An Audience
AN AUDIENCE
And the king said to the maiden fair, “You truly are a loyal servant.”
—KING ARTHUR
October–November 1984
Without revealing what she knew or how she knew or even that she knew, Beanie Rosen reported to work every day, did her job, waited, and watched. But inside, she boiled. Mike Barron hadn’t just blocked her promotion, he had told the committee—and, she suspected, others—that she wasn’t good, that she wasn’t Sylvan Light material.
That’s what she’d found out after she’d collected herself and gone into Jamie’s office, closing the door, and apologizing not only for her outburst, but for the accusation. She’d assumed it was Jamie who’d blackballed her because Jamie had hired her initially and then let her go without a fight, without apology or explanation.
Jamie had been surprised by Beanie’s reasoning. Nancy had assured Jamie that Beanie was not only fine but had been scooped up by Mike Barron. “I thought it was a win-win,” Jamie had said, “and it never dawned on me to question it.” Jamie apologized, but Beanie waved it off.
“Ancient history,” she told her.
“I was as surprised that Nancy stayed as you were,” Jamie continued, adding that it was actually Harvey Khan’s secretary, Mercedes Baxter, who had convinced Nancy to give the agency a try.
Beanie drew in a breath as Jamie explained that Mercedes had pursued Nancy, taking her to lunch, drinks. “I think they even went to a screening together,” she told her. “Mercedes really took a personal interest in Nancy and worked hard to convince her to stay.”
Beanie’s stomach fell, but her face never registered a change. She simply nodded, working the tumblers in her head. Mercedes Baxter was like a virus in a host’s body. Once she got in, she took over. She had been the reason Beanie wasn’t working for Jamie. It made sense. Mercedes didn’t need anyone to remind her (or Khan) where she’d come from, or what she’d had to do to get there. But Beanie knew. And Mercedes knew that Beanie knew.
“We wanted to promote you,” Jamie continued, “but Mike worked overtime to convince us that…” Then she stopped. “It doesn’t matter,” she said.
But it did to Beanie. She needed to know exactly what was said about her so she could understand exactly what she was up against. “It’s not ego,” she told Jamie, “it’s survival.”
Jamie looked at her hard and nodded. “Okay,” she said. “He said you lacked the finesse, sophistication, and smarts to ever be an agent, much less a trainee, and that you were barely holding your own as a secretary.” Beanie’s eyes filled involuntarily. “I’m sorry,” Jamie said, regretting the disclosure.
“No, I needed to hear it,” Beanie insisted. “And I’m grateful. Is that all?”
Jamie shook her head. “He also said that you’d made unflattering comments about me and my ability to lead the department.” Beanie nodded.
“He wanted you to hate me,” Beanie told her.
“That’s impossible,” Jamie said. “I couldn’t admire you more.”
That night, Ella, after hearing the ugly truth, assembled the troops. It didn’t matter that it was almost nine, she told Barry to leave his dinner, and Moze to leave the office. She even recruited Garry Sampson. It was all hands on deck as once again, Beanie Rosen was out of moves.
“I could see if I could get you into ICM,” Barry offered. Apparently, they’d been courting him.
“You wouldn’t leave Light?” Moze asked, upset in a way that should have alarmed everyone, if anyone was paying attention.
“Excuse me, but can we all fucking focus here,” Ella said, referring to their friend who was sitting on the couch, distraught and lost. “We’ll figure this out, babe,” she said, walking over.
But Beanie shook her head. She had two powerful enemies. “It’s not just Mike,” she said. “It’s Mercedes.”
“Who?” asked Moze.
“Mercedes Baxter,” Ella told him, “Harvey Khan’s secretary. We all lived together for like five minutes.”
Moze seemed surprised. “She’s always nice to me,” he said.
“She’s always nice until she doesn’t need you,” Beanie told him. “Who knows what she would say to Harvey Khan if push came to shove? No one can overrule the president of the Sylvan Light Agency,” Beanie said sadly, the reality of her conundrum sinking in.
“Sam Lesser can,” came a voice from the kitchen doorway.
It was Garry Sampson, who had been standing apart from the rest of the group, quietly listening. “Khan yields to Lesser,” he told them. “So, if you could pull another Cage out of your bag of tricks, bring someone directly to Sam Lesser, not to Mike Barron, Lesser would recognize how good you are,” Garry explained.
“How’s she supposed to do that?” Ella asked, worried that her friend would be frustrated.
But Beanie was anything but. “What if it is Cage?” she asked, an idea forming. “Would Sam Lesser still want to represent him?”
Garry’s eyes narrowed. “In a heartbeat,” he told her. “It was Barron he didn’t want to work with,” Garry confessed, explaining that Sam tried to keep his distance from the agent. That made sense to Beanie. Mike Barron had long suspected that Sam didn’t like him and blamed his colleagues for poisoning the well. It never occurred to him that he was the reason.
“Okay,” she said, pacing, putting the pieces together. She knew that Nicolas had been enamored with Sam, his reputation, his legacy, and had been genuinely excited to meet him. “I’m gonna call him,” she decided.
“Who?” Ella asked.
“Nicolas,” Beanie said, reaching for her Filofax.
Ella stood with her mouth agape, watching her friend take charge. Beanie knew it was a long shot, but it was also the only shot. And hell, if it worked, if Lesser signed Cage, or maybe even if he didn’t, even if they just had lunch, surely Lesser would see how valuable Beanie was without prejudice from Mike Barron or interference from Mercedes Baxter. Garry was right: the world yielded to Samuel Lesser.
Everyone stood silently as she reached for the half-moon pale blue phone. Punching in the numbers for Nicolas Cage, she listened as the phone rang through. Sometimes he answered, but often in the past when she’d called, she got the service, as she did that night.
Unruffled, she left her name, home number, and a message saying that Sam Lesser had asked that she set a meeting strictly between the two of them. It was ballsy and brilliant. Barry looked to Ella, who looked to Garry, who looked to Moze. They were impressed. Not only was she smart and resourceful, but she was also fearless.
Twenty-five minutes later, Nicolas Cage returned the call. Beanie answered, listened, thanked him, and hung up.
“He’s in,” she said, smiling, exhilarated.
Ella screamed, Barry high-fived, but Garry stood very still, watching.
“If this girl doesn’t become an agent, then it’s our loss,” he said, turning to Moze and instructing him to schedule a meeting for him and Sam the next morning. Garry knew that his name was one of the few Moze could pencil in without checking. The plan was to tell Sam that Mike Barron’s secretary, Beanie Rosen, who should be an agent, had been doggedly nurturing the relationship with Cage, and knowing that Cage wasn’t feeling Barron, had approached Garry to see if Sam might do a private sit-down.
“I just want to prepare you,” Garry told her. “Mike Barron’s going to freak.”
Ella and Barry clocked Beanie for her response.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she said, grinning, invigorated, and empowered.
Ella clapped. “Okay, then, let’s do it!”
Beanie nodded, feeling the enormity of what was about to happen. And for the first time that day, she felt something else. Hope.
The following Monday, Samuel Lesser met Nicolas Cage for lunch at Hernando’s Hideaway at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.
After that lunch, Mike Barron’s phone rang. Beanie picked up. “Mr. Lesser would like an audience,” Anita Lejos, his long-time secretary, said to Beanie, and then added, “with you.”
Beanie’s heart was pounding as she stood up.
“What did Lesser’s office want?” Mike asked, coming out of his office. He’d seen the readout on the incoming line. Lesser never called for him.
“Wrong number,” she said.
He looked at her suspiciously. “Where are you going?”
“Bathroom,” she told him, and walked away too fast for him to say anything else. Beanie chose the stairs rather than the elevator, taking the long way around so she wouldn’t pass Mercedes Baxter. She couldn’t risk Mercedes’s shenanigans, not now.
Everything downstairs was plush, quiet, and powerful. Even the phones, observing the solemnity of the floor on which they were located, rang in muted tones. People seemed to move in slow motion as Beanie approached Sam’s corner office.
Sam Lesser wasn’t just an agent. He was a legend. The giants of the industry all sought him out for guidance, friendship, and advice. He was discreet, compassionate, strategic, brilliant, and never raised his voice.
“True power,” he was quoted as saying, “means you never have to.” She and Moze had read a profile on him in New York Magazine. His face, on the cover, stared off into the distance, hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, showing both kindness and foresight. The writer who profiled him compared him to a mythic Western painting, much like the Remingtons that hung in his office. The article had alluded to the fact that Sam had been briefly married when he was in law school, glossing over his “assistant,” Johnny Merit, who lived with him on his sprawling estate in the Malibu hills. It was, Beanie decided, a well-manicured puff piece about a man at the top of his game.
But in between the puff lay smoke: thick, opaque, carefully curated by an army of individuals trained to protect the man while polishing the myth. And it was that army who now were on Beanie’s side, urging her forward. Garry, Moze, even Anita Lejos, Lesser’s longtime secretary, she believed, all wanted her to win. She walked past Anita, smiling, and then without revealing familiarity, glanced at Moze.
“They’re waiting,” he told her.
She nodded and went inside.
The office, rich in hues of forest green and wood, looked like something out of a Ralph Lauren showroom and smelled of Polo perfume. Sam Lesser, dressed casually in cowboy boots, Levi’s, and a suede blazer, stood up and walked around his large mahogany desk, greeting Beanie with hand extended.
“So, you’re the secret weapon,” he said.
“I prefer secret sauce,” she replied.
He smiled. His eyes were kind and warm. He asked her to sit as Garry Sampson told Beanie that Sam Lesser had signed Nicolas Cage.
Beanie’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She wanted to jump up, to scream, to hug Garry, to hug them both, but instead she said, “Good. That’s good. It’s good. Right?”
“It’s great,” said Garry, who described how amazing Beanie had been, how tenacious, how brilliant, and how she’d fought her way to be in that room.
Sam listened, nodded, and smiled. “I love an underdog story,” he said.
“Oh well, then, you’re going to love mine,” she told him, taking him through her journey from Central Files to Personnel to Jamie Garland to Mike Barron. Of course, she’d left out anything incriminating or scandalous, just the adventures of Beanie in Wonderland.
She won him over.
“So, what’s next for you, Beanie Rosen?” he asked.
She looked at Garry, who nodded, and taking a deep breath, told him flat out, “I want to be an agent at the Sylvan Light Agency more than anything in the world. But first, I need to be a trainee.”
“Let’s make her one,” Sam said, turning to Garry.
“Great,” said Garry, “I’ll let Jamie Garland know.” Garry turned to Beanie, thinking that she’d be thrilled or at least grateful, and while she was both, she was also pensive.
She’d been thinking about the Mike Barron problem and had come up with what she hoped was a solution. She looked at the two men, took a deep breath, and told them both that since it was unusual for a secretary to go into the training program, she was thinking, with Mr. Lesser’s approval, that she could become a departmental assistant, doing coverage for all the agents, filling in when they needed help on signings or servicing or supplementing. She didn’t want to take an available trainee desk away, and she wanted to differentiate, on those rare occasions when secretaries became trainees, that there was a place for them to go next.
“A departmental assistant,” Lesser said, letting the words and the idea settle. Then he smiled. He liked it. It would be an entirely new position that wouldn’t infiltrate the trainee program, but a landing pad for someone exceptional. “How about a departmental trainee?” he suggested, explaining that it would be an option for anyone outside of the program, so the two could coexist without conflict.
“Even better,” she said. She jumped up, wanting to hug him, and then, remembering her place, shook his hand vigorously.
On November 4, 1984, Beanie Rosen became a departmental trainee at the Sylvan Light Agency. It was the second time that she had invented a position out of thin air.
She spoke it. She saw it. She got it. Abracadabra.