Free Claire Voyant by Saralee Rosenberg

get their heads chopped off…the artist Miro, even Rita Moreno. Oh, and Fidel Castro.”
    â€œNo way. Castro is a Jew, too?”
    â€œThey think on his mother’s side…. Anyway, back in the late forties, the de Miros left Lisbon for Buenos Aires, then Raphael’s father and uncles got into deep shit with Eva Peron—”
    â€œOooh. I remember her. The one with the shoe fetish.”
    â€œSorry. Incorrecto.” Pablo made an annoying buzzer sound. “That was Imelda Marcos.”
    â€œRight. Of course. The heiress to Neiman Marcos.”
    He blinked. “You are joking, right?”
    â€œAbsolutely.” Not. “Just having a little fun…trying to collect myself. I’m actually not feeling that great. I think I’m going to puke.”
    â€œOh no. No puking. No, no, no. We have a strict policy now. No more two-finger girls—”
    â€œWould you stop? I’m not bulimic. I’m in shock. I’m sad.” I feel like flypaper for freaks.
    â€œWell, of course you are.” He hugged me. “What was Pablo thinking? Let me make you a Bloody Mary. Or how about—”
    â€œTelling me the truth. Will Raphael love my ass?”
    â€œOh dear.” He took a deep breath. “Well, it’s just my opinion. I mean, don’t get me wrong. You’re a knockout. Good posture. Excellent skin tone. But, like, where were you ten years ago?”
    â€œSo basically you’re telling me this is going to be a waste of time?”
    â€œWell, no. We do occasionally get requests for older—”
    â€œPablo!” a man’s voice bellowed from beyond.
    â€œComing, Raphael,” Pablo singsonged. “You know what? Let’s just go in there and do it.”
    â€œHow do I look?” I chewed at my pinky nail. “Got any last-minute advice?”
    â€œYou’re to die for.” He fluffed my hair. “But I do have an eensy-weensie suggestion.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYes. Our last office manager ran out of here Friday threatening to kill herself. Third girl in six months. Now, in case he offers you the job, don’t take a dime less than thirty.”
    â€œOh, don’t worry. I’m not a nine-to-fiver. In fact, lately I’ve been very busy with my film work.”
    â€œSo the reason you flew all the way down here was because…”
    â€œMy whole life I’ve dreamed of showing off my ass to millions of moviegoers?”
    â€œOh, pish tish, Claire. Your last screen credit was two years ago, it was that awful remake of Deliverance, and you didn’t even get an upgrade from a U5.”
    â€œFine. So I had under five lines. But the director said I was damn convincing as a townie…. Jeez! I can’t believe you checked me out.”
    â€œGod bless Google.” He winked. “The better to see you with, my dear.”
    I looked away. How embarrassing to be caught in a lie, although compared to the doozies I’d already told today, this was nothing. Still, I didn’t appreciate my in-the-Dumpster career being scrutinized by Pink Pablo over here. How qualified did I have to be to pull down my thong?
    â€œNever scrunch the forehead, darling. It invites Mr. Wrinkle…. Anyway, I knew Sharon Stone and Sandra Bullock back in their B-movie-queen years. They spent all day on their feet waiting tables, and Lord knows what they had to do on their backs…so it’s not like I don’t get the whole struggling-actress thing.”
    â€œYou know what, Pablo? I appreciate the pep talk. I do. But frankly, you know shit.”
    â€œI was merely trying to point out—”
    â€œThat what? That it’s okay to judge me because I’ve had a run of bad luck? Because I refuse to do porn, or cable films where the director yells, ‘Open wide,’ and he’s not talking about my mouth? Believe me, you wouldn’t be so quick to condemn if you knew what it was