To think, I nearly turned the offer down.
Joe was a high and mighty theatrical agent and therefore, by necessity, a first league bullshitter. We both went to the same expensive country club and both chased the same pretty waitresses. We were neither in the first flush of youth but, while I'd taken trouble to keep fit as I'd got older, Joe's once muscular stomach had subsided into a serious paunch.
I'd done him a favour a few months back. Once, when we'd got drunk, he'd confided that he was being blackmailed. He danced elephant-like around the subject and got very fuzzy on some details, so I had to read between the lines. Apparently, and despite the changing times, the casting couch was still alive and well. According to Joe, it always would be.
Long story short: he'd made an actress an offer, though I guess it was more like an ultimatum, but she'd been wired.
Now she was screwing him (metaphorically) the way he had wanted to screw her (non-metaphorically). With a wife and kids and a very successful business, Joe had it all to lose.
I own a big security company and had been round the block often enough to smell a rat. I guessed the actress in question had set up poor old Joe right from the start. That meant she'd probably done this before, or stuff like it.
I'd wired him up and got recordings of her blackmail threats.
My company has Triple A security clearance with such deep access to confidential data it would send liberals on the first charter flight to therapy if they found out. It didn't take long to establish the actress had even more to hide than Joe; she had a charge sheet as long as the Bible. If this came out Joe might lose his family, but she'd go to jail.
I'd had a quiet word with her and she'd vanished like the morning mist. I'd given Joe some counter-surveillance tools to make sure it never happened again.
Think of it as professional courtesy, one predatory male to another.
He'd been pathetically grateful and promised he'd make it up to me.
I'd forgotten all about this until he phoned me out of the blue.
"You're Hunter," he said.
"What?"
"Your name is Hunter. Appropriate name, right? You're a big money man who invests in films."
It wasn't my name and I wasn't a money man. "What are you on?" I asked wearily.
"Look, just come to my house tonight at eight. Call yourself Hunter and dress like a banker! I promise I'll give you a present you'll never forget."
So, that night, 'Mr. Hunter' pulled up at Joe's mansion just outside London. Joe let me in dressed in his own plain business suit. He may have been a theatrical agent but he lacked anything resembling a flamboyant taste.
"Where's the wife and kids?" I asked.
"Safely the fuck away."
"You going to give me a clue what this is all about?"
He put his arm round my shoulders and led me into his airfield-sized lounge. "Got an actress on my books. Most beautiful little thing you've ever seen. You're going to fuck her tonight."
"O...K..." I said uncertainly.
"But we're going to have to play a little game, a little make-believe."
He mixed us some drinks. "She's a nice kid but she's desperate. Comes from a poor but very big family. She's had to earn money to support them while she waits for her big break. You know, doing supermarket jobs, that sort of thing. Such a waste! And there's another problem. Christiane is a brilliant actress but she's only 5'2" which is too short for a leading lady."
"Really? What's wrong with being 5'2"?"
He shook his head at my naivete. "Actors are usually six-footers like us. They can't be seen looming over some little bitty girl. No, brilliant and beautiful though she is, it's been tough for her. But, she just went for a film audition and, despite the odds against her, I just heard today that she got it."
None of this was clearing up my confusion. He must have realised this.
"The movie company deals with the agent, the agent deals with the client. She doesn't know she's got it but she knows this is probably the only chance she'll get! So, I've told her she's nearly there, but it's just the money man who needs convincing, who needs something to sweeten the deal. That's you, by the way. That ignorance won't last long. Sooner or later she'll hear the part is hers, which is why we have to get this done now so she'll think it's her sacrifice that's swung it. It's a small window of opportunity."
"Suppose her career takes off. Aren't you afraid of losing her as a client?"
He laughed like I was an idiot. "I've nailed her into a five-year contract. I'll be retired to the South of France in five years time."
The doorbell rang. He went to answer it but I grabbed his arm. "Counter-surveillance...?"
"Sorted! Told her not to bring her phone and your scanner is up and running." He gave me a big smirk. "I've told her to do something else as well."
With that he headed off and I was left wondering what he'd meant.
I sat down on the sofa and composed myself like I was 'Hunter', 'the banker', whoever that was.
Any doubts I had about this seat-of-the-pants scheme went out the window when Christiane entered the room. She was breathtaking.
Slender, willowy, her blond hair was carefully styled in what I believe is called a 'pixie' look; carefully trimmed at the back and sides but swept forward in a curve across her forehead. With her pale blue eyes and high cheekbones, and the delicacy of her frame, she did indeed look like some sort of fairy-tale creature.
Her makeup was immaculate. With her pouting red lips and flawless complexion, she was a perfect little doll. She came towards me, hand outstretched.
I'd been with another actress once long ago. They're trained so that every movement, every gesture, every expression has been carefully rehearsed. They can move perfectly when they want to.
And that's what Christiane did, her toned legs giving her a lithe, confident stride. I guessed later that she'd steeled herself for what she had to do by pretending she was acting a part. Perhaps in her mind she was playing a high-class courtesan meeting a king.
She was wearing a white shirt and a knee length fawn skirt over cream stockings. The swell of her breasts was impressive given how petite she was. Heels gave her another couple of inches but I still towered over her.
Behind her, Joe gave me the all-clear sign. She wasn't wired.
It was just her and us.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hunter." She may be as good an actress as Joe claimed but, as she looked up at me, I could tell she was scared and I could feel her hand trembling in mine.
Perhaps I held her hand just a little too long for suddenly the polished, confident demeanor crumbled to dust and she pulled her hand out of mine and stepped back. No longer a sophisticated courtesan, she was suddenly just a frightened little girl.
She turned to look at Joe. "Oh God, I'm so sorry, Joe, but this is a terrible idea," she said. "This isn't the sort of thing I do."
Joe shook his head as though deeply saddened (for the record: Joe wasn't a good actor). "How could it be a bad idea? This part'll be the making of you. You'll never have to look back. You get the money and fame you deserve; you clear your debts and get to look after your family."
