Looks to Die For by Janice Kaplan Page B

waited for her to go on, but the pause seemed interminable.
    “What’s strange?”
    “The girl didn’t have a single television credit, but she wrote ‘Professional Contact,’ with a phone number for Roy Evans.”
    “Who’s he? The love child of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans?”
    Molly laughed. “Prime-time correspondent on that network show Night Beat . He does puffy celebrity interviews and fawning chats with rock stars. Has no talent except toadying up to the stars.”
    “You don’t sound like a fan.”
    “Oh, I admire him. Brings obsequiousness to a new level.”
    “What’s the connection with Tasha Barlow?”
    “I have no idea,” Molly said briskly. “Let me call over to one of the producers at the network and find out. Can you hang on for a couple of minutes?”
    “Sure, but you’re busy. I feel guilty taking you away.”
    “Good. You keep feeling guilty and we’ll find out Dan isn’t.”
    She put me on hold, and it occurred to me that Molly still had the same go-for-broke style I’d admired when we were in college. Freshman year, I knew I wanted to major in art history, but I couldn’t afford a lot of visits to museums. For Christmas, Molly had her mom buy me a membership to the Cleveland Museum of Art. The first time we all went, I stood in front of a Fra Angelica painting from the 1420s that I’d only seen in books, breathless at how the picture glimmered with gold, the image of Christ seeming to radiate light. Then I dragged Molly and her mom over to a Robert Rauschenberg collage and explained how the visual puns bridged the gab between Abstract Expressionism and pop art.
    “I think your friend has a future,” Molly’s mom had said.
    I could always count on Molly — but not in the usual ways. Sophomore year, I’d burst into tears the night before my French final, flummoxed by the passé composé . Molly had spent the previous summer in Nice, so I asked her for help. Instead of pulling out a grammar book, she went out and bought me a bottle of Beaujolais and a tape of Last Tango in Paris .
    “All you need is a little inspiration,” Molly had said, tossing me the gifts. “A glass of wine and a night with Marlon Brando, and I guarantee an A.”
    Well, it was an A-minus, but I never forgot.
    “You won’t believe this!” Molly said exuberantly now, coming back to the phone.
    “Tell me,” I said, eager for anything. Molly’s energy oozed over the phone, finally letting me feel hopeful rather than hapless.
    “Tasha Barlow worked as a makeup girl on Night Beat. They hired her freelance for a few remote shoots, which is how she must have known Roy Evans.”
    “A freelance makeup girl?”
    “Better pay than a waitress if you’re trying to be an actress, and you get a foot — or a finger — in the door. Plus there can be good perks. Remember Noah Wyle from ER ? He married his makeup artist.”
    “Must be confusing when someone yells, ‘Code Red.’ Wyle thinks it’s a heart attack and his wife figures there’s a lipstick emergency.”
    Molly laughed. “I don’t think Tasha was about to walk down an aisle. But listen to this. Tim, the producer I called, thinks Roy Evans is a major sleaze, and just the kind to hit on hair and makeup girls.”
    “You think Roy and Tasha were…involved?”
    “Why not? Makes sense. She obviously did more than powder his nose. You know these TV guys. Roy didn’t actually write a recommendation or put himself on the line, but telling Tasha she could use his name on her résumé probably got him a week of blow jobs.”
    I snorted. “Lovely thought. Tim have any other news?”
    “The show hadn’t used Tasha much, and Roy was the only one who got close to her. By the way, he thinks Roy’s talent would fit in a teacup. I told him more like a thimble.”
    “You and Tim share the same opinion.”
    “Mmm, I hope we’ll share even more,” said Molly, smacking her lips. “I owe you big, darling. I haven’t seen Tim in ages, but when we finished