"I've had my medication for today, Brad," I said. "Believe me, 14 million and 15 points is a perfectly sane figure, from my client's point of view."

"She's not worth anywhere near that much," Brad said. "A year ago she was paid $375,000, flat. I know. I wrote the check."

"A year ago, Summertime Blues hadn't hit the theaters, Brad. It's now $220 million dollars later. Not to mention your own Murdered Earth — $85 million for perhaps the worst film in recent history. And that's before foreign, where no one will notice that there's no plot. I'd say you got your one cheap taste. Now you've gotta pay."

"Murdered Earth wasn't that bad. And she wasn't the star."

"I quote Variety," I said, catching the ball left-handed for the briefest of seconds before hurling it back against the glass, "'Murdered Earth is the sort of film you hope never makes it to broadcast television, because nearby aliens might pick up its broadcast signal and use it as an excuse to annihilate us all.' That was one of the nicer comments. And if she wasn't the star, why did you plaster her all over the posters and give her second billing?"

"What are you all about?" Brad said. "I remember you practically doing me for that artwork and billing."

"So you're saying you'll do anything I say? Great! Fourteen million and 15% of the gross. Gee, that was easy."

The door opened. I turned away from the window to face my desk. Miranda Escalon, my administrative assistant, entered my office and slipped me a note. Michelle just called, it read. Remember that you have to get them to pay for her hairdresser and makeup artist, it read.