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Blue Moon 10.2

by Donna Lamb

They rode up in the big glass elevator together. Jo bubbled with excitement, smiling and even giggling a bit. Richard looked glum.

"I don't understand why you didn't want to come up with m-me," said Jo.

"This is your thing, Melody's thing. The only reason I'm coming along for is to watch out for you. Make sure no one tries to take advantage of you."

"Hey," said Jo. "I'm underage, I can't legally sign a contract unless a judge says so."

"Well, some kinds of contract. But neither of us is a lawyer, so we don't want to depend on that." He took back the suit jacket he had loaned Jo in the frigid depths of the parking garage. Putting it on, he smiled a bit on finding it warm and smelling faintly of Un Mille et Une Fleurs, Jo's perfume.

The bell bonged and the elevator doors opened on a small foyer with a set of large glass doors labeled, "Tom K. Harmon, Talent Associates." A short hallway led off the foyer lined with doors, presumably to other offices on the same floor.

Richard pushed open the big glass door for Jo then followed her in. She went immediately to the reception desk and announced herself. "M-melody Jo Thierry and my manager, Richard Alexander, to see M-mr. Harmon." Richard managed not to trip on his jaw when she said that.

The receptionist, a decorative California blonde, made nice and invited them to sit, "for just a few minutes," while Mr. Harmon finished with another client. Jo took a seat in the area opposite the reception desk that had been decorated like an upscale family room, complete with a big screen HDTV, a chess table and a coffee bar.

Richard stood in front of her, blocking the receptionist's view and speaking in a low voice. "Since when am I your manager?"

She grinned. "Since I hired you five seconds ago, manager-chauffeur-bodyguard. Pays, uh, five thousand more a year than you're m-making now."

He stared at her. "Jo!"

"Please?" she looked at him with her big green eyes pleading.

"Jo!" he protested. "Ah, Jo! I can't be your manager, no, no. That would mean I signed contracts for you, did the negotiations." Those eyes, that almost-trembling lip. "I can't do that, I'm just a gear-head, driver..."

"And songwriter, and drummer in our b-band," she put in.

He held a hand up. "Please, Jo. No. We.... Just, no."

She pouted.

God, if she were still Joel, I'd smack him, thought Richard. "Personal assistant," he said, yielding a little ground.

She beamed at him and he had to smile back. "Jo, you're dangerous."

Giggling, she reached for his hand. "Shake, but you know, you just cost yourself that extra f-five thousand a year."

He took her hand gently and shook. "We'll talk about that later. But managers get a salary plus a percentage." He grinned, showing his dimples.

She pulled on his arm. "Sit," she said. "How big a p-percentage? And how m-much do agents get?"

He sighed. "We should have talked this over before. Agents get ten or fifteen percent, usually fifteen, sometimes more; managers, it varies a lot, depending." He sat beside her, turning so she had to let go of his hand.

"See? You know this stuff. How do you know this?"

"Uh, dating models, starlets, singers, you know." He shrugged. "Listening to them gripe about agents, managers, directors, photographers, producers, clients. Their hairdressers, mothers, dentists..."

She looked thoughtful. "Who knew you listened to them?" she said.

He laughed.

The receptionist called them, "Mr. Harmon will see you now." She started around the desk toward an inner door.

Richard stood and offered his hand to Jo. She took it, squeezed it, and stood. They followed the receptionist through the door into the inner offices, both of them still tingling a bit from that last contact.