new concept. Fully science fictional. No historical or contemporary parts to it at all."
"No realism?" Montpelier asked, with an expression that was close to a sneer.
"None."
"I know Gabriel. He's always trying to sneak some realism in."
With a grin, Morgan realized that Montpelier had suckered himself. He had set up a strawman; now all Morgan had to do was to knock it down.
"Let me tell you about this idea," Morgan said, hunching forward over the table conspiratorially. He hesitated just long enough to make Montpelier hold his breath, then started quoting again from the poopsheet:
"Picture a starship floating through space, just like any ordinary starship, like you see on all the shows, but this ship's been designed by the man who invented the three-dee process. Accurate. Technically detailed. A perfect jewel, shining in the black velvet of the infinite interstellar wilderness. Now, aboard that starship . . . ."
It was dark outside and people were starting to trickle in for dinner before Montpelier stopped asking questions about the show. Morgan was hoarse, as much from the nervous strain of improvising answers as from talking steadily for so many hours.
Montpelier was nodding. "It's got scope all right. I like the whole idea. It's got depth."
"Uh-huh," Morgan grunted. Then, as noncommittally as possible, he asked, "How's B.F. reacting to it?"
Montpelier shook his head. "If it was anybody else except Gabriel, B.F. would've snapped it up."
"Oh. I see."
"As it is," Montpelier went on, "he's stuck me with the job of getting along with Gabriel and not letting Ron get to the top."
"Oh?" Morgan felt his head go light.
"It's a pretty shitty job." Montpelier complained. "I'll have to handle Gabriel and keep him away from B.F. We'll have to settle on a damned executive producer; maybe Sheldon Fad. He's hot right now."
"Yes," Morgan agreed, with a genuine smile. "I think he'd be fine."
When Montpelier finally left the restaurant, there were stars in his eyes. Or dollar signs, Morgan reflected as he bade the executive goodbye and promised to be in touch with him the next day for some "hard-nosed, eyeball-to-eyeball, tough-assed money talk."
Morgan went to the men's room, threw up as he always did after one of these extended bull-flinging lunches, cleaned himself up, then found a phonebooth out near the bar. He sat down, closed the door firmly, and punched out Ron Gabriel's number.
It was busy. With a sigh, Morgan punched Gabriel's private number. Also busy. With a deeper sigh, he tried the writer's ultraprivate "hot line" number. He can't be carrying on three conversations at once. Morgan realized it was more a fond hope than a statement of fact.
A sultry brunette appeared on the tiny screen. "Mr. Gabriel's line," she moaned.
"Uh . . . ." With a distant part of his mind, Morgan was pleased that he could still be shaken up by apparitions such as this one. "Is, uh, Mr. Gabriel there? This is Jerry Morgan, his agent."
"I'll see, Mr. Morgan," she breathed.
The screen went gray for an instant, then Gabriel's hardbitten features came on the tiny screen.
"Well? How'd it go?"
Morgan said, "I just finished having lunch with Les Montpelier . . . ."
"God, you sound awful!" Gabriel said.
"I did a lot of talking."
Gabriel's face fell. "They don't want the show. They hated the idea."
"I talked it all out with Montpelier," Morgan said. "Finger's read the poopsheet and . . . ." He hesitated.
"And?"
It was criminal to tease Gabriel, but Morgan got the chance so seldom.
"And what?" Gabriel demanded, his voice rising.
"And . . . well, I don't know how to say it, Ron, so I might as well make it straight from the shoulder."
Gabriel gritted his teeth.
"They're buying it. We talk money tomorrow."
For an instant, nothing happened. No change in Gabriel's facing-the-firing-squad expression. Then his jaw dropped open and his eyes popped.
"What?" he squawked. "They bought it?" He leaped out of view of the phone's fixed camera, then reappeared some ten meters further away. He jumped up and down. "They bought it! They bought it! Ha-ha! They bought it! Those birdbrains bought it!"
The sultry brunette, another girl whom Morgan vaguely remembered as Gabriel's typist and a third woman rushed into the room. Gabriel was still bounding all over the place, crowing with delight.
With the smile of a man who's put in a hard but successful day's work, Morgan clicked off the phone and started on his way home.