L.A. Confidential. Джулия Кеннер
Lisa stifled a smile. As far as she knew, there were several million people in L.A.; she doubted Miller had been chatting with all of them.
“So, Greg tells me you’re the man for this job.” He motioned her toward a cushy chair as he slid behind his desk. “I understand you’ve got quite a range of experience.”
“That’s true,” she said, wondering how much her friend had told him. She’d known Greg for almost five years, ever since he’d had a bit part in a Drake Tyrell film that she’d associate produced. Flamboyant and opinionated, Greg had a wicked sense of humor that got her through some rough times during filming, and they’d spent hours eating bad food at the craft services table. By the time the shoot was over, they’d become fast friends and roommates.
Only Greg knew how scattershot her production experience had been. Certainly, she’d never told her family how bad times had become. From script supervisor to art director to property master, she’d held all sorts of jobs she’d never expected and didn’t want. Hardly what she’d anticipated five years ago when she’d followed Tyrell to New York with delusions of producing award-winning films. Still, the odd jobs paid the bills—at least until recently when work had seemed to dry up. Now, though, she couldn’t imagine which aspect of her background Greg thought was worthy of Miller’s attention.
Miller leaned back, his leather chair squeaking. “What did Greg tell you about the job?”
“He told me you’re producing a sequel to The Velvet Bed and that you’ve got some key positions to fill.” The erotic adventure, set in Manhattan’s hot spots, had been a surprise hit, solidifying Avenue F’s reputation as the most important independent film company in the business.
“Half right. I am doing the sequel.” He picked a stack of paper up off his desk and riffled the pages. “I want to start production in about nine months.”
“Oh.” Lisa tried to hide her confusion. “Greg thought you might have a position for me. If you’re still putting together your team, I’ve got several associate producer credits—”
“From when you were with Tyrell?”
“Well, yeah.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything, and she felt a familiar surge of anger rise to the surface. Never in a million years would she have guessed that simply being associated with Tyrell would have so sullied her reputation. But it was her own damn fault. She’d been a naive little girl from Idaho when she’d left Los Angeles with stars in her eyes, so sure that working for Tyrell would put her on the path to fame and fortune.
She’d thought he admired her talent, and by the time she was settled in Manhattan, she’d thought he genuinely cared for her. But Tyrell didn’t care for anyone but himself, and back then she’d just been too starry-eyed to see it. Now she had to live with the backlash from her foolishness, and it drove her nuts that her career was tainted because Tyrell had thrown his life down the toilet.
The whole thing had been a huge scandal. One of the major Hollywood studios had pumped a ton of money into one of Tyrell’s films—a picture everyone involved expected to be a blockbuster. About the time they were supposed to start production, Tyrell started snorting the budget up his nose—and then demanding more money from the studio. He shot some footage, but it was garbage, and eventually the studio shut the project down. Tyrell’s company filed bankruptcy, and Tyrell fled to London in disgrace.
In the film world it was a debacle of Heaven’s Gate proportions. And, unfortunately, Lisa had a producer credit. No real power, of course, since Tyrell never let go of control, but by the time she’d learned about Tyrell’s drug problem and realized he was sinking fast, she’d been stuck. And now her reputation was just as smeared as his.
Miller was still looking at her with that expression of distrust she knew well from so many job interviews. Tyrell had screwed her, and good.
She tried to tamp down her anger. “I’ve worked my tail off, and I’m good. After I left Tyrell, I produced and directed at Cornerstone.” Of course, her films had a shoestring budget, lots of car explosions, and went straight to video, but it was something. Goodness knows, that was what she’d told her mom every time she’d called. “After Cornerstone went under, I got a crew position on one of the late-night network talk shows. And for the last year, I’ve been working a variety of jobs in the industry.”
She didn’t mention that she’d been laid off from the network job due to budget cuts, that lately “variety” meant temping at video rental stores, and that she was now trying her damnedest to get some work lined up in Los Angeles so that she could move back to the coast and start over with her film career. “I’m perfectly qualified. No matter what—”
“Location scout.”
She blinked, trying to follow the conversation. Was he suggesting she work as his scout? Track down the various locations for his next film and get commitments from the property owners? Except for her thesis film and a music video a friend had produced and directed years ago, she’d never done any scouting. “I’m not sure I’m—”
“If I like your work, I’ll set you up as my line producer.”
She snapped her mouth shut, overlooking her irritation at the way he kept interrupting her. The line producer was in charge of the day-to-day operations once filming got under way. Not a bad job, but not her ambition. She wanted to be doing the big-picture stuff. Working with writers and directors. Pulling the project together and getting the financing off the ground. The nitty-grit stuff. The fun stuff.
Still, if he was willing to bargain, maybe she could wrangle a job that would put her back on the map. “I’m not interested in line producer,” she said slowly, knowing her gamble was risky.
He peered at her, the flesh on his forehead creasing. “I’m not sure we’re communicating here. You won’t be my anything unless you’re my scout. And even then, only if you do the quality job I need.”
She shook her head, unable to figure out why he’d be so gung-ho on having her scout his locations. “Why me?”
Miller shrugged. “Greg assured me you’re the one I need. He’s a good actor, a good friend, and I trust the kid.”
“But…I….” She sat up straighter, trying to regroup. What on earth was Greg thinking?
“He tells me you lived in L.A. Know it like the back of your hand.”
“Los Angeles?” He wasn’t making sense. “I haven’t lived in Los Angeles in years.” Sad, but true. And Greg knew it. She was missing something, but she didn’t know what.
The look of anticipation on his face faded, only to be replaced with a cold, wary expression, as if now he couldn’t quite figure out what she was doing there. Too late, Lisa realized her mistake. The Velvet Bed had been set in Manhattan’s hot spots, combining the fictional erotic journey of the lead characters with the real Manhattan landscape. The combination of the real and the fictitious had sparked nationwide interest and certainly contributed to the film’s unexpected success. Miller hadn’t said so out loud, but Lisa would bet money that the sequel would follow the same formula—only this time in L.A.
Which meant she’d just blown her chance at getting the job Greg had so carefully lined up for her. Damn.
“I’m going to set the sequel in either San Francisco or Los Angeles, depending on where I can lock in the more interesting locations. Of course, my preference is Los Angeles, and Greg seemed to think you could help with L.A. But if you don’t know the city—”
“Oh, I know it. I lived there for years.”
He looked dubious. “I need someone who knows it today.”
“I know Los Angeles,” she repeated. “I go back all the time.” That was a flat-out lie, and she hoped he didn’t call her on it. She appeased her guilt simply because she knew that if she got the job she wouldn’t rest until she really did know everything there was