“How do you do?” Stone asked. He remembered that Vance had said that Sturmack was one of the most powerful men in L.A.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Stone,” Sturmack said. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from Vance and Lou.” He was a tall man in his mid-sixties, slim, dressed in beautifully cut but conservative clothes. He turned to an elegant blonde woman next to him who was a good twenty years younger. “This is my wife, Barbara. Barbara, this is Stone Barrington.”
“Oh, hello,” she nearly gushed. “You’re Vance’s and Arrington’s friend from New York. I read about your Caribbean case in the papers. I’m so sorry about the way it turned out.”
“Thank you,” Stone replied, “I’m glad to meet you, Barbara.”
Louis Regenstein joined the group. “Everyone’s talking about your test this afternoon, Stone,” he said.
“Oh,” Stone said, uncomfortable. Why the hell was everyone talking about it? A waiter took Stone’s order for a drink, and everyone chatted amiably for a few minutes. Stone wanted very much to get Vance alone for a moment to ask him why he wanted him in his picture, but his host was busy with his guests. Someone gently took hold of Stone’s elbow and turned him a hundred and eighty degrees. He was faced with a deeply suntanned man of forty who took his hand, squeezed it, and began shaking it, slowly, as he talked.
“Stone, I’m Fred Swims of the SBC Agency. You need an agent, and I’d like very much to be the man.”
“An agent?” Stone asked, nonplussed.
“I saw your test, and I understand why everyone is so excited about it. It’s the best test, bar none, I’ve ever seen.”
“Excuse me, but I’m baffled. It’s only been what, four hour
s, since we did that thing.”
“Good news travels fast in this town,” Swims said. “Let me tell you a little about us: we’re made up of a group of younger agents who left CAA and ICM to form our own shop, and we’ve got a very hot list of clients. I’d like very much to make you one of them.”
“Mr. Swims…”
“Fred.”
“Fred, I’m not an actor, really I’m not. I’m a lawyer, and I don’t even live out here.”
“You will soon, Stone, trust me. Can I ask—I hope I’m not prying—what is your real name, the one you were born with?”
“The one I’m still using.”
“Are you serious? That’s amazing! I couldn’t have come up with a better one myself, and I’m very good at bankable names. You know what Vance’s name was, don’t you?”
“No.”
“Herbert Willis.” He held up three fingers, Boy Scout-style. “I swear to God.”
“That’s fascinating,” Stone said, trying not to offend the man.
Swims stopped shaking his hand, took him by the arm, and steered him a few feet away from anyone else. “I’ve got to tell you what a test like this and a role like this can mean. We’re talking the biggest bucks here, and I’m not kidding.”
Stone laughed. “Lou Regenstein tells me I’m too old to be a star.”
“God forbid I should contradict Lou, but the mature leading man is in right now—look at Harrison Ford—Christ, look at Clint Eastwood! The man is in his late sixties! And you’re what, thirty-eight?”
“I’m forty-two.”
Swims leaned forward and spoke conspiratorially. “Promise me that number will never pass your lips until you’re fifty,” he said. “That number will be between you and me; you’re thirty…well, in your late…in your early late thirties.”
“I promise,” Stone said gravely.
Swims slipped a card into Stone’s jacket pocket. “I want you to call me tomorrow morning, early, and we’ll do lunch and talk about what the future holds for you. Believe me, it’s very bright, but I don’t want to impose on my host’s good nature by talking business in his house.” He gave a Boy Scout salute and wandered off in pursuit of a waiter.
Stone was finally able to find Betty Southard, who was still talking with the only other unaccompanied woman in the room.
“Hello,” Betty said warmly. “Stone, this is Arlene Michaels of the Hollywood Reporter.”