Agent to the Stars by John Scalzi Page A

that light’s not supposed to be on the set,” I said.
    â€œOf course it’s not,” Barbara said, and then raised her voice so everyone on the set could hear her. “It’s on the set because some damned fool UNION light hanger doesn’t know how to do HIS DAMN JOB! And he wouldn’t HAVE a JOB unless HIS DAMN JOB was protected by his DAMN UNION!” Barbara’s voice, a commanding boom in normal conversation, reverberated through the set like the aftershock of a particularly nasty quake. From the corners and the rafters, members of the crew glared down at her. Something was telling me this was not going to be a frictionless set.
    â€œShouldn’t someone come and pick this up?” I asked.
    â€œHell, no,” Barbara said. “It’s staying where it is until the union president gets here. I want him to see what sort of job his IDIOT UNION BROOM PUSHERS”—once again Barbara pitched her voice to the cheap seats—“have been doing around here. No one here is going to do a DAMN THING until he gets here.”

    That much was true. There were forty people on the set, mostly crew, ambling around aimlessly. The cast seemed to be missing, with the exception of Chuck White, who played Rashaad Creek’s best friend on the show. Chuck was working out on one of the set decorations.
    â€œHow long have you been waiting?” I asked.
    â€œSix long, unproductive hours,” Barbara said. “And I’m going to keep waiting, and everyone here is going to keep waiting, until the union president gets here. Anyone who leaves before he gets here is fired, UNION OR NOT.”
    Directly behind Barbara, one of the cameramen gave her the finger.
    â€œBut I didn’t ask you here to talk about the lights, Tom,” Barbara said, strolling over to the audience seats. “I want to talk to you about the future of Rashaad’s representation.”
    I followed Barbara. “Has there been a problem, Barbara?” I asked.
    Barbara took a seat on a bleacher. “Not as such, Tom—here, sit down a minute,” she patted the seat next to her, “but I have to tell you, I’m hearing some very disturbing things.”
    I took a seat. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that article in The Biz, ” I said.
    â€œIt might,” Barbara said. “You know, that reporter Van Doren gave Rashaad and me a call. Asked us if we’ve been noticing if you’ve been acting strangely lately. And then he told us that you had dropped so many of your clients. As you might imagine, we found this very disturbing. I found it very disturbing.”
    â€œBarbara,” I said, “you really have nothing to worry about. Yes, I transitioned a number of my less important clients, but I certainly have no intention of doing that with Rashaad. He’s on his way up, and I intend to keep him going there.”

    â€œTom,” Barbara said, “are you on drugs?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œAre you on drugs?” she repeated. “That reporter mentioned something about a health spa and sulfur treatments. To my ear, that sounds like rehab. You know how I feel about those drugs. I won’t have them anywhere near my boy. You know I had everyone here on the set take a urine test before they could work here. If they had the slightest hint of anything in their system, they’re gone.”
    After Workin’ Out! was green-lighted, Rashaad threw a little party for himself and thirty of his most geographically immediate friends at the Four Seasons hotel in Beverly Hills. One of Rashaad’s “pals” arrived with more cocaine than was in the final scene of Scarface. But then, Rashaad wasn’t the one having to pee in a cup.
    â€œI’m clean, Barbara,” I said. “The last time I smoked anything illegal was my junior year in college. You don’t have to worry about it.”
    â€œThen what is wrong, Tom?