Free Getting Up With Fleas (Trace 7) by Warren Murphy Page B

Let’s hear it for Hollywood’s greatest writer. Arden Harden,” Scott called again. He clapped. Biff Birnbaum chipped in with some desultory clapping and Sheila started as soon as she saw Birnbaum applaud.
    Scott tried to ignore the asparagus in the room.
    “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve said what I wanted to say. I’ve invited us all here this weekend so we could get to know one another, to have some fun, to become one big family, before the rest of the crew arrives on Monday. Let’s have fun and let’s make a great movie.”
    Biff Birnbaum clapped wildly, jumping to his feet for a one-man standing ovation. Roddy Quine next to him looked confused.
    The asparagus wheeled around, grabbed his rubberized waistband, lowered his asparagus trousers, bent over, and mooned Jack Scott.
    “Mark my words,” he intoned. “This movie will be a tragedy.”
    McCue was right; he was very short.
    Tony McCue was still standing there, next to Harden. “You’d better believe it, folks,” he called out. “That’s right from the asparagus’s mouth.”
    Harden shuffled down the length of the room, pulled open the sliding doors, and moved through like a fast-growing ground cover. At the same moment, Clyde Snapp, the caretaker, came into the room wheeling a large silver food cart that I suspect contained desserts. If Snapp thought there was anything unusual about meeting an asparagus in his hallway, his face didn’t register it.
    “Dinner’s buffet tonight, folks,” Birnbaum said. “And let’s not run out after dinner. Let’s stay around and talk about our movie, Corridors of Death .”
    The asparagus stuck his head in the doorway again. “It sucks,” he yelled.

10
     
    “So you’re Tracy. Good to meet you. I’m Biff Birnbaum.”
    “I know. We met at the bar before.”
    Birnbaum gave me a toothy grin. I wanted to ask him about his tightly curled hair. Did he have to put rollers in it at night when he went to bed? I wonder about things like that.
    He said, “Sorry. You know how it is. You meet so many people in so short a time.”
    I looked around the room at the seven or so people there, all of whom Birnbaum had met before, and I wondered who he might have confused me with.
    “Sure. I know how it is,” I said. “I have trouble’ remembering people’s names too, Riff.”
    “Biff. It’s Biff. Biff.” He was short but seemed to have large shoulders somewhere under the New York Mets jacket. He had taken the only free seat at our table, so Sheila, who had followed him over, had to bring a chair from another table so that she could sit with us.
    She had stringy hair, dark and dirty-looking, and wore no makeup. I don’t know if it would have done much good. Her features were ordinary, and the best she could hope for would be for someone to say she was nice-looking. Still, I suspected that in New York she would have tried. She would have worn makeup and done her best. But in Hollywood, she was surrounded by beauties, so’I guess she had just surrendered.
    “I’m Sheila Hallowitz,” she told me. She shook my hand firmly. “I’m the assistant producer.”
    Birnbaum had turned his back on me already and was talking to Tony McCue. “So, Tony, are you ready to make the best picture of your life?”
    “Don’t tell me we’re going to scrap this one and do a remake of Quo Vadis? ”
    “Very funny,” Birnbaum said, but he was not amused. “I’m afraid we’re paying too much to change directions now. I just wanted to ask you to take it a little easy on Arden. He’s excitable. You know how screenwriters get.”
    McCue shook his head. “You’re sure not paying me enough to make me be nice to Hard-on. The man’s an imbecile. He needs help. Talk to Ramona. He needs a shrink. Or a gardener. That’s it, Barf. I’ve got it. Get him to wear his asparagus costume out into the yard and I’ll hire somebody to run over him with a lawn mower.”
    Birnbaum sighed. “We need him, Tony. There’s a lot of work to do