The Hawkeye
THE HAWKEYE
Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder.
—E. B. WHITE
1983
Hawkeye was all bull and no shit, less a greeter and more an enforcer, and she’d been the face and staple of the Sylvan Light Agency since 1977 when the NAACP began questioning the hiring practices within the entertainment industry.
Before then, Sylvan Light would strategically place their African American employees on the first floor as evidence of their inclusion, most especially when their clients of the African American persuasion were dropping by. Yvonne Ash, for example, who worked in Payroll, could always be counted on to bounce from third to second to first floors whenever Belafonte, Poitier, Flip Wilson, or Bill Cosby were paying a visit, ensuring that their agency, to whom they’d shell out 10 percent of their income, was inclusive, open-minded, and diverse. It was a blanket practice used by many in the industry until the NAACP peeked underneath and began publishing articles citing the business as being “so white.” The Light board, concerned that their rotating support staff might be seen for the sham that it was, realized that the agency needed a facelift.
And that face could not be white.
Debbie Hawkins didn’t apply for the job of reception. She was recruited, hired, and celebrated with a worldwide memo welcoming her to the family. Negotiating a fee more suitable to a junior agent than receptionist, an expense account, and a car allowance, she became a stalwart and trusted employee who had power and influence with first-floor decisionmakers. All who entered or exited were assessed and filed under her careful hawk eye. Her instincts were impeccable, and her integrity beyond reproach. She knew who was getting fired, who was getting hired, which clients were thinking of leaving, and was even brought in to help save a few. The agents feared her. The clients loved her. It was whispered that Steve McQueen gifted her a pearl necklace one Christmas, and Brando a Bengal tiger. She returned the necklace, but the tiger, it was rumored, was kept at a reserve in San Clemente that Brando subsidized, and she visited via helicopter with the great man himself. Hawkeye collected friends, enemies, and information, and if you crossed her, you could never get your way back. But if you were a friend, she was the one person you’d go to for help, or advice, or inside information.
Beanie Rosen was a friend.
“You need to get out of Personnel,” she told Beanie at lunch.
Beanie had gone to Liu’s, the Chinese restaurant around the corner, and brought them back dumplings and duck sauce. They ate together on the bench across the street while one of the mailroom drones covered reception. “You stink of Burns,” said Hawkeye, expertly utilizing the chopsticks that Beanie found a waste of time.
Honest, smart, shrewd, and on the outside of a club that secretly resented them both, the two women found comfort and familiarity in their overlap. They’d formed a bond, if not a united front, but Beanie, unlike Hawkeye, was expendable—which was why she listened when Hawkeye told her she had a plan.
“You know who Jamie Garland is?” Hawkeye whispered, clocking the people going in and out of the building.
Beanie nodded. Of course she knew. Everyone knew. The biggest casting director in the industry, Jamie Garland was a legend. She had an eye, and everyone wanted her to cast it their way. If Jamie Garland believed in an actor, she’d find a way to make him a star. Brilliant, witty, devilishly flirtatious, and diminutive, there was no one bigger. Jamie, four foot nine, in heels, made up for in charm what she lacked in size, and her talent for discovering talent was legendary. Her ex-boss, David Mastro, an old-time casting director threatened by her eye, her wit, and her ambition, would often refer to her as “The Little No One” when directors like Peter Bogdanovich or William Friedkin requested that Jamie be assigned to their films. When Bogdanovich heard the reference, he was not only insulted, but offered to back Jamie in her own company which she pointedly named “The Little No Ones,” so she would never forget from whence she came, and Mastro would never forget what he’d lost.
The Little No Ones would dominate the film and television industry for the next decade, and Jamie would be heralded as the new Carl Sagan by Life magazine; discovering more stars in the universe than the renowned astronomer.
“She’s a legend,” Beanie said to Hawkeye, giving her the last dumpling from Liu’s.
“Okay,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect. “Only a handful of people know what I’m about to tell you.”
“I won’t say a word,” Beanie promised.
“Jamie Garland’s coming over to Sylvan Light to run the talent department.”
“WHAT?” Beanie said, her face like a Richter scale, registering the shock wave. This was huge. It wasn’t just that Jamie Garland had relationships with all the biggest stars, it was that she had discovered a lot of them. If she could bring some of them over…
“This is big,” Beanie said, listening as Hawkeye told her that they’d sealed the deal last Thursday after hours in Sam Lesser’s office and he’d had her order in champagne.
“She’s going to be head of the motion picture talent department,” Hawkeye told Beanie.
It was a game changer on many levels. First of all, Mike Barron, the boyishly handsome and charming bad-boy agent who some called “a narcissist in search of a lake,” had been lobbying to become head of the motion picture talent department despite the secretarial turnover on his desk and accompanying complaints. Barron had been a favorite of the boys on the first floor, and had it all locked up, or so he thought.
“Barron’s going to be pissed,” Beanie said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Hawkeye told her. “Garland’s a bigger get. And Beanie,” she said, leaning in. “She’s going to need a secretary.” She let that land a beat, then added that it should be someone who knows the ins and outs of the agency.
Beanie’s mouth went dry. Holy shit. Maybe she could work for Jamie Garland. “How do I do it?” she asked. “How do I get her to hire me?”
Hawkeye, standing in her Balenciaga heels, which made her well over six foot, straightened her skirt. “Babe,” she told her, “all I can do is lead you to water. You’ve got five days before anyone else drinks.”
Beanie had a new wave, and its name was Jamie Garland.