Page 14 of Chained
Whitaker snorted. “Yeah. Wow. Come with me, kid.”
Terry followed along like an eager puppy as Whitaker introduced him to his guests. They all looked Terry up and down—some speculatively, as if he were a set of clothes they might consider purchasing. The actors seemed to view him as a potential rival, smiling while their eyes remained cold and calculating. Terry played nice with everyone, gushing just a little at each introduction.
“Meet Alan Snyder. He producedGang SchoolandDeadly Basement.” Whitaker clapped the whisper-thin man on the shoulder. Snyder and Terry shook hands, Snyder’s skin dry and crackly like old paper.
“Oh, man,Deadly Basementscared the crap out of me,” Terry lied. “That part where the dead children’s arms are sticking out under the stairs?”
Snyder’s tongue darted between his lips. “We’re doing a sequel later this year. Still making casting decisions.”
“Well, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but if I fit the bill, maybe you’ll consider me.”
“Maybe.” Another tongue-dart and Snyder cut his eyes to Whitaker as if they were sharing some hidden message.
After a couple more minutes of chatter, Whitaker led Terry to a tall woman with an improbable bustline and thick makeup that didn’t quite hide her wrinkles. When Terry was in junior high school, she’d portrayed ditzy blondes in a succession of comedies, and her posters had been popular on teenage boys’ walls. Now she was probably in her mid-forties but looked older. “And who’s this?” she asked in a whiskey-soaked voice.
Terry threw a little flirtation into his words and mannerisms. She smiled as she kept touching him—an arm stroke here, a hand pat there—but her eyes were as dead as a mannequin’s. Terry felt relieved when Whitaker spirited him away.
They seemed to be heading for a duo next: a middle-aged woman in a subdued pantsuit and a slightly younger man who Terry recognized from a TV series about lawyers. As Terry was crossing the room, he caught sight of one of Whitaker’s dogs sitting in a corner, watching him. He wasn’t positive, but he believed it was the third dog, the one he hadn’t seen since his initial interview in the billiard room. He’d been wondering about the dog and felt absurdly reassured to know that nothing bad had happened to him. Terry also noticed how tense the dog looked, however, the lines of his massive body tight and his jaw firmly closed. All the party-goers were giving him a wide berth, but he seemed interested only in Terry.
The woman, it turned out, was a casting director, and her companion had quit acting to take up directing. They talked about banalities like fashion and the weather while sizing Terry up. He smiled and pretended not to notice. When the kid with the drinks swung by, Terry gratefully took another.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?” A round man with enormous glasses stepped in and took advantage of a lull in the conversation.
Terry grinned. “Top billing. Being handed a shiny gold statue.”
The man laughed much more loudly than the stupid joke called for.
A little while later—Terry had lost track of time—another casting director wrinkled her nose when Whitaker introduced them. “Terry Brandt,” she said as if the name tasted bad. “It’s bland. Bland Brandt. Forgettable. Doesn’t tell us anything about the product. Is he an action star? A comedian? A romantic lead? Who can say?” She turned to Whitaker. “What are your thoughts on a change?”
Whitaker made a noncommittal grunt. Apart from introductions, he’d spoken very little tonight. He watched and listened instead, bright-eyed and thoughtful. Terry had no idea what he was thinking or whether Terry was passing his mysterious test.
“I like my name,” Terry said to the woman. “It’s short, and easy to spell and pronounce. It’s more or less neutral, so I think it fits any genre. But I’m not the expert here, and if Mr. Whitaker thinks I need a stage name, that’s not a problem.”
She nodded as if satisfied, then launched into a monologue about a casting disaster in her last movie: the star had dropped dead of an aneurysm halfway through filming. She didn’t show any sympathy for the deceased or his loved ones, just angst over how she had to scramble to find a suitable replacement.
Another drink, and by then the party had grown louder, the laughing more strident, the conversations sounding more like arguments. Terry was certain he must have met everyone there, yet Whitaker kept dragging him around, throwing more names at him. He was tired of shaking hands and of the overly warm room. He wished he could escape outside, maybe sip a glass of water while dangling his feet in the pool, but he kept an affable smile pasted on his face and played nice.
The drinks kid came back, except this time he carried a small mirrored tray containing a drinking straw, razor blade, and vial of white powder. He stood there, blank-faced, holding the tray toward Terry.
“Help yourself,” Whitaker said.
“I’m not a big fan of blow. I prefer booze.”
But Whitaker simply stared at him, head tilted just a bit and eyebrows raised. Shit. Terry wasn’t exactly shocked that this was part of the game, but he’d hoped to avoid it. He preferred to stay as clear-headed as possible under the circumstances, and he didn’t want to damage his already fragile sleep patterns. No good way around it, though.
He poured the powder onto the mirror, cut it into lines, and took up the straw. Then he snorted the first line and, when Whitaker gestured impatiently, the second as well. The kid scurried away with the tray.
An actor wandered over, young and ruggedly handsome, and sporting a small scar on one cheek that only added to his appeal. He’d starred in a run of blockbuster hits over the past few years, usually playing a swashbuckling space pilot or a cop who broke all the rules but always got the bad guy. Here in Whitaker’s living room, he swaggered as much as any of his characters.
“Terry, meet Jayce Mitchell. I’ll be right back, boys.” Whitaker disappeared into the crowd.
Mitchell grinned crookedly and winked. “So you’re the new kid, huh?”
“Maybe. Mr. Whitaker hasn’t decided yet.”
“Sure, sure. But so far so good. Man, I remember when I was in your place. Fresh out of Wilmington, green as grass. Before that I was a pizza delivery guy, if you can believe it.”
Terry’s mouth had gone dry and he wished he had something to drink. “Wow. You’ve come a long way.”
