The New Times entry was two huge glass doors. I pushed one of them, and it opened silently on a skylit waiting room. The floor was black granite, the furniture Lucite, white leather, and iron, powder-coated deep blue. Variety and The Hollywood Reporter were piled up on tables. Big frameless black-and-white paintings hung on gray wool walls.
A girl who looked about eighteen, in a white T-shirt and second-skin jeans tucked into spurred black-and-white cowskin boots, sat behind a deskette. Her long straight hair was buttercup streaked with ebony. A diamond was set into one nostril. Despite bad skin, she had a great face. I stood there awhile before she looked up from her cuticles.
“Uh-huh?”
“I’m here for Mr. App.”
“Name.”
“Sandy Del Ware.”
“Are you the chiropractor? I thought you were tomorrow.”
I handed her a card.
She wasn’t impressed. The place was silent; no one else seemed to be around.
“Do you—uh—have an appointment?”
“I think Mr. App would like to see me. It’s about Sanctum.”
Her lips rotated a couple of times, as if spreading lipstick. If there’d been a pencil on her desk, she might have chewed it.
“I’ve only been here a couple of weeks. . . . He’s in a meeting.”
“At least ask him,” I said. “Sanctum. Buck Lowell, Terry Trafficant, Denton Mellors.”
She agonized, then punched two numbers on a see-through Lucite phone.
“It’s some producer. About Santa and Dylan— uh—Miller. . . . I’m . . . What? . . . Oh, okay, sorry.”
She put the phone down, looked at it, blinked hard.
“He’s in a meeting.”
“No problem, I can wait.”
“I don’t think he wants to see you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he was pretty bent about being interrupted.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. The meeting must be with somebody important.”
“No, he’s all by—” She touched her mouth. Frowned. “Yeah, it’s important.”
“Is a big star in there with him?”
She went back to her cuticles.
To her left was a hall. I strode past her desk and went for it.
“Hey!” she said, but she didn’t come after me. Just as I rounded the corner, I heard buttons being punched.
I passed gray wool doors and movie posters depicting gun-toting huge-busted women of the receptionist’s age, and leathered, four-day-bearded, male-model types pretending to be bikers and soldiers of fortune. The films had names like Sacrifice Alley and Hot Blood, Hot Pants, and several had recent release dates.
The drive-in circuit or instant video.
At the end of the hall was a big tooled brass door, wide open. Standing in the doorway was App.
He was around sixty, five-six, maybe a hundred and twenty. His Caesar cut had been reduced to a few white wisps tickling a deep tan forehead. He wore a custard-colored cashmere cardigan over a lemon-yellow knit shirt, knife edge-pressed black slacks, and brown crocodile loafers.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, in a calm big-man’s voice, “or I’ll have your fucking ass thrown out.”
I stopped.
He said, “Turn yourself the fuck around.”
“Mr. App—”
He cut the air with both hands, like an umpire calling a runner safe. “I’ve already called Security, you fucking jerk. Reverse yourself, and you just might avoid getting arrested and your fucking paper sued from here to kingdom come.”
“I’m not with any paper,” I said. “I’m a freelancer writing a biography of Buck Lowell.”
I put a card in his face. He snatched it and held it at arm’s length, then gave it back to me.
“So?”
“Your name came up in my research, Mr. App. I’d just like a few minutes of your time.”
“You think you can pop in here like some fucking salesman?”
“If I’d called would I have been able to get an appointment?”
“Hell, no. And you’re not getting one now.” He pointed to the door.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll just write it up the way I see it. Your optioning Command: Shed the Light. Bankrolling Sanctum only to see it collapse a year later.”
“That’s business,” he said. “Ups and downs.”
“Pretty big down,” I said. “Especially on Lowell’s part. He took your money and funded guys like Terry Trafficant and Denton Mellors.”