His father had taken his hand and, out of earshot of his mother, had simply gestured at his son’s linen suit, the L.A. sunshine, the palm trees, the limo they had taken to the airport, and said, “Don’t fuck this up for yourself.” Not exactly a vote of confidence, but an acknowledgment, of sorts.
And if there was one thing Sam was determined not to do, it was fuck this up for himself. It was a funny thing: the higher he rose out of the muck of oblivion into the sunshine of L.A. success, the more determined he was not to sink back even half a step. He wanted not only success but all its trappings: the right table at the Polo Lounge, a house account at Morton’s, people to take his calls immediately. He didn’t care too much about the money—that was nice—but he did want the power and all that came with it.
Now Sam drove along the winding road to Laurel Canyon. His own driveway was hidden by the scruffy undergrowth and pine trees that passed as naturalized landscape out here. His leased house was small but choice, cream-colored adobe outside, and inside decorated in the Santa Fe style, complete with Indian artifacts, colorful serapes and rugs, big unglazed pottery. Giant stands of cattails and reeds grew around the tiled patios and pool area. He passed by them now, walked into the living room through the glass doors facing the sapphire blue-tiled pool, and threw his jacket onto the sofa. As always, he headed straight for the bar but stopped, as always, to turn on the answering machine. He listened as he poured out an Absolut, threw in a few ice cubes, and sat down to enjoy his two fixes of the day: his single drink and his messages.
The tape rewound, making its usual beeps and squeaks. Then it clicked into forward. “Hi, Sam. It’s Bethanie. I’ve got a real shot at a Marty DiGennaro project, but I’ve run into a little snag, and I wondered if I could use your name? Look, could you please call me at…”
Sam, with his remote, fast-forwarded to the next message. He’d broken that off long ago and could smell a ploy for a get-together a mile off. But what if it was true? Sam admired Marty DiGennaro more than any other American director. Well, Bethanie knew that, was using that. It was bullshit. He’d forget it.
“April Irons’ office. Could you please call her back at seven this evening at…”
Sam jotted down the number quickly. He had planned to spend the evening with Crystal, celebrating the wrap, but he could call April on his way over.
“Sam, it’s Molly. I haven’t spoken to you lately, and I just wondered if you’re all right and if by any chance you’ve heard from Mary Jane…”
Sam sighed and fast-forwarded over the rest of the message. The hell with her. Molly and Chuck had been guilt-inducing and tiresome, resenting him for leaving them behind, a reminder of how small his life had once been.
Another beep. “Sam, it’s Crystal. I won’t be able to make it tonight, I’m afraid. Some other time.”
For a moment, he felt a stab of disappointment. Disappointment and something else. Was it fear? But Crystal had a complicated life: a kid, a husband. She had canceled at short notice before. Still, he backed up the tape and replayed the message.
“Sam, it’s Crystal. I won’t be able to make it tonight, I’m afraid. Some other time.”
It made him uneasy. After all, he knew dialogue. He was a playwright, for God’s sake. There was something about the line. It was formal, too formal. And the “some other time”—it sounded so perfunctory.
He played the message yet again. Goddamn it, it wasn’t his imagination. He could tell when something was wrong. He was intuitive. That’s what made him such a good director. He lifted up the phone receiver and dialed Crystal’s number. Her au pair answered and tried to blow him off, but he managed at last to have Inga put him through.
“Crystal, about tonight,” he began quickly. “April just called and I’ve got to see her. Could we cancel, or could you come over later?”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
“No. I just walked in.”
“Well, I said I couldn’t make it.”
“Great. That’s convenient. I’ll call tomorrow.”
There was a pause. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Sam.”
He felt his palm go wet, making the receiver slippery to hold. For a crazy moment, his mother’s face, as he’d last seen her at the airport, flashed before his eyes. He literally shook his head to rid himself of the image, to hear Crystal’s voice clearly. “Listen, Sam, it’s been great, but I think it’s run its course, don’t you?” he heard her say. “I mean, it’s silly to beat around the bush, isn’t it?”
His mouth was as dry as his palm was wet, but he managed, calmly, even rather coldly, to ask one question. “Just like that. Crystal?”
“Well,” she said, her voice tight with impatience, “after all, the shoot is finished. The movie wrapped, Sam, didn’t it?”
14
Lila awakened early the morning after she’d signed the contract to play Crimson along with the exclusive Flanders Cosmetics deal. Her picture, along with those of the other two bimbos, had made the third page of Daily Variety and Army Archerd ran an item. She poured a glass of orange juice and, carrying the cordless phone, took it out to the veranda. The money from the cosmetics company would come in handy. Of course, she didn’t plan for a minute to wear that cheap crap, but so what? Anyone who knew anything wore MAC and she’d keep wearing it. But she’d use the money. She’d get a good car, some new clothes, and a place of her own. Plus, she would start her payback plan. And she knew who she’d start with. She reached over the Princess phone beside her bed and dialed the number. “Ara Sagarian, please. This is Lila Kyle.”
After a pause, Lila said, “I know what Ara said. Miss Bradley. But if you let him know that I’m calling him because I have to make a decision about representation, I think he’ll talk to me. No, I’ll wait.”
Lila didn’t have to wait long. “Good morning, Lila. I’m a little surprised to hear from you again.”
“Mr. Sagarian, I’ve presumed terribly on you and I’m very sorry. I’d like to make it up to you. I’m not going to ask any favors, except for advice. You know I got the part in Marty DiGennaro’s new TV show? Well, I’ve practically signed with Sy Ortis, but I was hoping that you would approve before I did. There’s a million-dollar contract involved. Is it the right thing to do?”
Lila listened to Ara breathing at the other end. It was a long moment. Would he take the bait? “You don’t owe me anything, Lila. This is show business. I’m just happy for you that you got the part, and that you have such prestigious representation in Mr. Ortis.”
“You’re a real gentleman. Ara.” She just let the hook dangle. He bit and asked the question. She smiled. “No, I still haven’t signed with Sy.”
“Lila, this is an important step. Let me take you to lunch today, you know, to make up for the way I treated you. Can we say the Polo Lounge at one?”
“Great. I’ll see you then,” she said, and hung up smiling.
For years, the Polo Lounge had been the place for power-broking breakfasts and lunches. But when the Beverly Hills Hotel closed for renovations, others had abandoned it, even after it reopened, refurbished. Ara Sagarian had not. Ara prided himself on his loyalty to anything excellent.
Ara was seated at what was once the most sought-after corner table when Lila arrived at ten after one. He stood with great effort to greet her, and Lila graciously kissed his deflated cheek.
“Thank you so much for the invitation, Ara. I was afraid I had really alienated you.” She leaned forward. “I couldn’t bear that. I think too highly of you.”
Ara smiled. But he was too curious for chitchat. “Lila, how did you get Marty DiGennaro to give you the part in his new series?”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Blood will tell, Ara,” she said.
After a moment, Ara joined her in laughing. “Well, it looks like you have done very well on your own. It hardly seems as if you need representation at all.”
“Except, as you know, there’s a lot more to be done. I’m certain Marty�
��s series will be a major hit, and that will bring in endorsements, movie deals, licensing—millions, I’m told. It’s not just a new series, Ara. It could be an industry. Les Merchant at the Network is really throwing everything into this. I need someone I can rely on. Someone I can be sure would watch out for my best interests. The way you did for my mother.” Lila lowered her eyes. “Is Sy Ortis the man, Ara?”
He reached out an ancient claw and took her hand in his. “I’d be afraid to tell you yes, my dear,” he said.
Lila fluttered her lashes.
“I was afraid of that! You know, I didn’t like what you did to me at first, but after my ego repaired, well, I respect the loyalty you showed my mother. Even though she doesn’t bring you in much money anymore, you still stood up for your client.” Lila looked directly into Ara’s eyes and added, “I like that.” Lila watched as Ara adjusted himself in his chair. He took up a spotless linen handkerchief and delicately dabbed at his mouth, wiping the spittle away. The next move was his, and she could see he knew it.
“I’m not sure you can expect the same commitment from Sy Ortis,” he told her gently. “But you say you haven’t signed with him yet?”
“No, I haven’t,” Lila said blandly, and picked at her salad.
“Well, then…” Ara faltered. Lila remained silent. She wouldn’t want to make this one bit easier for him.
“Well,” Ara began again. He licked his lips. Yes, Lila thought. Yes. The old bastard is going to go for it. He’s not so old or so sick that he can pass up the action. When was the last time he signed on a new, hot talent? “Since you haven’t yet signed with Sy Ortis, perhaps it’s time we talked about a relationship.” Ara dipped a spoon into his gazpacho and brought it unsteadily to his mouth. “Let’s see, there are the endorsements, as you say, and future movie projects. There’s already a lot of buzz on this project. We should start putting out feelers for something for you to do during your first hiatus. And there’ll be contracts, contracts, contracts. Oh, the list is interminable. By the way, has anyone read your contract with Marty yet? You should have all sorts of options in it. There are a number of ‘what-if situations that one couldn’t possibly anticipate, unless, of course, one had been through it with others for years and years.”
“Unless one was someone like you?” Lila asked, just to set the hook firmly before she began reeling him in.
“Not someone like me, my dear. Me!” Ara said, and dabbed at the corner of his mouth.
“But I thought Mother wouldn’t let you take me on. She’d be furious,” Lila said.
“I’ll handle Theresa,” Ara told her. “After all, she’s not so active now, and there would be no conflict.”
“I’m afraid it would come down to an ‘It’s her or me,’ Ara,” Lila said, and she felt a delicious thrill. Would it really be this easy?
“Theresa would never be so foolish as to force my hand in that way.”
“I’m not talking about Theresa, Ara. I’m talking about myself. If you were to be my agent, you would have to drop Theresa O’Donnell.”
Ara put his spoon down and held the linen napkin to his mouth. He stared at Lila. For the briefest, most horrible moment, she felt the line go slack between them. But the bait was too rich, the hook too deeply set. Ara, the dying old shark, had smelled fresh blood in the water. Lila almost laughed out loud as she watched him struggle and then succumb. “I understand, Lila. Of course. I’ll do it as delicately as possible.”
Lila gave Ara a brilliant smile, then turned in her seat and called over a hovering waiter. “Bring Mr. Sagarian a telephone.” Lila continued to look at him as the phone was jacked in and placed at his good right side. “I’m not particularly concerned with the delicacy, Ara, but rather the timing. I’d like you to show me some loyalty. Now, Ara. Call her now. You know her number.”
Ara, staring at Lila almost mesmerized, picked up the receiver, dialed the number, then reached into his pocket and pulled out yet another pristine handkerchief to wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth. At last he tore his eyes away. Had she actually seen shame in them? Lila sat back and listened, the smile still on her face. “Theresa, please,” he almost whispered, and Lila imagined Estrella going to the Puppet Mistress with the phone. “Theresa,” he asked. “It’s Ara. And I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Lila listened to Ara’s side of the conversation as if it were a wonderful dream. It was a more sumptuous sweet than the Polo Lounge’s famous white-chocolate mousse.
When Ara had finished and hung up, Lila leaned over to him and patted his good cheek. “Now, that’s taken care of,” she said with satisfaction. “What would you like for dessert?”
15
It was a rat race, Sy Ortis thought as he drove his Bentley Turbo R out of the canyon. And there were a lot of different kinds of rats. Sy always thought of “RAT” as an acronym for “Regulars,” “Assholes,” and “Talents.” It was his little code, his theory of life, almost.
The Regulars were in the vast majority—all the poor nine-to-five working stiffs, all the guys in dull businesses, the insurance agents, the waitresses and waiters, the IBM salesmen, the guys who worked in tool and die shops—all of them were Regulars: consumers of the dream machine that Ortis helped to create. Regulars watched other people’s dreams and nightmares on big screens and small ones while they lived their boring lives, too unimaginative even for good dreams of their own. In Hollywood, they were called “the flyovers”—the masses between the coasts.
“Talents” were Ortis’ clients. The special people, the ones who dreamed big enough to entrance the Regulars. So many Regulars, so few Talents. Christ, how boring was it when most people started in with “I had the most interesting dream last night”? Balls. It was only the Talents, with their weirdnesses, their visions, their little streaks of eccentricity, that really were interesting. Ortis worked with the most interesting people in the world. Writers who wrote down great dreams, actors and actresses who looked like great dreams, directors who could put the two together and create great dreams.
Yeah, sometimes the Talents were difficult, sometimes they got fucked up on coke, into bad debt with the IRS, into trouble with their marriages, but, hey, they produced. Sy knew how to handle Talents. And he had almost nothing to do with Regulars.
It was the Assholes in the middle that gave him trouble. The ones who thought they were Talents and wouldn’t fuckin’ let up on you until you had to crush them and wipe them off your shoe bottom like the dog shit they were. Sy’s biggest problem was unloading an Asshole he’d mistaken for a Talent, and his worst nightmare was the revenge of a Talent he’d treated like an Asshole.
That Morelli character was giving him trouble now. A definite Asshole. Got the pilot, fucked it up, couldn’t go the distance. So why didn’t he just crawl back into the hole that he’d crawled out of? Instead of fuckin’ driving Sy crazy with his phone calls and his crazy letters and his ambushes outside the office. Him and every other Asshole.
But Morelli wasn’t really a problem. Sy was virtually certain the guy was a true Asshole. As long as the fucker didn’t have a gun, Sy could give two shits what the little weasel thought or said.
April Irons, on the other hand, she was a Talent. A big Talent. So big that now she almost ran International Studios, one of the last big ones in the movie business. And Sy, to his eternal shame and grief, had mistaken her for an Asshole. He’d fucked her bad on a Marty DiGennaro deal, back in the days when you could fuck April over and live, and the bitch would never forget it. Christ, back then how was he supposed to know that gashes could run studios?
So, though he would go to a screening of Crystal Plenum’s latest movie, produced by April, he knew he’d be seated back with the dog shit. That was despite being Crystal’s agent and, he reminded himself, the most powerful man-behind-the-scenes in all of Hollywood. It was just that April was powerful in front of the scenes, too, and the bitch never forgave, never forgot.
Of course, neither did Sy. But he was at the mercy of his Tale
nts. It was an agent’s lot in life. And it pissed him off big-time that Marty, his guy, his resident genius director, was not only doing this stupid television gig, but had gone out and hired one of the little bitches for the goddamn thing without even consulting him. Marty’s latest “find” was already represented by that dying old dragon lady Ara Sagarian, or so he had heard. Ara had represented her mother. Now there was nothing Sy could do about it, except suck his own dick. Instead, he reached for the inhaler on the seat beside him. He’d make Milton Glick pay for this. Okay, Milt had brought in the blonde and they’d tied her up, but Marty himself had also found the other actress, the Melrose one. Sy absolutely had to sign her: two out of three would give him the majority of representation, if not the unanimity he had craved.
Well, at least Glick had come through with that hillbilly. It had been and, he saw, would continue to be, easy as pie with her. Sign here, do this, move there, smile nice. Why couldn’t it always be so easy?
The phone in his car rang and he winced, reached over, and lifted it from the receiver. Jesus, he hated to talk on the phone and drive at the same time. It made him nervous, and that made the asthma kick in worse. He sighed. “Hello?”
“Mr. Ortis? It’s Michael McLain on the line,” his own secretary’s voice told him. “Can I patch him through?”
“Yes.” There were a series of clicks and squawks. Sy almost went up on the divider at the Burbank exit. Jesus Cristos!
“Mr. Ortis? Michael McLain is on the line.” This time, it was Michael’s secretary. Michael still made you hold for him. Well, those days will be ending soon if he makes another goddamn flop like Akkbar.
“I know that, goddamn it!”
“Hey, you old Spanish son-of-a-bitch. How goes it?” Sy swerved to avoid a Toyota Tercel that nearly cut him off. Sure. He was driving a nine thousand dollar piece of shit. What did he care. Sy almost dropped the phone, recovered it, and tried to inhale.
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