"Shit, Zibler, I told you damn well what would happen if I lost
Satine!"
Mr. Harold Zibler was sitting in his office watching a pacing Eivel Duke scream at him. Basically, Duke was threatening him with withdrawal of funds, lawsuits, and general wiping of the floor with his ass-age. Zibler took it all in stride. Sure, Duke was a rich bastard, but still . . . he was a lot of talk. And that was certainly what he was doing now.
"I understand your point, Mr. Duke, sir," he said rather sarcastically, "But the point is, it's not my fault that Satine left. There was no way I could have stopped her."
Duke stared at him a moment. If he wasn't mistaken, there was a look of amusement on the fat man's face. Speechless, Duke sputtered a few times, then turned on his heel and slammed Zibler's office door behind him.
Zibler let out a sigh and wiped his face with his hands. He stared at the phone a moment. One call would be all it would take. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Suddenly, the very phone he was staring at rang.
He jumped about six feet in the air, waited for it to ring again, then picked it up.
"Zibler," he grunted.
"Mister Zibwer?" came a lisping voice through the earpiece.
"Toulouse?" asked Zibler, knowing quite well who it was, but taken aback.
"Yes."
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing, thir, I'm calling from a cab."
"Why the hell does that matter to me?"
"I'm calling from a cab going to Albany, thir."
Zibler nearly dropped the phone for two reasons. One, why was Toulouse taking a cab to Albany, and two, why was he going to Albany in the first place? He swallowed and asked slowly, "Toulouse, why are you going to Albany?" He knew full well why, but asked anyway.
"To thee Kwistian and Mith Thatine," said Toulouse.
"Shit," breathed Zibler. Here was his chance. If he could convince Toulouse to talk to Satine . . . But how could he do that? She had wanted out, she had gotten out, and now he was trying to drag her back in. She would never agree to anything. Even if he promised her a spot on Broadway, she'd spit in his face and run again. If he could even get her to Manhattan.
"Thir?" came Toulouse's voice.
"What?" barked Zibler, a little more harshly than he meant, having been dragged out of his thoughts.
"Ith there anything you would like me to tell Mith Thatine or Kwistian?"
Zibler thought for a moment. Why was he having second thoughts? He was a ruthless producer, for Christ's sake. He had given people hell for a living for nearly thirty years, and here he was, considering an actress's feelings. What had happened to him?
"Yes," he said finally, a grim sneer coming across his face, "Tell them I'm ill, and I'd like to see Satine."
"But thir," said Toulouse, "You'w not thick."
"Toulouse, do you like your job?"
"Yes."
"Would you like to keep it?"
"Yes."
"Then tell Christian and Satine I'm sick and need to see them."
"But thir . . ."
"Tell them or you're fired, dammit!"
"Yes, thir."
Zibler slammed the phone down. Shit, he thought, what have I done?
Christian rolled over in bed to watch his sleeping darling. Her red hair was across her face as she laid on her side, breathing in and out, slowly. He glanced at the clock. It was seven in the morning. Time for work.
He didn't really mind his publishing job. It was a break from trying to write for a living. It had been a thrill to see the first copy of the first book ever published with his name in it. Burdsbury Publishing - Christian Londen. His business cards read the same thing.
He showered and dressed in a gray suit with a gray checkerboard tie. He put on white socks and his black, newly-shined shoes, and padded across the floor, quietly. He ducked inside the nursery, checking on his sleeping babies, then went into the living room. He grabbed his briefcase, put on his hat, and left.
Deciding to take the Z3, and leave Adrienne the Jetta for errands, he climbed inside, and began to make his way down the winding country road. It was a forty-five minute commute to his office, and he enjoyed driving the scenic route.
Suddenly, he passed a yellow cab, bearing a rather familiar looking black-haired midget. Christian stared at him a moment before the recognition registered.
Holy shit, he thought, nearly swerving off the road. He slammed on his breaks and pulled out his cell phone. His office was on speed dial.
"Yeah, Mr. Krudwick? I'm not going to make it in to work today. Something unexpected just came up."
A/N: Sorry it's so short. I just wanted to get another chapter of this DONE. Okay, time to go edit the ol' profile. Again. Please review!
~*~Evie~*~
Mr. Harold Zibler was sitting in his office watching a pacing Eivel Duke scream at him. Basically, Duke was threatening him with withdrawal of funds, lawsuits, and general wiping of the floor with his ass-age. Zibler took it all in stride. Sure, Duke was a rich bastard, but still . . . he was a lot of talk. And that was certainly what he was doing now.
"I understand your point, Mr. Duke, sir," he said rather sarcastically, "But the point is, it's not my fault that Satine left. There was no way I could have stopped her."
Duke stared at him a moment. If he wasn't mistaken, there was a look of amusement on the fat man's face. Speechless, Duke sputtered a few times, then turned on his heel and slammed Zibler's office door behind him.
Zibler let out a sigh and wiped his face with his hands. He stared at the phone a moment. One call would be all it would take. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Suddenly, the very phone he was staring at rang.
He jumped about six feet in the air, waited for it to ring again, then picked it up.
"Zibler," he grunted.
"Mister Zibwer?" came a lisping voice through the earpiece.
"Toulouse?" asked Zibler, knowing quite well who it was, but taken aback.
"Yes."
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing, thir, I'm calling from a cab."
"Why the hell does that matter to me?"
"I'm calling from a cab going to Albany, thir."
Zibler nearly dropped the phone for two reasons. One, why was Toulouse taking a cab to Albany, and two, why was he going to Albany in the first place? He swallowed and asked slowly, "Toulouse, why are you going to Albany?" He knew full well why, but asked anyway.
"To thee Kwistian and Mith Thatine," said Toulouse.
"Shit," breathed Zibler. Here was his chance. If he could convince Toulouse to talk to Satine . . . But how could he do that? She had wanted out, she had gotten out, and now he was trying to drag her back in. She would never agree to anything. Even if he promised her a spot on Broadway, she'd spit in his face and run again. If he could even get her to Manhattan.
"Thir?" came Toulouse's voice.
"What?" barked Zibler, a little more harshly than he meant, having been dragged out of his thoughts.
"Ith there anything you would like me to tell Mith Thatine or Kwistian?"
Zibler thought for a moment. Why was he having second thoughts? He was a ruthless producer, for Christ's sake. He had given people hell for a living for nearly thirty years, and here he was, considering an actress's feelings. What had happened to him?
"Yes," he said finally, a grim sneer coming across his face, "Tell them I'm ill, and I'd like to see Satine."
"But thir," said Toulouse, "You'w not thick."
"Toulouse, do you like your job?"
"Yes."
"Would you like to keep it?"
"Yes."
"Then tell Christian and Satine I'm sick and need to see them."
"But thir . . ."
"Tell them or you're fired, dammit!"
"Yes, thir."
Zibler slammed the phone down. Shit, he thought, what have I done?
Christian rolled over in bed to watch his sleeping darling. Her red hair was across her face as she laid on her side, breathing in and out, slowly. He glanced at the clock. It was seven in the morning. Time for work.
He didn't really mind his publishing job. It was a break from trying to write for a living. It had been a thrill to see the first copy of the first book ever published with his name in it. Burdsbury Publishing - Christian Londen. His business cards read the same thing.
He showered and dressed in a gray suit with a gray checkerboard tie. He put on white socks and his black, newly-shined shoes, and padded across the floor, quietly. He ducked inside the nursery, checking on his sleeping babies, then went into the living room. He grabbed his briefcase, put on his hat, and left.
Deciding to take the Z3, and leave Adrienne the Jetta for errands, he climbed inside, and began to make his way down the winding country road. It was a forty-five minute commute to his office, and he enjoyed driving the scenic route.
Suddenly, he passed a yellow cab, bearing a rather familiar looking black-haired midget. Christian stared at him a moment before the recognition registered.
Holy shit, he thought, nearly swerving off the road. He slammed on his breaks and pulled out his cell phone. His office was on speed dial.
"Yeah, Mr. Krudwick? I'm not going to make it in to work today. Something unexpected just came up."
A/N: Sorry it's so short. I just wanted to get another chapter of this DONE. Okay, time to go edit the ol' profile. Again. Please review!
~*~Evie~*~