Death of the Office Witch Read Free Page A

other half too young to know. And all those slimy old codgers with squeezes young enough to be their granddaughters is nauseating. Not to mention every third person you meet walking around on their toenails all jerked up on chemicals. I don’t know how you two can stand it here.”
    Well that’s show biz, Mary Ann. Charlie choked back a helpless giggle. “About the adverbs—”
    â€œActually, they prefer steak tartare,” Keegan murmured, and Charlie could have kicked him. Pushing away his empty plate, he reached for hers. “Hey, you didn’t leave me any egg.”
    â€œWho prefers steak tartare,” the novelist asked, “the junkies?”
    â€œThe birds.” Keegan Monroe, like most screenwriters, hated to work with published novelists. He was building a track record, had reasonably steady work, no illusions, and made a lot more money than most of those who had managed to publish books. But he didn’t have the prestige. He also had an unpublished novel or two in the back of his closet.
    He was fair, soft-spoken, laid-back, and never wore anything but blue jeans and cowboy boots unless he was jogging. Today he had put a corduroy sport coat over his plaid cotton shirt. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a puny mustache. “I can stand it here, Mary Ann, because of the money. And Charlie here gets off on the excitement. Don’t you, Charlie?”
    â€œAbout the adverbs?” Charlie wasn’t just losing control of this meeting, she had never gotten hold of it. “Who’s your agent here on the West Coast, Mary Ann?” Let’s compare status and settle who gets to do the genuflect thing.
    â€œIrene Webb. She’s out of town. I’ve got a call in for her.” Mary Ann stubbed out her cigarette and exhaled smoke. “I got to go to the can. I’ll let junior here fill you in on the adverbs.”
    Irene Webb had the same job Charlie did, that of literary agent in a talent agency. But Irene Webb did it for ICM, and had more clout in her little finger. And clout was what it was all about in this town.
    â€œLet’s face it, Charlie, we’re outclassed. She’s a novelist and I’m just a hack. And you don’t stand a chance against Irene Webb. Here you thought you were going to sail in here and save the day. Talk reason to your old buddy, Keegan, straighten out this cantankerous middle-aged housewife from the sticks who happens to write books.” Keegan hooted and held up a piece of French bread.
    Charlie tugged his arm down. “You’re going to get us kicked out of here. You know they don’t want you feeding the birds. Why did Richard send me if—”
    â€œDid he expect you to take on Lady Macbeth there and ICM? Don’t overestimate yourself, girl. He expected you to wheedle little old easy-going Keegan into submission.”
    Charlie ordered a Diet Coke for dessert. Keegan ordered another beer. She’d never known him to sound so bitter. “Tell me about the adverbs.”
    â€œIt’s more than that, they were just the straw.” He took off his sport coat and rubbed the cold wet of the beer glass across his forehead. “She comes in from Montana with an adaptation way overdue. And, Charlie, it’s damn near a third longer than it’s supposed to be. I mean somebody had told her the format but—”
    It was rare to ask a screenwriter to collaborate with a stranger like this. He would normally rewrite the author’s adaptation to suit the studio, but Irene Webb and Mary Ann Leffler had enough clout between them to tie down a clause in the contract forbidding the use of Mary Ann’s name in the credits if she didn’t have input on the finished script. And, for the moment, her name was hot. Keegan was both talented and malleable, bless him.
    â€œSo I get to help cut it, plus work in all the added suggestions from every bozo connected to the project, plus make the