Chapter 57: Sketch Painting

Chapter 57: Sketch Painting

Calabasas, Los Angeles. November 2010.

Chartered jets or not, I despised using airplane bathrooms. Irrational as it may be, my aversion meant I had a fairly rigid post-flight arrival routine. Tarmac to taxi, then straight to the toilet.

Traditionally, the route from LAX to my Koreatown apartment took forty-odd minutes. It was a ritual I enjoyed. Providing a leisurely ride where I doggedly hung my head out the window to wag my tongue at the predictable procession of guns, night-time fun, and beach bums. Within that parade of LA’s cultural museum, I’d more often than not spot some regular bums, too. Especially if my drivers ever chose to cut across through Inglewood. 

The destitute were a desperate sight for some, but I yearned for a quick gander at them to draw comfort from. Before my reputation goes the same way as their state of dress - in tatters - it’s not to ridicule their discomfort out of some twisted sense of schadenfreude. What I admired was their resolve to survive.

Well, disregarding the ones zonked out on hard drugs, at least. 

LA’s streets were star-studded beyond the walk of fame. Plenty of shooting stars crash landed on the polluted pavements, too. I held no illusions that I was special. Fame slipped as easily through fingers as money. Which, of late, had been happening quite a bit. And, oh brother, warnings of scavengers salivating at each of my gilded steps were clear as day. Paps as prevalent were merely the least of them. None of which dissuaded my curb level outlook; if I wasn’t careful, I’d be switching my cushy bolsters for concrete bollards. 

What this aside ultimately established was that I wasn’t going that route right now. No convertible to breeze my hair through. No palm trees reflecting off my shades; the black tint on the SUV’s windows prevented that. I didn’t even have my regular check in at the Ritz.

Anonymity was paramount. So, mucking about in the depths of the valley had been swapped out for new heights and sights. My horizons had been elevated to the peaks of Hollywood. 

I wasn’t going where I was expected to. 

“ID.” The security guarding the entrance of the Calabasas gated community knocked on the driver-side window. He poked his chin in before the glass wound all the way down. “Oh-!” His gaze stopped the second he caught sight of me in the passenger seat. “Welcome, Mr Rhys! You guys are permitted entry. Go on through.” It was important to note I’d never been here or met this man in my life. 

He waved us in purely on the merits of my fame. That, or Anita had informed them ahead of time. But I prefer the answer that best strokes my ego. 

Which, more than anything, solidified that I belonged in this exclusive locale.

One multi-million dollar mansion after another passed us by up the winding street until we pulled in through Anita’s wrought-iron gates. My tastefully tanned talent agent welcomed me (and Fedex behind me) into her sunburnt hacienda with open arms. A temporary solution to a more permanent problem I’d have to solve later.

“Ándale, ándale!” Arriba, arriba! “Go on, get your butts inside. Don’t be shy - mi casa es su casa!” Foregoing all formalities, Anita ushered us into her house before I was able to get a proper look at the Spanish colonial styling.

The inside was a far cry from her stale, sterile, and whitewashed office at Endeavor. 

Cosy, rustic furniture, bathed in deep tones of wood, leather and lacquer, filled every corner of her home. The warm California sun beamed rainbows through the tall stained glass windows. Fluttering sheer curtains wafted in the ocean’s salty breath via the expansive cliff-side, sea-view, terracotta-tiled terrace. Clearly, this shark was swimming in it.

Fweet! I whistled. “Sweet digs…” my cursory survey of her home halted abruptly when my gaze glued on to a very specific piece of architecture. “Your artwork, in particular… is striking. Very much to my taste.” 

An entire wall, from floor to ceiling, was dedicated to ornately framed posters of each one of my films. All the Potters, Love Actually, Tokyo Drift, Tropic Thunder, and Black Dynamite. They were smaller and off to the side, but there were even stills from each of my TV appearances in Burn Notice, 30 Rock, and Psych. 

Expecting nude portraits, were you?

A coy smile stole over her lips. She approached the wall and ran her manicure over meticulously measured blank spots surrounding and between the hung frames. “Yes, I thought you might like it. Gallery’s incomplete, though. I have it on good authority that the full collection is leagues more extensive.”

“More on my plate, eh?” As the both of us considered the other, our small grins evolved into sharp smirks.

“Stay hungry. You’ll be chewing for a while yet.” We were all teeth.

“Unnerving.” At least until they were knocked out by a pair of wide, emotionless eyes. “Bodes well for my future employment, though. Rooms?” FedEx turned to Anita and jostled the suitcase in her hand, while the chauffeur cum coolie hefted the rest of our luggage.

“Just down the hall.” I trailed their path into the carpeted corridor, allowing me to get the full blueprint of her house. Additional art was conspicuously absent.

“These can’t be all your paintings, can they? Emma, Dwayne, and whatever other clients under you might get jealous if you ever invite ‘em over.”

Anita batted away my concern with a flick of her wrist. “They’ll all get their own walls in my second home the day they earn me enough to afford it.” 

Brutal. “Poor Felton. Gonna have a rough time filling that order.”

She just shrugged. “Outta my hands, either way. I’ve handed his portfolio over to another associate. About the most pull I have at the office these days. I’m sort of limited in how much help I can provide right now.”

I suddenly sprouted a mono brow. My forehead crinkled in confusion. “What do you mean? Aren’t you basically the firm’s superstar? Would’ve assumed you’d be a shoo-in for partner or CEO or whatever at Endeavor by now.”

“Definitely am, already. And it’s WME, now.” Anita huffed and threw herself on the nearest couch. “But it came with certain conditions, Bas.” She pointed at the settee in front of her. “Sit. Now’s a good time as any to fill you in on what’s been going on. The way these things work is that progress up the ladder is paid. There’s a buy-in involved; I’ve gotta put up equity. Their price is steep.”

“What’d they ask for? Your first-born?”

My joke ended up not being much of one. “Pretty much. They wanted you.” 

My ass hovered over the seat I was about to park myself on. I stilled, and so did the conversation. Anita earned another Bas themed piece of art, a statue this time. “I hadn’t realised I was something to demand.”

“You aren’t.” She nodded at me calmly to get me to sit. “Doesn’t mean they don’t covet you all the same. Regardless, I’m not letting you go anywhere. Your ass is mine, Bas, don’t get it twisted. They can dangle a carrot in front of my face all they want. I’m not gonna let them drag me down that rabbit hole.” Her recent attachment finally gained context.

“Good. So what’s the plan, then? And how can I help?” I took my seat.

“Wish I knew. They’re still waiting for my answer; I’m trying to haggle, but they seem firm on you as the price.” 

“Can’t you leverage your way into another agency if WME are being such greedy pricks? Or how about branching out on your own?.”

Anita shook her head in disapproval at my suggestion. “Ain’t that easy. It’ll be career suicide - for the both of us. These guys are too connected, too powerful, and too petty by half. We’re too vulnerable to combat decades of consolidated influence. For the time being, we’re just gonna have to bide our time until a better opportunity presents itself.”

“Fine. I’ll leave that distinction up to you. Just know that you need only say jump and I’ll merrily hop right alongside you - even if it’s off a cliff.” 

Anita scoffed, crossed her arms, broke our stare-down, and pointed her suspiciously moist gaze at the poster wall. “Means fuck all coming from a guy who’d bungee jump without the cord.”

“Yet somehow, I promise you, we’ll bounce back.”

–

Warner Brothers HQ, Hollywood. November 2010.

My next port of call on my return trip to LA was a tête-à-tête with the studio head honcho. 

To my knowledge, Jeff Robinov asked me to show up at WB for a light debriefing - his words, not mine. Skeevy, but apt for Hollywood. Nor was it carelessly chosen. 

I made the mistake of assuming he wanted a quick chat. It was apparent, however, that he’d summoned me here to deliver a spanking.

Pointless power plays that he’d even wrangled the reception staff into. “Purpose for your visit?” A pretty girl in a pencil skirt pretended she didn’t know who I was or why I was here. The constant darting peeks she shot me from under her bangs told me the truth. 

“Business. But seeing as Robinov has made himself too busy to keep to our appointment,” I leaned over her kiosk, burst out my boyish charm, and floated my flirtation at her at barely above a whisper. “I see nothing wrong with switching to pleasure.”

I was a master at reading body language. The goosebumps that sprung out over her exposed skin were practically braille to me. 

But before she could stop biting her lip, we were rudely subjected to interruptus just as we were contemplating the prospect of coitus. 

Adam Venit unctuously announced himself. “Bas, baby, been a long time! No doubt you still remember me!” Yes, I did, but I struggled to understand why he’d want me to. Last we met, he’d tried to sneak himself in as my talent agent. Usurping Anita, and leashing me as the Rudolf for his child powered sleigh. Unfortunately for him, my keen sense of smell, even back then, snorted at his bullshit. Which ultimately meant he got caught red-handed instead of me becoming his red-nosed cash cow. “Man, I’ve had so many clients tell me how terrified and lost they feel after a long-term project. Don’t worry, we’ll get your career back on track!”

He seemed in good spirits and better health. Venit had the holly-jolly glow of festivities painted across his shining scalp and plush, flushed cheeks. His head was actually quite corpulent, now that I got a better look. Entirely disproportionate to the svelte figure it precariously balanced on top of.

Jingle bells themed alarm sirens rang inside my head. Clearly, liposuction Santa had brought Robinov a gift. 

Now, how do I play this? Trash his ego by feigning I had no idea who he was, or? “Hey, Adam, great to see you again. Been ages. Yeah, Anita let me know she’s been thinking about transferring my dossier over to you. Great timing, actually. I’d been looking to make a pivot in my career. Given both my footprint - and it’s a big one - both in the west and Japan, I had the perfect idea. What are your thoughts on pornography? I heard studios are always on the lookout for talent. We could make millions!”

“O-oh, uh, would you look at the time?” Adam lifted the wrist without his watch, “we’ll catch up later. Gotta jet. People to meet!” And molest, I’m guessing. He scurried off pretty quickly.

“I-I’d watch.” Pencil skirt stammered out once he was out of earshot. “But you should probably head upstairs. Mr Venit was Mr Robinov’s prior appointment. He’ll be expecting to see you now.”

I tossed her a wink on my way to the lifts. “And I’ll be expecting to see you later.”

Anita had filled in a blank. Venit had dropped a new piece to the puzzle. I clicked the button to the floor Jeff’s office was on. “Let’s see if that old vulture can paint the full picture for me.”