Graham went up to the desk.
“Joseph Graham and Neal Carey to see Anne Kelley.”
The receptionist looked like she belonged in a suntan oil commercial but was remarkably cheerful about sitting behind her desk. She checked her log book.
“Right, you’re her eleven. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
She got on the phone. Never releasing the dazzling smile she had fixed on Graham, she said, “Jim, Anne’s eleven is here.”
“Please have a seat. Someone will be here in just a moment,” she said to Graham. Graham sat down across from Neal, who already had plopped himself down on the sofa and was looking over a copy of Film Weekly.
“Joseph?”
“Shut up.”
“Yes, Joseph.”
A tall, thin young man came hustling down the corridor into the reception room. Open white shirt, jeans, immaculate tennis shoes. California blond hair, big smile.
“I’m Jim Collier, Anne’s assistant.”
He offered his hand to Graham, blinking for only a second at the sight of his artificial arm.
“I’m Joe Graham, this is Neal Carey.”
“Neal, hi, welcome. Come on down the hall. Anne is ready for you.”
Terrific, Neal thought. But am I ready for her?
They walked down to the end of the narrow hallway and into a room labeled simply kelley.
Anne Kelley sat behind a big desk that was stacked high with scripts and books. The office floor was likewise covered with piles of papers, books, magazines, and film reels. The ubiquitous coffee table was covered with papers, as were the chairs and the sofa. Ashtrays seemed to be everywhere, and they were all overflowing. Neal wasn’t at all sure that a good search of this room would not turn up the missing Cody McCall.