In his tiny office in an old building in the West Forties in Manhattan, Cleo’s about-to-be ex-agent, seventy-three-year-old Ronnie Flake, was cleaning out his files, throwing out headshots that he’d collected for more than forty years. He had no idea what happened to most of these wannabes, but held on to the photos in case any of them hit it big or became involved in a scandal. That had happened once years ago. He’d made big bucks by selling the picture of a young woman whose claim to fame ended up being the fact that she dated a married politician to the New York Post. Cleo Paradise’s headshot was in a place of honor on his desk. But lately she hadn’t returned his calls.

Ronnie ran his hands through his shoulder-length gray hair. I wanted her to do the stalker movie because it was a job, he thought angrily. A job is a job. How could I have predicted she’d be nominated for an Academy Award for that other silly little movie? My Super Super. Please. I never had a super super. I never had an okay super. That flick came out of nowhere and was a huge success! I shouldn’t have told Cleo the script was stupid. And I should never have told her I planned to retire. Talk about stupid! I open my big mouth about retirement the week before that dopey movie opens and breaks all box office records. Why, God? Why? Her contract with me runs out next week. She’ll probably sign with a big agent the next day. Life’s not fair. It’s just not fair!

Ronnie turned on the old fan in the corner of his dusty office. I made a decent living, he thought as he tossed photo after photo into a garbage bag. I got actors work. I made them happy. Then I finally come across someone like Cleo Paradise, someone who’s destined to be a star, and I blow it. But she had no gratitude! She was back in the New York area and didn’t want to see me at all. She could have at least invited me down to that house she rented in New Jersey for a hot dog and a swim.

Disgusted, Ronnie threw the trash bag across the room. He went around, sat at his desk, and leaned down to open the little refrigerator against the wall. The ringing of the phone delayed his first nip of the day. He spun around and grabbed the receiver.

“Flake Agency.”

“Dad?”

“Who else would it be?” Ronnie asked his forty-nine-year-old son, Horace.

“You don’t have to be nasty,” Horace answered. After trying out many professions, Horace now drove a livery cab.

“I’m not. I’m in a bad mood.”

“Well, I’ve got something to tell you that’s not going to make you very happy.”

“Can it wait?”

“I don’t think so.”