SLEAZE: A Hollywood Comeback Story (Book #1)

Chapter 38

Michael handed me a tie to wear shortly before we pulled into the parking lot of the exclusive French restaurant where Richard and his agent were waiting for us to arrive. Although Michael had assured me that the meeting would be low key, I still couldn't shake the feeling of nervousness that had been bubbling in my stomach since he'd first asked me to come along. Fiddling with my tie, I followed after Michael and spotted Richard sitting at the bar as soon as we entered the restaurant's foyer. Hunched over his drink with his phone in hand and a bored expression on his face, he glanced up when Michael and I approached and I saw a dim flicker of recognition in his eyes. At the same time, a portly, middle-aged man who'd been sitting on the barstool beside Richard slid off his seat and began waddling towards us with his arm outstretched.

"Michael," the man said with a greasy smoothness and a wide smile. So this is Richard's agent...

Michael took his hand and pumped it up and down with two brisk shakes. "Good to see you again. Have you been waiting long?"

"No, no," the man replied with an animated wave of his wrist. "Just long enough for a vodka soda, you know how it is." Michael nodded, though his smile failed to reach the upper half of his face. Richard's agent turned to me and appraised me beneath carefully defined brows. "And you are?"

"This is my intern-er, assistant," Michael said, answering for me, "Parker Jennings."

"Well, hello, Mr. Jennings," the man said as he clasped my hand in a vice grip.

He introduced himself as Walter Schwartz and, up-close, I could see that he had watery eyes and a golden molar that glinted in the light whenever he spoke. The little hair that he had left on his head was the color of dirty bath water and he wore the thin strands that remained in a bad combover. Bald, fat, and several inches shorter than Michael, Walter was hardly the imposing figure I'd assumed would represent Richard Callaway. Despite his appearance, though, one look at him told me he was the kind of guy who'd be able to run over a puppy on his way home from work and still fall asleep that night.

Richard got to his feet as Walter let go of me and I turned to him, expecting to greet him next, but the actor kept both of his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. He studied me with a startling level of disdain, the same challenging expression in his eyes as the first time that we'd met. Instead of saying anything, he sniffled loudly and sighed, brushing past me when the hostess came to lead us to a table in a private area within the restaurant.

Michael and Walter chatted while we took our seats and, not having anything to contribute, I picked up my menu and began to skim it, noting with apprehension that all of the dish names were in French. I flipped through the pages, looking for an English translation or even a short description of what each entree contained. When I didn't find anything of the sort, panic started to set in—the only word on the menu that I recognized was something called steak tartare. Is that like tartar sauce? I wondered, slightly repulsed by the idea of the combination. Still, I decided I'd rather take a chance with that than ask Michael what to order while Richard sat staring at me through narrowed eyes.

"Shall we get a bottle of wine for the table?" Michael asked, picking up the wine list and glancing it over. "Red? White?"

"Red for me," Walter replied. Richard shrugged.

"I don't care," the blonde boy said, sniffing again. He brought the back of his hand to his nose and frowned.

"Parker?" Michael asked, turning to me.

"Oh, uh, red's fine."

Nodding, Michael waved for a waiter and relayed our drink order, pronouncing the name of the vintage with a sophisticated flourish. Once the waiter was gone, Michael looked between Richard and Walter and smiled. "So," he said, "should we get started?"