Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “What’s up, Mike?” he asked. He knew that Michael hated to be called Mike.

  “Listen, I wondered about what was going down with Addison and that script I liked.”

  Sy sighed. No way that Rex Addison was going to star Michael in his next action picture. For chrissake, Rex was only twenty-eight. He grew up watching Michael McLain movies. To Rex, Michael was an old fart. And the bullshit about Michael always doing his own stunts was bought by the civilians, but Rex was savvy.

  “Jeez, I think we can do much better than that,” Sy said. “The script has no style, no cachet.”

  “Fuck the cachet. Addison’s last three had legs. I can give it the style.”

  In a pig’s ass. “Listen, Mike, I have something much better. A buddy flick. Something I saw this week that’s perfect.”

  “And who’s my buddy?” Michael asked, suspiciously.

  “Ricky Dunn.”

  “Who?”

  Michael knew perfectly well who Ricky Dunn was. He’d had two unbelievable big ones. People magazine had voted him “the sexiest man alive.” Sy slowed to avoid an old man just in time. “He’s signed to play a rookie architect in that new Benson thing.”

  “Great. And I’m the geezer who shows him how to build a skyscraper? Fuck that.”

  “Michael, there comes a point in a man’s career when he has to broaden…”

  “I get top billing. My name alone over the title.”

  Sy knew it was impossible. Hell, Michael probably knew it was impossible. Although you never could tell: these guys’ egos were so big they often lost touch with reality. Sy reached for his inhaler. “Listen, compadre, why would you want to cut off your nose that way? Might as well bring in all the Ricky Dunn fans, too.” Sy knew that there was no way that Ricky would give up top billing. Why should he? Michael, on the other hand, hadn’t had a solid hit in three years. He should be grateful for a chance like this. Sy knew he had to move him in that direction. Because if he could sell Michael on this, he could make a fortune off of packaging the deal—he also represented his client Benson and the crappy script.

  “Mike,” he began in a reasonable tone, “this is a real opportunity. Bob Redford asked to see the script.”

  “Look, don’t start to tell me that playing second banana to a new kid on the block is broadening,” Michael screamed.

  “Look at Paul Newman,” Sy began again.

  “Paul Newman is almost seventy fucking years old. I’m forty-six.”

  “Michael, you’re fifty-three, and everyone knows it but you.”

  “Look, I still act as well as I ever did. I still fuck as well. Better, even.”

  “I, thank God, would have no way of knowing that,” Sy said. He slammed on the brakes, nearly hitting his head on the windshield and almost rear-ending the motherfucker in the Benz in front of him. Madre di Dios, the roads had been taken over by assholes! And he was driving a car that cost more than most people’s homes. He sighed. “Listen, just do me a favor. Think about the Ricky Dunn movie. It’s just what you need now.”

  “Fuck you!” Michael screamed, and hung up on him. Sangre de los Santos, did it have to be this hard? Michael had been in a slump lately, and he was aging, but he was still important, and Sy wanted him as a client, at least for another year or two. Sy felt himself begin to gasp for air and reached across the seat again to his inhaler. Okay, he admitted to himself. He was upset. Normally he didn’t let little things like this bother him. After all, he was riding high. He was the consummate deal-maker in Hollywood. April Irons might be powerful, and very visible, but she wasn’t in his league. No one was.

  Back in the twenties, it was men like Lasky and Mayer who ran the Industry: the big studio bosses were sultans, with the power of screen life or death over their stable of performers. Then, in the late forties, things began to change. The stars began going independent, and the studio system began breaking down. But no star, no matter how popular, had overwhelming power. It was only by controlling dozens of them that Warner or Mayer had stayed on top, and none of the studios today could afford to pay dozens of big stars.

  But agents didn’t pay stars. They were paid by them. It was a perfect setup. The more talent you represented, the more power you had, and the more money you made. So a series of superagents arose. In the forties, it was Lew Wasserman and Leland Hayward; in the fifties and sixties, it was Lew Wasserman and Ara Sagarian; in the seventies, it was Lew Wasserman and Sue Mengers; in the eighties it was Mike Ovitz. Now, Sy thought with a smile, laying down his inhaler, now, it’s me. The next Lew Wasserman.

  He told himself he should be happy. More than happy. Rich. Because Sy Ortis had a secret. Well, he had many of them, but he had one very big secret. It was that he had also kept the bodega, as his grandma used to tell him.

  When he was little, it was his grandmother who had raised him and his five sisters. Tía Maria, as everyone in the neighborhood called her, ran the local bodega, and the rest of the neighborhood. And it was his grandmother who had taught him more about business than Wharton ever could have.

  “Pepito, if I was Rockefeller,” she’d say, staring deep into Sy’s eyes, “I would be richer than Rockefeller. You know why?”

  He shook his head.

  “Because I’d also keep the bodega.”

  Now Sy, on his way to being as rich as Rockefeller, had come up with a bodega of his own. It was too hard to make a living simply by peddling bodies to producers and taking his percentage while they got rich. Sure, when it worked, it worked big. But Sy understood from the very beginning in the Industry that he should also try to keep the bodega.

  So he did. He had started a dummy corporation—two, actually. One of them sold scripts—all bought cheap, mostly useless—to many of his stars’ development companies and to studios. The other bought up merchandising rights from his clients for as little as one dollar, and sold them for a hell of a lot more. A conflict of interests? Perhaps. But very, very profitable. And nothing had ever been as big as the potential on this deal with Flanders Cosmetics. The girls signed up for Three for the Road were going to be pitched like a product to America, and unless he was loco en la cabeza they were going to be bought faster than condoms in a whorehouse.

  Now Sy was only a few blocks from his office. He sailed through a red light and turned onto the wide avenue. He sighed with relief. Well, sometimes it was easy. At least that cornpone blonde had been signed easily, and could be big. Real big. Sharleen Smith. She was an extraordinary-looking girl. Glick had pulled that one out of his ass.

  But it was still a constant struggle to stay on top of the slippery pile. Sy mourned the fact that he’d lost the redhead. He tried to take a deep breath. One step at a time. All he had to do today was sign this New York actress of Marty’s, convince Michael McLain to do the Ricky Dunn movie, and then eat April Irons’ dirt at the premiere. That, and manage to breathe.

  Jahne sat across the desk from Sy Ortis, watching him while he talked on the phone. Christ, she hated these smarmy bastards. Flesh peddlers, she thought. Pimps. An evil in the Industry, but, she admitted reluctantly, a necessary evil. She didn’t want to be here. But Marty had suggested she see Ortis. And what Marty suggested, Jahne would do. On the set, off the set, anything Marty said, she did. Well, almost anything.

  “That was Michael McLain,” he said. No apology for keeping her waiting, as if the name alone was explanation enough. “Now, where was I?” he asked.

  “You were telling me what you would be able to do for me if you were my agent.” Jahne paused. “Let me ask, how long have you worked for Michael McLain?”

  “With Michael,” Sy corrected. “Maybe ten, twelve years. Why?”

  “That means he came to you as a big star already. You didn’t discover him, make his career. It was already on track.” She watched Sy adjust the sleeves of his shirt under the Armani jacket. Although Sy’s firm was called Early Artist Recognition Ltd., they didn’t usually spot new stars. They exploited the hell out of established ones. Som
e people said Sy had insisted on the name so he could call himself the duke of Earl.

  “He was working, if that’s what you mean. But he vasn’t rich, which is where I come in. He could have made a good living for life without me, don’t get me wrong. But rich?” Sy chuckled to himself. “Nah, that was me.” He looked into her eyes. “And I could do that for you, too—may I call you Jahne? Rich and famous.” He kept his eyes on her, and a smile on his face.

  Jahne knew that he was right. He had made Michael richer and more famous. And other people as well. And wasn’t that what she wanted, after all? Money and fame? Those gave you power to get the roles you wanted. “The money is, of course, important. Enough to make me independent. But fame? Well, I’d like to have enough of a reputation as an actress to be able to pick and choose my roles, take only the ones I want. That would make me happy.”

  “You mean like Meryl Streep?”

  Was that a sneer Sy had on his lips? “Exactly. Like Meryl Streep,” Jahne said.

  Sy got up from behind the desk and came around in front, then sat with one buttock on the corner, his hands folded in front of him. “Except, Jahne, no one ever really gets to that point. Not even Meryl Streep. She has choice among some roles, but, nevertheless, she took the part in She-Devil. You remember that big bomb? And Death Becomes Her? Worse. Now, why would a talented, established actress take a role like that, risk her box office?” Sy leaned forward. “Let me esplain.” For a moment, his accent slipped. “An agent is more than a contract negotiator. He should be a career maker. Someone advised Meryl wrong, and, talented as she is, she still didn’t have the objectivity to really know a hit when she saw it. Someone like Meryl will bounce back. But maybe not quite so high as before.”

  Jahne was beginning to see his point. It was, after all, pretty much the point Marty had made when he suggested she see Sy. “So that’s where a good agent comes in?” she asked, saving Sy from having to point out the obvious.

  “Exactly. And not just a good agent. A good businessman. Someone who can see the big picture, who has enough of an overview of the Industry to know where the placement should be, and with whom, and when. And someone who can read the fine print of a contract. Protect your interests. And that’s me. That’s what I do. That’s what I do for Michael McLain and all the others.” He swept his hand across a wall of pictures of famous people. “And that’s what I will do for you. Just say the word,” he said, his hands open, waiting for Jahne’s answer.

  Jahne was committed to acting, but she was no fool. She put aside her prejudices and extended her hand to Sy. “It’s a deal,” she said.

  “Michael McLain on line one, Mr. Ortis,” his receptionist said over the intercom.

  Sy kept his hand on the phone for a moment before picking it up. Shit, he thought, this is all I need. Now what the fuck does he want? Although the meeting with Jahne Moore had, in the end, gone very well, and he now had her as a client, he was pissed. It always got him pissed, pitching a new client. And she’d been uppity. She needed to be brought down a notch or two. By the time they agreed to sign on the bottom line, she had pushed his ass as far as it could go, taking all the fun out of the triumph. Now Michael would drive him nuts. He sighed and lifted the receiver.

  “Michael, you’re calling to say you’re going to do the Ricky Dunn movie, right?”

  “Maybe. I just thought of something we haven’t discussed yet. Okay?”

  Sy leaned his head on one hand, suddenly feeling tired. “Do you want me to guess, or are you going to tell me?”

  “I get the girl. Not Dunn. Me. And my name above the title? Right?”

  Now Sy’s head fell forward onto his hands. This guy is going to fuckin’ kill me. “I’ll have to talk to his people.”

  “You are his people! Anyway, I get top billing and I get the girl. Then I’ll consider it.”

  “Michael, it’s a very special screenplay. You won’t be the main love interest, you understand? We can’t have the Olivier of the screen making love to a nineteen-year-old. It would be ludicrous. Your fans expect someone more sophisticated for you.” Sy felt his wheeze coming on. Now he was really winging it. “You know,” he continued, “the name above the title is usually for the guy who gets the girl. But your name will be bigger—way bigger—than his.”

  “What the fuck do you mean, ‘ludicrous’? I fuck nineteen-year-olds all the time, Sy. You should know that. I got them coming out of the woodwork, for chrissakes. Ludicrous!”

  Sy was feeling pushed. Normally, no matter how much he wanted to push back, he was usually able to control it. But not today. Maybe if that little bitch Jahne Moore hadn’t just sat there, forcing him—Sy Ortis—to make a sales pitch, like a fuckin’ new kid on the block. Jesus, twenty years in the business and a snotnose like her can sit there and interview him. But for Michael he needed patience.

  “It’s ludicrous when there’s a thirty-four-year age difference. It would be like watching Sean Connery fuck Drew Barrymore, Michael.”

  “I fucked her,” Michael said.

  Jesus, Sy thought to himself. Was it true? And who cares? “You did, huh? You’re amazing, Michael. Think you can fuck anyone you want, right?”

  Michael laughed.

  “How about a real challenge, Michael? I bet you can’t fuck all three costars in DiGennaro’s TV show. They’re all kids—maybe nineteen, twenty—but I bet you can’t.”

  “And when I do? What do I get?”

  “I’ll guarantee your name above the title in this project.”

  “And if I don’t?…”

  Sy laughed for the first time during the conversation. “You do this movie without top billing, and the next two I tell you to.”

  Michael paused.

  “Hey, what’s the matter, Michael? There isn’t any real problem for you here, is there? Not Michael McLain, questioning his prowess?”

  “You got a deal, you prick. All three.”

  “Right you are! But I want proof, Michael. Not just war stories. Proof!” Sy hung up. If Michael McLain made Jahne another notch on his belt, it should take her down a notch or two. And if he didn’t, well, he’d have to make Sy’s movies. Sy breathed deeply for the first time that day. Now he felt better.

  16

  Hollywood, like Dante’s hell, has many levels. And rarely, if ever, do they mix, except at work. I—Laura Richie—have been on stage sets, TV sets, movie sets, and location shoots, and, believe me, that is one thing that never changes.

  The technical staff, the boom operators, the other sound men, the camera crews, the lighting designers, the gaffers and best boys and grips all belong to one level. The suits, those businessmen in charge of production, budgets, the front office, publicity, marketing, and the like, all belong on another.

  Then there are the extras: part of the talent, but not really belonging to it. They play the small roles, the crowd scenes, the background, the color.

  And there are the stars. On a successful TV show, the set is built for them, the schedule is designed for them, the catering caters to them. Well, everyone caters to them.

  Lastly, there is the director. Even on the shows where stars actually rule, the director is still on the highest level. But remember: that it is only the highest level of hell.

  The hell is trying to take three hundred people and get them to the right location with the right clothes and the appropriate weather to have the right light, the right script, the right performances, to ensure that whatever is being taped or filmed or (God forbid!) performed live gets performed according to the director’s vision. At least that’s the theory. And on the soundstage of Three for the Road, Marty DiGennaro was going to ensure that that theory was put into practice. He was going to create a show, a wonderful show, that transcended anything that had been done on television before. And to do it, he had only to concentrate on that one thing. Wasn’t it Lanford Wilson who had said that style was nothin’ but always concentrating on one thing?

  Marty had the vehicle for a hit. He had the f
irst three scripts, the cast, and the crew. The only thing, the one thing he might lack, just a little, was concentration.

  Because, since he had met Lila Kyle, it seemed he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  Marty DiGennaro looked across the bustling sound-stage, his laboratory for dream-making. Even now, after all his years of success, it was hard to believe all these toys were his. A funny-looking little Italian kid, growing up in Queens, he’d been too puny to play with the tough kids of his neighborhood. And he’d been lousy in school, a failure with girls, bad at sports, even bad with his hands. He’d escaped, whenever he could, to the safety of the darkness of the movies. The Roxy, the Corona, the Flushing Loews. They’d been his haven, his home, and it was a daily miracle to him that they’d given him this life, this almost perfect life.

  The success, the money, the perks, the opportunity to make movies of his own. All unbelievably lucky. It was only in his private life that things weren’t absolutely perfect. Because it was hard, maybe even impossible, to know who his friends were. Even Joanie, his soon-to-be-ex-wife, had benefited from him, had built her career on his contacts. He hadn’t minded that, but then, when he wanted the child, and wanted her to stay home with Sasha, she left him.

  Now women, other women, virtually any woman was more than available. Eager, even. Too eager. Because, despite his success, his power, his enormous wealth, his contacts, he knew he was still Marty DiGennaro, a skinny, funny-looking Italian kid who was bad with his hands. He suspected all those women were disappointed in his sexual performance, all merely faking their response. Lovemaking was, too often, a burden. And the parade of anonymous lovelies that he’d started seeing since his marriage broke up were rarely asked to return or spend the night. Work, work, and more work was all there was for him. For, just like back in Queens, the only place he was comfortable was in the movies—on a set or a soundstage, except instead of watching magic, now he made it happen.