by Nick Cole
As she walked around the room, shaking hands with the crew, looking into their eyes, she began the slow process of making allies. None of them knew she had lain in the dark that morning, three thirty, listening to the paper truck deliver up one side of the street and then down the next. Sleep would not come and her husband was gone. Forever. There was no one to curl up next to and make her feel loved. No one to wake and to confess to that you’re afraid of something you can’t name, but something to be feared nonetheless. No one to say words to in the dark. No one to reassure you. No one to ask comfort of.
“There’ll be other films.”
“You’re crazy, this isn’t your last.”
“Hollywood loves you.”
And…
I love you.
She lay there alone, in her too-large bed, fearing the arrival of the inevitable.
Her last film as a young actress.
After this, there would be guest appearances on TV shows. Of course. The mother to a hip young spunky star just starting out. Maybe some freak show films so the world could see how she had aged just like the woman she’d lost an Oscar to. As though aging were a sin, and an unforgivable one at that. And now she understood, late at night when the delivery truck is going up one side of the street and down the other, she understood what it was like to have your last hurrah. Your last at bat. Your last time being the you you’ve worked so hard to be.
It’s scary.
Because it’s the end of the known, and the beginning of the unknown.
Now, in the warehouse, as she got to know each of the crew, she was willing them with every fiber of her being to help her make this last one, the best one.
***
Three thirty in the morning. Most are sleeping, or not sleeping, as it were. High on a desert plateau near the windswept El Cajon Pass, a last hand is being dealt in a portable trailer off a side road in the middle of nowhere. Casually well-dressed Asians and a few flashy rednecks of dubious means surround one big name celebrity. Each checks their cards then plays their final hand. It is a bad hand for mega-celebrity Kurt Dalton in what has been yet another bad hand in a long series of bad hands starting long before this card game. Outside, brutal winds buffet the side of the trailer, causing it to sway back and forth with each gusty assault.
Silence kept watch as the final hand played out between Kurt and one of the highest-ranking members of the Chinese Tongs that had settled in America. Kurt played well, but once again his skill at cards proved wanting. He managed a devastating loss costing him all his cash, his S-Class Mercedes, two IOUs for fifteen thousand dollars each, and the Rolex watch he was now pulling off his tanned wrist. The mobsters broke up quietly, muttering in their unknown tongue. The rednecks retreated outside into the wind, off to all-night truck stops along never-ending highways. For a long moment Kurt sat staring at his hand, wondering how he was going to get to the table read in less than five hours now that he had no car.
“No car,” said the Asian boy who hosted the card game in his off-tone voice, as he organized the money and counted with a speed and efficiency surpassing that of any bank teller. “No money. That is bad. Very, very bad.”
“I’ve been in worse…” But the end of the tough-guy line escaped Kurt. Like the action hero he’d played in more than a dozen movies, he knocked back the last of the whiskey and lowered his eyes to the cards once more.
“How you still alive if you been in worse? I lock up and go home. You freeze to death out here before sun come up, and believe me that sun not going to help you this morning. You dead meat.” Then the Asian boy laughed out loud to himself.
“I’ll call a cab,” Kurt thought aloud.
“Oh yeah, funny guy. Hi, this is big name celebrity. I need a ride. Oh where am I? I out in middle of desert and it four o’clock in morning. Oh, and I have no money for cab.” The boy’s laugh was a cross between a wind-up air raid siren and an accordion.
“What’s your name?” asked Kurt.
“My name Roger, Mr. Celebrity. Why?”
“Because, Roger. I would like you to give me a ride back into town. Hollywood.”
“Oh you would, would you?”
“Yeah. I would, and after that I owe you.”
For a long moment Roger thought about it. Then he agreed, saying over and over, “You owe me. You owe me.” He cackled with delight. “First you help me load boxes of liquor into car. Then we go wherever you want. But loading boxes not part of owing me ‘cause you owe me! Right?”
“Right,” mumbled Kurt.
And that was how Kurt Dalton, mega-star actor, box office hero, and generally bad gambler, found himself loading boxes of liquor into a rice rocket high on a desert plateau outside Los Angeles.
Later he sat in the passenger seat waiting for Roger to lock up his illegal gambling hall and drive them to Hollywood. Roger entered the lowered and heavily modified Nissan Sentra. He turned the ignition key, and the spaceship he had no doubt spent a large amount of cash on came to life. Strange neon blue lights far surpassing the needs of a normal set of car instrument indicators fluttered to life along with a central onboard laptop. Techno trance music began to thud, but Roger quickly turned it off.
“Okay. How fast you want to get there?”
“Fast as you can,” said Kurt without thinking.
Roger tapped at the keys of the computer with long delicate hands. Moments later he was speaking Vietnamese into the ether.
After a moment’s conversation he turned to Kurt and said, “Okay, my friend Tran say he hack CHP computers and find out where cops are. Then he give us info in here.” He tapped his computer. “Then we avoid them. Smart, huh?”
“We’ll see,” said Kurt in a low whiskey grumble.
With that, Roger launched the car down the long night road toward the freeway, offering to use his nitrous pump if they needed to go faster. Kurt indicated they would be fine for now. When they reached the freeway, Roger engaged the sound system. Black lights and heavy techno music turned the car into a club on wheels. Kurt thought about protesting, but it seemed unwise in light of his precarious situation. Instead he sank into himself and considered the music some form of punishment for… everything.
The car rocketed across long stretches of arc-lit road, racing up overpasses and taking the wide curves with fierce abandon. Kurt wondered how his life had come to this. Here he was, starting yet another film for which he had not done a moment’s preparation, and he was more impoverished than anyone could imagine. Every bit of money he’d ever made making movies—and he had made a lot—was gone. Between two ex-wives, three children, friends, gambling habits, and a general lack of good decision-making skills, he was broke. He had no house, though he told people he had one in whatever city he was not currently in. He had no money for food. Trunks of clothing and personal belongings were lying in hock at the Beverly Hills Hilton.
The money he would receive to start the Great Director’s movie next week would go immediately to his first wife. She was first in line to be paid back all the money he owed her, plus the money he had promised to pay up front for their son’s entire tuition for college and the medical school he seemed determined to go to. If he had spent more time with the boy, maybe he would have become an actor like his father. That would’ve been cheaper. Somehow he would have to get his agent to front him some expense money.
“Can we stop and get something to eat?” asked Kurt.
“I can because I have money. Can you?” taunted Roger in his off-key singsong English.
“Maybe you could buy me something to eat,” grumbled Kurt.
“I could, but then you owe me again. Okay? You owe me again?”
Kurt acknowledged the debt, and soon they were stopping at a fast-food restaurant. Kurt ordered food and Roger taunted him with every item.
“You order drink too? Man, no wonder you broke.”
“Large burrito? You a pig. This why you very broke.”
Roger ate nothing and instead smoked a cigarette. Kurt opted not to thank him and gnawed at the food angrily.
Later, as they neared Los Angeles with the morning sun rising behind them, Roger asked, “You need to go home first?”
“Just take me to this warehouse in the valley.”
“You not have home, right? You gamble that away too?”
“No, I have a hotel.”
“Hotel not home. Hotel is hotel. Hotel, they want money. What you going to do? You gamble all your money away,” asked Roger.
“I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about me.”
For a long while they drove in silence, nearing their destination, passing morning commuters just starting their day with a fresh shave, a hot cup of coffee, and a new outlook. Kurt tried to brush his teeth with his finger. His breath smelled of stale whiskey and cigarettes, and he wished he was one of the commuters all around him, imagining they, unlike him, did not have problems.
“Okay,” said Roger. “I have business proposal for you. You ready?”
***
With almost everyone there, and the show running only slightly late, the door to the table read swung open. The Great Director looked at his watch as his star, Kurt Dalton, and a young, unknown Asian boy walked into the warehouse. On other films the Great Director would have been floored by the late arrival of his star. In this case, he considered himself off to a good start, bolstered by the fact that his star looked like an unshaven, slept in the same clothes, drank too much, smoked all night train wreck.
Perfect.
After a short exchange, Kurt introduced his new assistant Roger to the Great Director.
Roger smiled. He was now in the movie business.
Across the room, seated at the table, Terri McCall did not look up from her script as her love interest made his less than stellar entrance. She continued to feign immersion in her script, going over her dialogue and coaching notes, fastidiously scripted in different colors, a personal meaning for each. She gave no regard to Kurt Dalton, at least no outward sign. She had been down that road before.
With that, the rehearsal started. The Great Director gave a short speech, thanking everyone for doing their part, assuring them they were going to make the best picture possible and have fun in the process.
The Great Director did not feel the slightest bit of remorse. One bad movie would not kill them. The behind-the-camera people would move on and the actors would be able to blame him and find more work, and after all, everybody was getting paid.
The reading started slowly as the first AD badly read all the directions, settings, and parts not yet cast. There followed several uninterrupted minutes of him reading alone and monotonously. The Great Director felt the sudden realization that time was being wasted and moved to halt the AD and shorten the pervasive discomfort felt by all.
But then he stopped himself.
Whatever was bad for the production was good for him and his escape plan. He would have to war against his own instinct to make a good movie if the production was ever going to fail to make something of itself and tank like he knew it could. So he remained silent and let the ponderous stage direction ramble on.
In the past, the Great Director had been rigorous in his attention and commitment at rehearsals, often delaying the production start date to give himself time to fully work the material. Everyone knew this about him and expected nothing less. He had a reputation for intense and committed focus.
Now, the Great Director pretended to listen and thought only of Alaska.
The first read-through ground away ponderously. People who were not busy went back and forth to the craft service table to pile paper plates with free donuts and bagels. When the read-through was over, the Great Director announced a short break.
Later that morning, during the second read-through (the one where the actors begin to show the character work they have done prior to rehearsal), the Great Director leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up onto the table. At points, when he felt confident in his own acting skills, he would let his mouth hang slightly open, lips parted as if asleep. This, he reasoned, would drive the actors insane, though there would be nothing they could do about it.
But even as he pretended sleep, he could not help listening to the performances. Kurt Dalton had put zero effort into preparation. At points, after a line from Kurt, the Great Director would expel some positive, non-syllabic utterance to indicate he really liked Kurt’s read. On the other hand, Terri McCall had clearly worked the part and worked it thoroughly. She shed subtle, careful hints of a rich claustrophobia beneath the surface of what was already a desperate character. She was good, and the Great Director had to force himself to remember he was not making a good film. So he said nothing to her lest she think she’d gotten anything right.
Langley advanced confidently in his read. It was one of his gifts, and it served him well. The studio had pitched Langley to the Great Director largely based on the mathematical equations they used to make movies, which indicated that if Langley were in a movie, he’d draw fourteen-to-thirty-two-year-old women. Combined with other factors this would generate X amount of dollars. Langley was the studio’s hedge and hope that a boring art movie could, at the last second, be turned into a teen sex comedy. Or at least the previews could be edited to give the impression of such ribaldry.
The Great Director saved his attack on Langley for the end. When the second read-through had finished, as everyone waited for the Great Director to make comments and announce the next rehearsal, he struck.
“Great job, everyone. There are some rough spots and things we need to polish.” At this point he flashed Langley a stern look. Langley had never, in his entire career, dating back to children’s community theater, ever been given such a look. “But we’ll work it out during camera rehearsal. I’m really pleased and I want to move the start date up to next week. Monday morning. Great job all, and thanks.”
With that he grabbed his bag and fled to his car. Stunned, no one recovered fast enough to catch him. With no further rehearsals, they would begin to shoot the movie next week.
A bleary-eyed Kip entered the room with a dazed Parker in tow. Chewing gum, Kip scanned the bewildered crowd with too-large pupils. The smoked joint and subsequent Kip-lecture had lasted longer than anticipated.
Chapter Thirteen
The Fox
The Executive VP sat at his desk on Tuesday morning. He was busy crunching the numbers of Justice for Sale, a film which had opened the previous Friday morning and in which the studio had maintained high hopes for high profits.
All the right variables had been factored into the proper formulae. Yet the movie had tanked.
How could this be?
He scratched his head. They’d used two stars. Each well within the Success Parameter Matrix. They had blown up the required amount of buildings as outlined in the Computational Catastrophe Tables, or the CCTs as the execs liked to call them. There was even a twenty-two-year-old ingénue who had been on the radar for just the last six months, and therefore guaranteed a good Freshness Recognition Rating. She’d been cast as the love interest for Quint Colton, one of the biggest action stars in the business. There was no problem there. His star power mandated a twenty-five percent Increase/Name/Draw on the Calculated Vortex Effect Curve. What audience wouldn’t love to see good old Quint romancing a twenty-two-year-old actress? Quint had been around since the sixties. He knew how to draw an audience as well as seduce any woman on screen. Even one who’d been born when he was ending his fourth marriage.
Could it be the director? His Style Factor tested well with the eighteen to twenty-sixers. But he’d campaigned hard for a different, darker ending. Even though he’d been denied, maybe the merest hint of his artsy ending had ruined the film.
“Sir, you have a call from the Fox,�
� announced his secretary across the intercom.
For a moment, the Executive VP was at a loss as to who the Fox was. Then he remembered the Fox was a codename he had assigned to one of the informants he’d placed on the Great Director’s picture.
“Excellent. Put him through.”
A moment later the Fox spoke.
“Morning. I trust you have enjoyed the pretzels the black crow has stolen from the baker?” The Fox gave the first of the sign/countersign code sentences the Executive VP had established at the beginning of their relationship.
“Indeed. But my Land Rover is in the shop, so I will have to eat them myself.” The Executive VP loved this part of his job. He had spies all over town only too willing to inform on their productions for the generous pay he provided.
“Fox?” inquired the VP.
“It’s me,” said a muffled voice over the phone.
In the background, the Executive VP heard the clatter of dishes. Someone said something about eggs, bacon, toast, and two sausages, followed by a military-worthy “Order up!”
“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. The production has only been shooting for a day now.” The Executive VP took out his Mont Blanc pen from its leather case, preparing to transcribe the notes he would maintain for the rest of the production. Notes he would keep secret if all went well. Not secret if all went not well.
“I felt I should let you know how the first day went,” replied the Fox. “It’s already shaping up to be a disaster.”
The Executive VP reached into his drawer while breathing through his nostrils. He pulled out a rubber band, which he quickly snapped around his wrist. He took a large gulp of clear water from a designer bottle.
“Good idea, Fox. Then report!” The Executive VP scribed the date in beautiful script across the top of the first page of his leather-bound, Shakespeare script-embossed, Cavalieri 30 lb. bond notebook. His pen hovered in anticipation of bad tidings. He was ready to set the strokes of misfortune to paper, and thus into the permanent record.