The Cutting Room by Laurence Klavan Page A

reason I’m here, is . . . the Fizz girl.”
    Fuenta paused. A certain steeliness now crept into his mild manner. “The girl?”
    “Yes. Your model. We’re very interested in seeing her for a part in . . . the film.”
    “I see. Erendira.”
    I flushed, happy to hear him speak the name. But Fuenta was staring at me coldly now. He reached out a hand and gestured for his sheets back. I returned them, uneasily.
    “Well, that’s something you should talk to her about, isn’t it?”
    “That’s . . . well, that’s why I’m here. Would you have a contact number for her? Or even—a last name?”
    I had meant the last remark as a joke, but Fuenta wasn’t laughing. Before tearing off and crumpling up his piece of paper, he gave a small snort of disgust. Either he was repelled by my lack of interest in Fizz, or he thought I was just a pimp for Ben Williams. That was a position I was sure someone else already filled in L.A.
    “All right, I’ll give you a number,” he said.
    He flipped through a Rolodex. Then he wrote a number on another piece of paper, tore it off, harshly, and nearly tossed it across to me.
    “Tell
him
what you want.”
    Fuenta’s amiability had completely—well, fizzed. He had said it as a threat, and that made me worry.
             
    The voice on the other end of the line was Spanish. It was also deep, male, and very unfriendly. The man received my message—Ben Williams, a movie offer, etc.—grunted in response, took my number, and hung up. But within minutes, he had called back.
    I was to go to an even fancier hotel, the Castilla, the next day at three. Someone would meet me in the lobby. When I inquired how I would know this person, I was told, “Just mention Erendira.”
    I began to e-mail Ben a cryptic but hopeful letter
(Got info—will pursue)
, then realized I was really communicating with Beth, and sent no word at all.
    Before I left, feeling nervous and a bit foolish, I slipped the gun into my pocket.
    I could hardly get within a mile of the Castilla. There was no way to reach the front door, let alone the lobby.
    A massive throng stood outside the building, making even approach—forget entrance—impossible. The crowd ringed the entire front of the hotel, jutted out into the street, and snaked across it, where I now stood. Almost everyone in it was female and below the age of consent.
    “Jorge!” they screamed. “Jorge!”
    Flash cameras held above their heads went off. Festive Spanish rock and roll blared from their boom boxes. Police rode by on horseback or passed by on foot, made cursory attempts at control, then confessed defeat, and fled.
    “Jorge! Jorge!”
    Jorge was obviously the biggest movie heartthrob in Spain. Amazed at my own provincialism, I had no idea who he was. But why did he have to be staying at the Castilla? I checked my watch: five of three.
    With a deep breath, I stepped off the curb and waded into the jumping and squealing mob. It was worse than a thousand New York City subway rush hours.
    “Excuse me, excuse me.”
    Elbows were stuck into my ribs and belly. High-heeled shoes stabbed my shins and stomped my feet. Screams like car alarms drilled into my ears.
    “Excuse me, excuse me.”
    “Jorge!”
    As if inventing a new dance step, I wiggled free of one crush, then was flung forward, crushed again, and wiggled free. Finally, I saw the great golden letters of CASTILLA loom before me like the gates of heaven.
    “Excuse me.”
    “Jorge!”
    At the door, hotel security had somehow kept the horde behind a single red rope. Only one huge bouncer stood there, bulging from his three-piece suit, a walkie-talkie pressed upon his ear. Spain was a simpler place than America, I thought. I flew free of the crowd’s last grip.
    “Erendira!” I screamed.
    “Qúe?”
the big man asked.
    “Erendira! I’m here to see Erendira!”
    This was not a name that anyone else was screaming. Recognition flashed in his small, squinty eyes. He unclicked the rope where I