"I'm not upset, I'm pissed off," Amanda said, whispering the words pissed off like she was worried about being punished. I wondered again how she ever managed to become an agent. "I know who talked to The Biz. I know who that unnamed source is. It's that bitch Tea." She stumbled over bitch, and then she gave me a bitter smile. "You know, I just got her a part in that new Chevy Chase film, too. A good part. Guess it doesn't matter."

"I'm sorry, Amanda," I said. "I shouldn't have unleashed Tea on you unawares. I should have let you know she's a high riding bitch. It's my fault."

"No, it's all right," Amanda said. "It's okay. Because I know something Tea doesn't know."

"What's that?"

"That she got a part in a Chevy Chase movie."

"Amanda," I said, genuinely surprised. "You star. And here I was beginning to worry about you."

Amanda smiled like a five year old who had gotten her first taste of being naughty and realized it was something she would enjoy doing. A lot.

Amanda ended up getting the best of it; the worst of her problems were over with Tea right then. My problems with my clients had just begun. For the next week, I was in Agent Hell.

"Mind the light," Barbara Creek said.

The light she was referring to was a huge klieg light, which lay on the set of her son's sitcom, Workin' Out! The light casing was heavily dented and the lens was shattered and strewn like jagged jewels across the floor, nestled up to the weights and exercise equipment that made up the health club locale set .

"I'm guessing that light's not supposed to be on the set," I said.

"Of course it's not," Barbara said, and then raised her voice so everyone on the set could hear her. "It's on the set because some damned fool UNION light hanger doesn't know how to do HIS DAMN JOB! And he wouldn't HAVE a JOB unless HIS DAMN JOB was protected by his DAMN UNION!" Barbara's voice, a commanding boom in normal conversation, reverberated through the set like the aftershock of a particularly nasty quake. From the corners and the rafters, members of the crew glared down at her. Something was telling me this was not going to be a frictionless set.

"Shouldn't someone come and pick this up?" I asked.

"Hell, no," Barbara said. "It's staying where it is until the Union president gets here. I want him to see what sort of job his IDIOT UNION BROOM PUSHERS" — once again Barbara pitched her voice to the cheap seats — "have been doing around here. No one here is going to do a DAMN THING until he gets here."

That much was true. There were forty people on the set, mostly crew, ambling around aimlessly. The cast seemed to be missing, with the exception of Chuck White, who played Rashaad Creek's best friend on the show. Chuck was working out on one of the set decorations.

"How long have you been waiting?" I asked.

"Six long, unproductive hours," Barbara said. "And I'm going to keep waiting, and everyone here is going to keep waiting, until the Union president gets here. Anyone who leaves before he gets here is fired, UNION OR NOT."

Directly behind Barbara, one of the cameramen gave her the finger.

"But I didn't ask you here to talk about the lights, Tom," Barbara said, strolling over to the audience seats. "I want to talk to you about the future of Rashaad's representation."

I followed Barbara. "Has there been a problem, Barbara?" I asked.

Barbara took a seat on a bleacher. "Not as such, Tom — here, sit down a minute," she patted the seat next to her, "but I have to tell you, I'm hearing some very disturbing things."

I took a seat. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that article in The Biz," I said.

"It might," Barbara said. "You know, that reporter Van Doren gave Rashaad and me a call. Asked us if we've been noticing if you've been acting strangely lately. And then he told us that you had dropped so many of your clients. As you might imagine, we found this very disturbing. I found it very disturbing."

"Barbara," I said, "you really have nothing to worry about. Yes, I transitioned a number of my less-important clients, but I certainly have no intention of doing that with Rashaad. He's on his way up, and I intend to keep him going there."

"Tom," Barbara said, "are you on drugs?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you on drugs," she repeated. "That reporter mentioned something about a health spa and sulfur treatments. To my ear, that sounds like detox. You know how I feel about those drugs. I won't have them anywhere near my boy. You know I had everyone here on the set take a urine test before they could work here. If they had the slightest hint of anything in their system, they're gone."

After Workin' Out! was greenlighted, Rashaad threw a little party for himself and 30 of his most geographically immediate friends at the Four Seasons hotel in Beverly Hills. One of Rashaad's "pals" arrived with more cocaine than was in the final scene of Scarface. But then, Rashaad wasn't the one having to pee in a cup.

"I'm clean, Barbara," I said. "The last time I smoked anything illegal was my junior year in college. You don't have to worry about it."

"Then what is wrong, Tom? I —" she stopped as someone approached us. It was the assistant producer of the show. "What do you want, Jay?" she asked.

"Barbara, we really have to get a move on. Another forty-five minutes and we have to start paying overtime. And we still haven't shot half of the episode. We're going to be here all night if we don't start now."

"Then we'll be here all night," she said. "Nothing's happening until that damned Union man gets his lazy ass over from Burbank."

"Barbara, we have to get this show in the can. We're already two days behind schedule."

"I don't give a damn about the schedule," Barbara said, building up a head of steam. "What I give a DAMN about is that my son's show is being held hostage by MORONS WHO CAN'T SCREW IN A LIGHT BULB. And if these boys think they're getting overtime, they are seriously mistaken, Jay. It's their fault we had to stop. If anything, at this point, they ought to pay me."

Jay the assistant producer threw up his hands. "You're the boss, Barbara."

"That's RIGHT," Barbara said, looking around. "I AM the BOSS. You'd all do VERY VERY WELL to remember who's signing your DAMN PAYCHECKS. Now leave me alone, Jay, I've got to talk business."

Jay split. Barbara turned back to me. "Do you see what I have to put up with around here? Now I know why Roseanne was so hard on her crew. You have to be. These folks are nothing but a bunch of lazy assed slackers. Do you know, that light almost killed me. Another two feet and it would have landed right on my head."

I strongly began to suspect it wasn't an accident.

"Now, enough about this," she said. "What's your problem, Tom? Something's up with you, and it has us worried. How can you be my son's agent if you're falling apart over there?"

"I'm not falling apart, Barbara," I said. "The Biz piece had nothing to it. Everything is fine. Really."

"Is it?" Barbara said. "I wonder. I've been thinking about where my son is at, and I truly wonder if this is where he should be at this juncture of his career."

"Well, hell, Barbara," I said, "He's got his own show on a national network. I say that's pretty good for a 23-year old."

"At 23, Eddie Murphy had made 48 Hours, Trading Places and Beverly Hills Cop," Barbara said. "and his show was on a real network."

"Not everyone can have Eddie Murphy's career," I said.

"See, this is what I'm worried about," Barbara said. "I think Rashaad can have Eddie's career. You think he can't."

"I didn't say that," I said. "But now that you mention it, I don't want Rashaad to have Eddie Murphy's career. It includes Harlem Nights and A Vampire in Brooklyn, too, you know."