topic.
"Where do all the paths lead?"
"To different quarters. We have a number of
separate accommodations, tailored to the needs of our guests."
"I suppose you could get lost out there."
"Not really. There are signs and, of course, the
grounds are walled. So you couldn't go too far wrong."
"Are there any other entrances?" I asked.
"I mean, other than the lobby?"
The woman gave me an odd look. I was beginning to
sound like a detective. I could hear it myself.
"There are no other entrances, although there
are locked gates in the walls."
"I'll have to take a stroll."
"By all means," she said without
enthusiasm.
Jack came back to the desk and touched me on the arm.
"Excuse us, won't you?" he said to the
woman.
She said, "Certainly."
Jack pulled me aside. "Helen is in one of her
moods. Things didn't go well today with Walt--the little prick. He's
angling for Quentin's job. And when Walt angles, he does it with a
meathook. And then the taping got fouled up this afternoon--some flap
over one of the scripts."
"Does that mean dinner is off?"
"What that means," Jack said, "is that
we're in for another bumpy flight. Helen is really a very sweet
person. But she's got a tough job and she cares very deeply about the
show. Too deeply for her own good. When things go wrong ... it gets
to her. And between Walt, Quentin, and the flap on the set, a lot has
gone wrong this week. Plus she's got to meet with Walt again tomorrow
morning and with the network and agency people in the afternoon.
Between you and me, the show has been slipping in the ratings lately,
and we're all a little afraid that we may not make it through next
spring."
"You mean you might get canceled?" I said.
"Or re-slotted." Jack gave me a nervous
look. "This really isn't for public consumption, Harry. I'd
appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourself."
I was surprised that Jack had kept it to himself for
so long. It seemed like the sort of thing I should have been told.
"Could that have been why Quentin was thinking about another
show--the fact that 'Phoenix' was in ratings trouble?"
Jack shook his head. "I think that's a red
herring, Harry. There's nothing in the world in smaller demand than
the services of the head writer of a canceled soap. If the show died,
Quentin died with it."
"Perhaps he was planning to get out before the
ax fell."
"And kiss goodbye to half a mil? Be serious.
Besides, Quentin was contractually obliged to stay on the show until
the end of this thirteen-week cycle. And believe me, United has no
sense of humor when it comes to contracts."
I thought of the one I'd signed and sighed. "Maybe
his mother was wrong, but there had to be some reason why he came out
here on Friday afternoon instead of on Sunday night, like he usually
did."
"Well, I don't know the reason, but I seriously
doubt if it was another show. Maybe you should talk to Quentin's
agent, Harris Sugarman. Or maybe Helen can help you. His trip could
have had something to do with 'Phoenix.'"
"Let's go talk to Helen, then."
"O.K.," Jack said ruefully. "But
remember, I warned you that she's in a bad mood."
"You warned me once before about Marsha Dover.
Am I in for another suicide attempt?"
"Helen's a good Catholic. She might take a life,
but she'd never take her own."
"That's promising," I said.
We walked through the French doors onto the court,
then turned left down a path lined with palo verdes and jacaranda.
The path took us behind several buildings and ended in another court
of grass and blue wildflowers. There was a small stone pavilion in
the middle of the lawn, with a bowl-shaped fountain sitting on a
pedestal in its center. It reminded me a little of Dover's topiary
garden, with its statue of Cupid. At the far end of the court, a
serpentine wall--twelve feet high and dripping English ivy--ran from
one side of the grounds to the other. Huge oak trees towered up
behind it, casting long, leafy shadows on the pavilion and its
fountain. Something moved against the wall,
"Where do all the paths lead?"
"To different quarters. We have a number of
separate accommodations, tailored to the needs of our guests."
"I suppose you could get lost out there."
"Not really. There are signs and, of course, the
grounds are walled. So you couldn't go too far wrong."
"Are there any other entrances?" I asked.
"I mean, other than the lobby?"
The woman gave me an odd look. I was beginning to
sound like a detective. I could hear it myself.
"There are no other entrances, although there
are locked gates in the walls."
"I'll have to take a stroll."
"By all means," she said without
enthusiasm.
Jack came back to the desk and touched me on the arm.
"Excuse us, won't you?" he said to the
woman.
She said, "Certainly."
Jack pulled me aside. "Helen is in one of her
moods. Things didn't go well today with Walt--the little prick. He's
angling for Quentin's job. And when Walt angles, he does it with a
meathook. And then the taping got fouled up this afternoon--some flap
over one of the scripts."
"Does that mean dinner is off?"
"What that means," Jack said, "is that
we're in for another bumpy flight. Helen is really a very sweet
person. But she's got a tough job and she cares very deeply about the
show. Too deeply for her own good. When things go wrong ... it gets
to her. And between Walt, Quentin, and the flap on the set, a lot has
gone wrong this week. Plus she's got to meet with Walt again tomorrow
morning and with the network and agency people in the afternoon.
Between you and me, the show has been slipping in the ratings lately,
and we're all a little afraid that we may not make it through next
spring."
"You mean you might get canceled?" I said.
"Or re-slotted." Jack gave me a nervous
look. "This really isn't for public consumption, Harry. I'd
appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourself."
I was surprised that Jack had kept it to himself for
so long. It seemed like the sort of thing I should have been told.
"Could that have been why Quentin was thinking about another
show--the fact that 'Phoenix' was in ratings trouble?"
Jack shook his head. "I think that's a red
herring, Harry. There's nothing in the world in smaller demand than
the services of the head writer of a canceled soap. If the show died,
Quentin died with it."
"Perhaps he was planning to get out before the
ax fell."
"And kiss goodbye to half a mil? Be serious.
Besides, Quentin was contractually obliged to stay on the show until
the end of this thirteen-week cycle. And believe me, United has no
sense of humor when it comes to contracts."
I thought of the one I'd signed and sighed. "Maybe
his mother was wrong, but there had to be some reason why he came out
here on Friday afternoon instead of on Sunday night, like he usually
did."
"Well, I don't know the reason, but I seriously
doubt if it was another show. Maybe you should talk to Quentin's
agent, Harris Sugarman. Or maybe Helen can help you. His trip could
have had something to do with 'Phoenix.'"
"Let's go talk to Helen, then."
"O.K.," Jack said ruefully. "But
remember, I warned you that she's in a bad mood."
"You warned me once before about Marsha Dover.
Am I in for another suicide attempt?"
"Helen's a good Catholic. She might take a life,
but she'd never take her own."
"That's promising," I said.
We walked through the French doors onto the court,
then turned left down a path lined with palo verdes and jacaranda.
The path took us behind several buildings and ended in another court
of grass and blue wildflowers. There was a small stone pavilion in
the middle of the lawn, with a bowl-shaped fountain sitting on a
pedestal in its center. It reminded me a little of Dover's topiary
garden, with its statue of Cupid. At the far end of the court, a
serpentine wall--twelve feet high and dripping English ivy--ran from
one side of the grounds to the other. Huge oak trees towered up
behind it, casting long, leafy shadows on the pavilion and its
fountain. Something moved against the wall,
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