L.A. Times

by Stuart Woods

  “Well, that’s a nice ambition for a dead author. I hope when I’m gone somebody will think as kindly of me. Now, why do you think I’m so uniquely qualified to adapt this book?”

  “Because you’re the sort of novelist that Mildred Parsons was; your sensibilities are not those of a Hollywood hack, as you put it earlier, but those of a genuine writer. The novel is highly adaptable for film, but I want it preserved as Parsons wrote it, both in structure and intent. The dialogue in the book is brilliant—you may not have considered it so as a teenager, but when you read it again, you’ll see what I mean.”

  Michael took a deep breath. “Look, this is the main reason I’d like you to do it: Writers have egos like everyone else, of course, but a Hollywood screenwriter would take this book and, in adapting it, rewrite it to make himself look good. What I want is for Mildred Parsons to look good, for her book to be seen almost as it is read, and it will take a very fine novelist to do that. The success of the book rests entirely on the feeling that she put into it—it was almost certainly autobiographical—and I want someone to get inside her head and put that very real emotion and sentiment on the screen.”

  Adair looked thoughtful. “Sentiment is a good word for that book,” he said. “I recall it as conveying sentiment without sentimentality.”

  “Then you already know what I want,” Michael said. “All that remains is for you to read the book again.”

  “I’ll be glad to.”

  “You’ll have a copy before the evening is over,” Michael said.

  When the screening was over and Michael had accepted the praise of those present, Leo leaned close to him and said, “I’ll tackle Bob Hart; you take on Susan.”

  Michael found her in the hallway on her way back from the ladies’ room. “Susan,” he said, taking her arm, “Leo is in there offering Bob a part. I’d like to talk with you about it for a moment, if I may.”

  “All right,” she said.

  He steered her through some French doors into the garden and found a bench for them to occupy. The California night air was heavy with the scent of tropical blossoms. Michael looked her in the eye. “I wanted to talk with you because I think I can say some things to you that I can’t say to Bob.”

  “That happens all the time,” she said. “Shoot.”

  He handed her a copy of the book. “Leo is giving Bob a copy; I wanted you both to have one. Bob has had a wonderful career; he’s done some very fine work here and there, but I think that the sort of roles that have been available to him in the past have shown only a small part of what he is capable of.”

  Susan Hart looked thoughtful. “I think I can agree with that,” she said.

  “There is a role in this book that will give him an opportunity to make his audience aware of a whole new dimension of his talent, which I consider to be a very large talent.” He took a deep breath. “This part will take courage. Bob will have to bare himself in a way that has never been asked of him. There are no bad guys to conquer in this story; there are no drug busts or shootouts on Main Street; there is no action that takes place outside of a summer house overlooking the Pacific Ocean. But this book is full of meaning and real emotion, and the part I’d like Bob to play—Doctor Madden—is the best role in the book. He’ll be playing opposite a new actress—a very talented girl, but he’ll have to carry her at times. He’ll speak in the idiom of a cultivated set of people in the nineteen-twenties. It is a courtly language, and there is very fine dialogue for him to speak. I’ve asked Mark Adair to do the screenplay.

  “I wanted to talk to you about this because it will be a departure for Bob, and he may need your help to make that departure. But this role is something else: Pacific Afternoons will open up his career and make it possible for him to play virtually anything he wants; it will release his talent from the confinement of genre films and show the industry what hidden reserves have lurked in this man for so long. And I’ll tell you this—I would never say this to Bob—it would make Lee Strasberg proud of him if he were alive to see Bob in the role.”

  Susan Hart regarded him with a look of surprise. “Well, Michael, I don’t know whether I’ll like this book or not, or whether Bob will want the part, but I’ll tell you one thing: That’s the greatest line I’ve ever heard from a producer.”

  Michael laughed out loud. “You have a great surprise coming, Susan,” he said.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve been surprised, Michael.”

  “The surprise is, when you’ve read the book, you’ll know that everything I’ve said to you is understatement.”

  Michael and Vanessa were the last to leave. Amanda pecked them both on the cheek, and Leo walked them to their car.

  “Well, how did it go?” he asked.

  “I had a chance to make my pitch to both Mark and Susan. I think they’ll read the book; let’s hope they like it.”

  “If these two guys come on board,” Leo said, “I won’t hold you to your eight-million-dollar budget; I’ll go to twenty million. I want this to be a first-class production, and Susan’s not going to let Bob do it on the cheap.”

  “Thanks, Leo,” Michael said, “but I don’t think the extra budget will be necessary. I think Bob will be on board before the end of the week, and I’ll be willing to bet that Mark Adair will be on the phone before lunch tomorrow.”

  “What on earth did you say to Mark that makes you believe that?” Leo asked incredulously. “He’s a tough sale, you know; tougher than Bob Hart.”

  “Well, for a start,” Michael said, “I gave him your beautiful leatherbound copy of the book.”

  Leo looked at Michael blankly for a moment, then burst out laughing. “You son of a bitch!” he crowed.

  “See you tomorrow, Leo,” Michael said. He put the Porsche in gear and drove away down Stone Canyon.

  “Well,” Vanessa said, resting her head on Michael’s shoulder, “am I going to be a movie star?”

  “It’s in the bag, sweetheart,” Michael replied. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  Michael arrived in his office to find his secretary standing at her desk, holding her hand over the phone receiver. “There’s somebody on the phone who will only identify himself as ‘Tommy,’” Margot said, exasperated.

  “It’s okay,” Michael replied, hurrying into his office. “You can always put him through if I’m alone.” He picked up the phone. “Tommy?”

  “So, how’s it in Hollywood, kid? How’s the big-time producer?”

  “You wouldn’t believe how good,” Michael said, laughing. “When you coming to see me?”

  “How about Saturday?”

  “You serious?”

  “I’m serious, kid; where should I stay?”

  “The Bel-Air, and I’ll take care of it. How long you gonna be here?”

  “Just until Monday. I got a little business to do over the weekend. We’ll have dinner Saturday, though, okay?”

  “Sure, okay.”

  “Get me a girl?”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “I get in about four.”

  “We’ll meet you in the bar at the Bel-Air at seven.”

  “Look forward to it,” Tommy said. “See ya.” He hung up.

  Michael stood holding the phone and staring at the ceiling. Where the hell was he going to get a girl? He didn’t know anybody in L.A.

  “That was very strange.”

  Michael looked and saw Margot standing in the doorway. “What?”

  “You were speaking in a thick New York accent. I’ve never heard you speak that way before.”

  Michael managed a laugh. “It was an old friend from New York. We talk that way to each other as a kind of joke.”

  “Oh.”

  Michael remembered something. “Margot, he’s coming in on Saturday. Do you think you could find him a girl for the evening?”

  “Of course. Anything in particular?”

  “Somebody beautiful. And it wouldn’t hurt if sh
e’s in the business in some way; he’ll like that. And make it somebody discreet; he’s a married man.”

  “Consider it done. Anything else?”

  “Yes, get him a suite at the Bel-Air for Saturday and Sunday nights—something nice; tell them to send the bill to me.”

  “Would you like some flowers and a bottle of champagne in the room?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “By the way, you had a call from Mark Adair ten minutes ago. He’s at the Beverly Hills; want me to get him for you?”

  “Please.” Michael sat down at his desk and waited for the call to go through. Please, God, he muttered under his breath. Adair was the key to everything. The phone buzzed; he picked it up. “Mark?”

  “Yes, Michael.”

  “Good morning; did you sleep well?”

  “Hardly at all. I stayed up most of the night reading your goddamned book and making notes.”

  Making notes; that sounded good. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’ll make a brilliant film—if you can get Bob Hart to play the doctor. Get him, and I’m yours.”

  “That sounds wonderful, Mark.” He sensed he had an advantage at this moment. “Mark, I have to tell you, Leo’s got me on a very tight budget for this film.”

  There was a brief silence. “How tight?”

  “Have your agent call me.”

  “Come on, Michael, what’re you offering?”

  “Mark, I know you’re used to more money, but the best I can do is a hundred thousand.”

  “Jesus Christ, Michael! Do you really expect me to fall for that tight budget crap?”

  “Mark, I’m being honest with you. This picture comes in under eight million, or Centurion won’t fund. That’s it, I’m afraid.”

  “I want a quarter of a million. I usually get four hundred thousand.”

  “Mark, I’ll make it a hundred and fifty, but fifty is going to have to come out of my producer’s fee. That’s how much I want you to do this picture.”

  “Oh, shit, all right. Two drafts and a polish, and not a word more.”

  “Done. If you can’t write this in two drafts and a polish, it can’t be written.”

  “You’re the worst kind of flatterer. I’ll have a first draft in six weeks; send me fifty grand and a contract—after you get a commitment from Bob Hart.” He slammed the phone down.

  Michael did a little dance around the room, while Margot watched from the door. He saw her and froze; that was twice she’d caught him out this morning.

  “George Hathaway called. He’d like a meeting at three.”

  “A meeting? George?”

  She looked secretive. “I told him you were free for half an hour.”

  “Oh, all right. I guess I owe him some time for putting together these offices so fast.”

  “Susan Hart called, too; I wouldn’t keep her waiting, if I were you.”

  Michael’s heart nearly stopped. “Get her.” He sat down and took some deep breaths; he didn’t want to sound anxious. The phone buzzed. He took one more breath and picked it up. “Susan? I’m sorry to be so long; I was on the phone with Mark Adair.”

  “Is he going to do it?”

  “He certainly is; he was up all night reading it.”

  “So were Bob and I. It was smart of you to give us each a copy.”

  “What did you think?”

  “I think it’s interesting. Bob’s doing a thriller for Fox; he’ll consider it for next fall.”

  “Susan, we start shooting April first. We have to get the spring season on film.”

  “Out of the question,” she said. “The Fox project is a fifty-million-dollar production with a major female star, not an art film with a nobody. You need Bob for this one, Michael; postpone until October and set the film in autumn.”

  “It can’t be done without screwing up the story, Susan; it’s a spring story, and that can’t change.”

  “Michael, if you want Bob, schedule for October. He’ll want two million.”

  Michael thought fast. Leo had said he’d up the budget for Hart. “Susan, can you hold for a minute? I’ve got Paul Newman incoming on the other line.” He punched the hold button before she could speak. Christ, he thought, staring at the flashing light. Have I pushed her too far? He glanced at his watch; he’d have to leave her on hold for at least a minute, or she’d know he was lying. After a minute and fifteen seconds he picked up the phone.

  “Susan, I’m so sorry, but I had to take that call.”

  “How dare you put me on hold!” she sputtered.

  “I’m truly sorry, I really am, but I want you to know I understand Bob’s position on the Fox project, and if that’s what he wants to do, I’ll just have to live with it. It wouldn’t have worked, anyway; I’m stuck with an eight-million-dollar budget, and I could only have offered Bob half a million for the part.”

  “You expected Bob to work for half a million?” she asked incredulously.

  “Sweetheart, Centurion won’t let me do this unless I bring it in for eight million, and anyway, the picture is going to shoot in forty-one days, and Bob would’ve only had to work twenty-two.”

  “How could the lead work only twenty-two days on a forty-one-day shoot? That’s crazy.”

  “I juggled the schedule for Bob, but to tell you the truth, I’m relieved I don’t have to do that now. I’d rather shoot in sequence, to tell you the truth. Anyway, the girl has more scenes; Bob just has the best scenes.”

  “When do you plan to start shooting?”

  “April one, in Carmel, if we can nail down the locations.”

  “How much time in Carmel?”

  “Three weeks; the rest is interiors we can do on the lot.”

  “God, I haven’t been to Carmel in years.”

  “It’s gorgeous up there, isn’t it?” Michael had never been to Carmel, but that was where the book was set. “I’m so looking forward to it.”

  “What kind of accommodations?” Susan asked.

  “The best available, of course. I can do that on my budget.”

  “We’d want a suite at the Inn.”

  “You mean you’re considering this, Susan?”

  “I’d better not find out you’re lying about Mark Adair writing it.”

  “Susan.”

  “And Bob will want a million.”

  “Susan, there isn’t a million in the budget. At half a million, Bob would be the highest-paid cast member. I’m only taking a hundred thousand for a fee.”

  “I want a copy of the budget,” she said, “by noon today.” She hung up.

  “Margot!” he shouted.

  She appeared in the doorway. “Yes?”

  “Print out a copy of the budget for Pacific Afternoons! I’ve got three quarters of a million in for the male lead and three hundred thousand for script; change those figures to half a million and a hundred and fifty thousand, then spread the money over the other categories. Can you do that in an hour?”

  “Sure.”

  “Get me legal.”

  When the phone buzzed Michael picked it up. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Mervyn White, head of the legal department,” a voice said, sounding annoyed.

  “Mervyn, this is Michael Vincent. I need a contract drawn immediately, for a picture called Pacific Afternoons.”

  “Nothing like that on the schedule,” White said.

  Michael could hear him shuffling papers. “I don’t care if it’s on the schedule,” he said firmly. “Draw the contract for Robert Hart at half a million dollars, working from April first of next year to May first, deluxe accommodations, travel on the Centurion jet, deluxe motor home for dressing. He can have one assistant for ten thousand bucks.”

  “I’ll have to clear this with Mr. Goldman,” White said stiffly. “Especially the part about the airplane.”

  “Mervyn,” Michael said slowly, “when Leo sees that he’s getting Bob Hart for half a million, he’ll fly the airplane himself. I want that contract drawn and on my
desk in…” he glanced at his watch, “…ninety minutes, and if it’s not here, I’ll come over there and set your desk on fire, do you hear me?”

  “Oh, all right,” White said petulantly.

  “Good.” Michael hung up the phone. He had Mark Adair and Robert Hart on board for four hundred thousand less than he’d budgeted for. He was in Hollywood heaven.

  Then a niggling doubt pricked at his brain. There was something else. Oh, yes, he didn’t own the film rights to the book.

  “Margot,” he called, “when that contract arrives, send it with the budget to Susan Hart. And by the way, find out who owns the copyright to Pacific Afternoons.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  Michael sat in the lawyer’s office and stared at the man. He was in his mid-seventies, Michael reckoned, and a little worse for the wear. A bottle of singlemalt Scotch whiskey stood on his desk, a crystal glass beside it. Michael had already refused a drink.

  What was it with this guy? The whole city of L.A. existed on the telephone, people walked around with the phone plugged into their heads, and this guy had insisted on a face-to-face meeting.

  “You’re sure you won’t have a taste?” Daniel J. Moriarty asked.

  “Quite sure,” Michael replied. “Now, can we get down to business, Mr. Moriarty?”

  “Of course, of course,” the lawyer replied. “What can I do for you?”

  “You do remember our brief phone conversation of an hour ago?” Michael asked. He was steamed.

  “I do, I do. It was film rights you wanted to meet about?”

  “I did not want to meet, Mr. Moriarty; I am here only at your insistence. I am interested in acquiring the film rights to the novel Pacific Afternoons by Mildred Parsons. I understand that in some way you control those rights?”

  “Indeed I do, Mr. Vincent, indeed I do. You see, Mildred’s younger brother, Montague—Monty, we all called him—was my closest friend. Monty and I went to law school together. Very close, we were.”

  “And Montague Parsons controls the rights?”