by Mario Puzo
Bantz said, “If she torpedoes a hundred-million-dollar movie, she can never work again, did you tell her that?”
“She knows,” Stuart said.
Bantz asked, “Who’s the best person to talk sense into her? Skippy, you tried and failed. Melo, you did. Dita, I know you did your best. I even tried.”
Tommey said to Bantz, “You don’t count, Bobby. She detests you.”
Bantz said sharply, “Sure, some people don’t like my style but they listen to me.”
Tommey said kindly, “Bobby, none of the Talent likes you, but Athena doesn’t like you personally.”
“I gave her the role that made her a star,” Bantz said.
Melo Stuart said calmly, “She was born a star. You were lucky to get her.”
Bantz said, “Dita, you’re her friend. It’s your job to get her back to work.”
“Athena is not my friend,” Tommey said. “She is a colleague who respects me because after I tried to make her, I desisted gracefully when I failed. Not like you, Bobby. You kept trying for years.”
Bantz said amiably, “Dita, who the hell is she not to fuck us? Eli, you have to lay down the law.”
All attention was fixed on the old man, who seemed bored. Eli Marrion was so thin that one male star had joked he should wear an eraser on his skull, but this was more malicious than apt. Marrion had a comparatively huge head and the broad gorilla face of a much heavier man, a broad nose, thick mouth, yet his face was curiously benign, somewhat gentle, some even said handsome. But his eyes gave him away, they were cold gray and radiated intelligence and an absolute concentration that daunted most people. It was perhaps for this reason that he insisted that everyone call him by his first name.
Marrion spoke in an emotionless voice. “If Athena won’t listen to you people, she won’t listen to me. My position of authority won’t impress her. Which makes it all the more puzzling that she is so frightened over such a senseless attack by such a foolish man. Can’t we buy our way out of this?”
“We will try,” Bantz said. “But it makes no difference to Athena. She doesn’t trust him.”
Skippy Deere, the producer, said, “And we tried muscle. I got some friends in the police department to lean on him, but he’s tough. His family has money and political connections and he’s crazy in the bargain.”
Stuart said, “Exactly how much does the Studio lose if it closes down the picture? I’ll do my best to let you recoup on future packages.”
There was a problem about letting Melo Stuart know the extent of the damages; as Athena’s agent, it would give him too much leverage. Marrion did not answer but nodded to Bobby Bantz.
Bantz was reluctant, but spoke. “Actual money spent, fifty million. Okay, we can eat fifty million. But we have to give back the foreign sales money, the video money, and there’s no Locomotive for Christmas. That can cost us another . . .” He paused, not willing to give that figure, “and then if we add the profits that we lose . . . shit, two hundred million dollars. You’d have to give us a break on a lot of packages, Melo.”
Stuart smiled, thinking he would have to jack up his price for Athena. “But actually, in real cash put out, you only lose fifty,” he said.
When Marrion spoke his voice had lost its gentleness. “Melo,” he said, “How much will it cost us to get your client back to work?” They knew what had happened. Marrion had decided to act as if this was just a scam.
Stuart read the message. How much are you going to stick us up for on this little scheme? This was an attack on his integrity but he had no intention of getting on his high horse. Not with Marrion. If it had been Bantz, he would have been wrathfully indignant.
Stuart was a very powerful man in the movie world. He didn’t have to kiss even Marrion’s ass. He controlled a stable of five A directors, not strictly Bankable but very powerful indeed; two male Bankable Stars; and one female Bankable Star, Athena. Which meant he had three people who could assure a green light for any movie. But still it was not wise to anger Marrion. Stuart had become powerful by avoiding such dangers. Certainly this was a great situation for a stickup but not really. This was a rare time when straightforwardness could pay off.
Melo Stuart’s greatest asset was his sincerity, he truly believed in what he sold, and he had believed in Athena’s talent even ten years before, when she was an unknown. He believed in her now. But what if he could change her mind and bring her back before the cameras? Surely that was worth something, surely that option should not be closed off.
“This is not about money,” Stuart said with passion. He felt a rapture for his own sincerity. “You could offer Athena an extra million and she would not go back. You must solve the problem of this so-called long-absent husband.”
There was an ominous silence. Everybody paid attention. A sum of money had been mentioned. Was it an opening wedge?
Skippy Deere said, “She won’t take money.”
Dita Tommey shrugged. She didn’t believe Stuart for a moment. But it wouldn’t be her money. Bantz simply glared at Stuart, who coolly kept looking at Marrion.
Marrion analyzed Stuart’s remark correctly. Athena would not come back for money. Talent was never so cunning. He decided to wrap up the meeting.
He said, “Melo, explain very carefully to your client, if she does not come back in one month’s time the Studio abandons the picture and takes the loss. Then we sue her for everything she owns. She must know she can’t work again for a major American studio afterwards.” He smiled around the table. “What the hell, it’s only fifty million.”
They all knew he was serious, that he had lost his patience. Dita Tommey panicked, the picture meant more to her than anyone. It was her baby. If it succeeded she would be among those directors who would be Bankable. Her OK could get a green light. Out of her panic, she said, “Get Claudia De Lena to talk to her. She’s one of Athena’s closest friends.”
Bobby Bantz said contemptuously, “I don’t know what’s worse, a star fucking somebody below the line or being friends with a writer.”
At this Marrion again lost his patience. “Bobby, don’t bring irrelevancies into a business discussion. Have Claudia talk to her. But let’s wrap this thing up one way or another. We have other pictures to make.”
But the next day a check for five million dollars arrived at LoddStone Studios. It was from Athena Aquitane. She had returned the advance money she had been paid to do Messalina.
Now it was in the hands of the lawyers.
In just fifteen years Andrew Pollard had built the Pacific Ocean Security Company into the most prestigious protection organization on the West Coast. Starting in a suite of hotel rooms, he now owned a four-story building in Santa Monica with over fifty permanent HQ staff, five hundred investigators and guards under freelance contracts, plus a floating reserve group who worked for him a good part of the year.
Pacific Ocean Security provided services for the very rich and very famous. It protected the homes of movie magnates with armed personnel and electronic devices. It provided bodyguards for stars and producers. It supplied uniformed men to control the crowds at great media events such as the Academy Awards. It did investigative work in delicate matters such as providing counterintelligence to ward off would-be blackmailers.
Andrew Pollard became successful because he was a stickler for details. He planted ARMED RESPONSE signs on the grounds of his rich clients’ houses that flashed in the night with an explosion of red light, plus he had patrols in the neighborhoods of the walled-in mansions. Careful in picking his personnel, he paid high enough wages so that they worried about being fired. He could afford to be generous. His clients were the richest people in the country and paid accordingly. He was also clever enough to work closely with the Los Angeles Police Department, top and bottom. He was a business friend of Jim Losey, the legendary detective, who was a hero to the rank and file. But most important, he had the backing of the Clericuzio Family.
Fifteen years before, while still a young police o
fficer, still a little careless, he had been entrapped by the Internal Affairs Unit of the New York City Police Department. It was small graft, almost impossible to avoid. But he had stood fast and refused to inform on his superiors who were involved. The Clericuzio Family underlings observed this and set in motion a series of judicial moves so that Andrew Pollard was given a deal: Resign from the New York Police Department and escape punishment.
Pollard migrated to Los Angeles with his wife and child, and the Family gave him the money to set up his Pacific Ocean Security Company. Then the Family sent out word that Pollard’s clients were not to be molested, their houses could not be burglarized, their persons were not to be mugged, their jewelry was not to be stolen and if stolen in error must be returned. It was for this reason that the flaming ARMED RESPONSE signs also flashed the name of the protection agency.
Andrew Pollard’s success was almost magical, the mansions under his protection were never touched. His bodyguards were as nearly well trained as FBI men, so the company was never sued for inside jobs, sexual harassment of their employers, or child molesting, all of which happened in the world of security. There were a few cases of attempted blackmail, and there were some guards who sold intimate secrets to the scandal sheets, but that was unavoidable. All in all, Pollard ran a clean, efficient operation.
His company had computer access to confidential information about people in all walks of life. And it was only natural that when the Clericuzio Family needed data, it would be supplied. Pollard earned a good living and he was grateful to the Family. Plus the fact that every once in a while there was a job he could not ask his guards to do, and he would then make application to the western Bruglione for some help in the way of strong-arm.
There were slyer predators for whom Los Angeles and Hollywood were like some Edenesque jungle, teeming with victims. There were the movie executives lured into blackmailers’ honey traps, the closeted movie stars, sadomasochistic directors, pedophile producers, all frightened their secrets would get out. Pollard was noted for dealing with these cases with finesse and discretion. He could negotiate the lowest possible payment and ensure that there would be no second dip.
Bobby Bantz summoned Andrew Pollard to his office the day after the Academy Awards. “I want all the info you can get on this Boz Skannet character,” he told Pollard. “I want all the background on Athena Aquitane. For a major star, we know very little about her. I also want you to make a deal with Skannet. We need Athena for another three to six months on the picture, so structure a deal with Skannet so that he goes far away. Offer him twenty grand a month but you can go as high as a hundred.”
Pollard said quietly, “And after he can do what he wants?”
“Then it’s a job for the authorities,” Bantz said. “You have to be very careful, Andrew. This guy has a powerful family. The movie industry cannot be accused of any off-color tactics, it might ruin the picture and hurt the Studio. So just make the deal. Plus we are using your firm for her personal security.”
“And if he doesn’t go for the deal?” Pollard asked.
“Then you have to guard her day and night,” Bantz said. “Until the picture is done.”
“I could lean on him just a little,” Pollard said. “In a legal way of course. I’m not suggesting anything.”
“He’s too well connected,” Bantz said. “The police authorities are leery of him. Even Jim Losey, who’s such a good buddy of Skippy Deere, won’t use any muscle. Aside from public relations, the Studio could be sued for enormous amounts of money. I’m not saying you should treat him like a delicate flower but . . .”
Pollard got the message. A little rough stuff to scare the guy but pay him what he wanted. “I’ll need contracts,” he said.
Bantz took an envelope from his desk drawer. “He signs three copies and there’s a check in there for fifty thousand dollars as a down payment. The figures in the contract are open, you can fill it in when you make the deal.”
As he went out Bantz said after him, “Your people didn’t help at the Academy Awards. They were sleeping on their fucking feet.”
Pollard did not take offense. This was vintage Bantz.
“Those were just crowd-control guards,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll put my top crew around Miss Aquitane.”
In twenty-four hours Pacific Ocean Security computers had everything on Boz Skannet. He was thirty-four years old, a graduate of Texas A&M, where he had been Conference All-Star running back and then gone on to one season of professional football. His father owned a bank in Houston, but more important, his uncle ran the Republican political machine in Texas and was a close personal friend of the president. Mixed into all of this was a lot of money.
Boz Skannet was a piece of work in and of himself. As a vice president in his father’s bank, he had narrowly escaped indictment in an oil lease scam. He had been arrested for assault six times. In one case he had beaten two police officers so severely they had to be hospitalized. Skannet was never prosecuted because he paid damages to the officers. There was a sexual harassment charge settled out of court. Before all this he had been married at twenty-one to Athena and had become the father of a baby girl the next year. The child was named Bethany. At age twenty, his wife disappeared with their daughter.
All this gave Andrew Pollard a picture. This was a bad guy. A guy who carried a grudge against his wife for ten years, a guy who fought armed police officers and was tough enough to send them to the hospital. The chances of scaring such a guy were nil. Pay him the money, get the contract signed, and stay the hell out of it.
Pollard called Jim Losey, who was handling the Skannet case for the Los Angeles PD. Pollard was in awe of Losey, who was the cop he would have liked to become. They had a working relationship. Losey received a handsome gift every Christmas from Pacific Ocean Security. Now Pollard wanted the police dope, wanted to know everything Losey had on the case.
“Jim,” Pollard said, “Can you send me an info sheet on Boz Skannet? I need his address in L.A. and I’d like to know more about him.”
“Sure,” Losey said. “But the charges against him have been dropped. What are you in this for?”
“Protection job,” Pollard said. “How dangerous is this guy?”
“He’s fucking crazy,” Losey said. “Tell your bodyguard team that if he gets close they should start shooting.”
“You’d arrest me,” Pollard said, laughing. “It’s against the law.”
“Yeah,” Losey said, “I’d have to. What a fucking joke.”
Boz Skannet was staying in a modest hotel on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica, which worried Andrew Pollard because it was only a fifteen-minute drive to Athena’s house in Malibu Colony. He ordered a four-man team to guard Athena’s house and put a two-man team into Skannet’s hotel. Then he arranged to meet with Skannet that afternoon.
Pollard took three of his biggest and toughest men with him. With a guy like Skannet you never knew what might happen.
Skannet let them into his hotel suite. He was affable, greeted them with a smile, but did not offer any refreshment. Curiously enough, he was wearing a tie, shirt, and jacket, perhaps to show that after all he was still a banker. Pollard introduced himself and his three bodyguards, all three showing their Pacific Ocean Security IDs. Skannet grinned at them and said, “You guys are sure big. I’ll bet a hundred bucks I can kick the shit out of any one of you in a fair fight.”
The three bodyguards, well-trained men, gave him small acknowledging smiles, but Pollard deliberately took offense. A calculated umbrage. “We’re here to do business, Mr. Skannet,” he said. “Not to endure threats. LoddStone Studios is prepared to pay you fifty thousand down right now and twenty thousand a month for eight months. All you have to do is leave Los Angeles.” Pollard took the contracts and the big green-and-white check out of his briefcase.
Skannet studied them. “Very simple contract,” he said. “I don’t even need a lawyer. But it’s also very simple money. I was thinking a hundred grand in
front and fifty thousand a month.”
“Too much,” Pollard said. “We have a judge’s restraining order against you. You get within a block of Athena and you go to jail. We have security around Athena twenty-four hours a day. And I’ve set up surveillance teams to keep track of your movements. So for you this is found money.”
“I should have come to California sooner,” Skannet said. “The streets are paved with gold. Why pay me anything?”
“The studio wants to reassure Miss Aquitane,” Pollard said.
“She really is that big a star,” Skannet said musingly. “Well, she was always special. And to think I used to fuck her five times a day.” He grinned at the three men. “And brainy in the bargain.”
Pollard looked at the man with curiosity. The guy was handsome as the rugged Marlboro man in the cigarette ads, except that his skin was red with sun and booze and his body build was bulkier. He had that charming drawl of the South, which was both humorous and dangerous. A lot of women fell in love with such men. In New York there had been some cops with the same kind of looks, and they had scored like bandits. You sent them out on murder cases and in a week they were consoling the widows. Jim Losey was a cop like that, come to think of it. Pollard had never been so lucky.
“Let’s just talk business,” Pollard said. He wanted Skannet to sign the contract and take the check in front of the witnesses, then maybe later if they had to, the Studio could make a case for extortion.
Skannet sat down at the table. “Have you got a pen?” he asked.
Pollard took his pen out of the briefcase and filled out the figures of twenty thousand a month. Skannet noted him doing so and said cheerfully, “So, I could have gotten more.” Then he signed the three copies. “When do I have to leave L.A.?”
“This very night,” Pollard said. “I’ll take you to your plane.”
“No thanks,” Skannet said. “I think I’ll drive to Las Vegas and gamble with this check.”