He didn’t like her tone, or her attitude. Whoever got me the job? He felt his anger boil up in him. “Hey, bitch,” he said, “my talent gets me jobs. My agent arranges details. My agent is Sy Ortis. And I haven’t gotten all the details from him yet. We’ll be having a meeting after the shoot today. And I’ll mention your name. So thanks,” he said, and walked away.
He grabbed his script from the table, and began to look for his part. Whale shit. Once again he was playing a part as low as whale shit was on the bottom of the ocean. “FIRST WAITER” was yellow-highlighted. Jesus, who the fuck is Second Waiter? he asked himself. Whoever is is lower than whale shit, he answered. Not that that made him feel any better. The bitch was right, he thought as he finished looking over his lines. Under four. Well, at least that means no agent’s commission. But if Sy doesn’t even get a piece of this, why did he bother? What the fuck is going on? He looked over the part. The lines aren’t even funny.
“How’re you doing?” a voice said from behind him. “I’m Todd Shanley, Second Waiter.” A big smile on his too-broad, too-tanned face. “I’m a friend of Ronnie’s from school. Northwestern.”
For Chrissakes, doesn’t anyone in this town fill out an application for a job and take a test? No, he told himself, nobody does. Not even secretaries. “Nice to have pull,” Neil said to the kid. “Who do you have to blow to get five lines?”
“Who do you blow?” Todd tossed back, still smiling.
Neil felt his scalp tingle, constricting under the mounting anger. “I been fucking Ronnie Wagner three, four times a week for a couple of years now. If I get real good at it, she said she’s gonna get me an even bigger part next season.” Neil pushed away from the wall, and began to walk toward the public phone, ignoring Todd’s dropped jaw.
He dialed the now unfamiliar number of Sy’s office. But the still-familiar secretary-from-hell spoke first. “Hey, Laura, let me speak to him. I want to thank him for getting me this job.” Neil forced himself to smile. Amazingly, without a wait, he was put through. He spoke into the phone again. “Sy, hey, thanks for the gig, man. I really appreciate it. No, really, I know I’ve been a ball-buster…okay, a prick…but I just wanted to tell you, I really appreciate this chance.” Neil paused. “Especially since you don’t get a piece of it, since it’s a four-and-under.”
Neil waited for Sy to say something, but he didn’t. “I’ll make it up to you, Sy. Just wait. I promise. I’ll turn this bit into a continuing character in three episodes, mark my words. But, Sy, tell me, is there anyone else I should thank? I mean, how did you get the spot for me? I don’t want to appear ungrateful to anyone, you know, so how did it come about?” He paused, and listened while Sy both wheezed asthmatically and sucked on his medicine. What was he mumbling?
“Marty DiGennaro? Shit, if I had known he was in the audience, I would have been good. But that’s great to hear. The director liked my bit at the club. Except, if I was so good, I mean…” He paused again. “…how come he didn’t give me any funny lines?” Sy mumbled something else, warning him to take it slow, to behave. The usual bullshit.
“Sure, sure. You’re right. I can be as patient as the next guy. And thanks again, Sy.”
Ronnie, the AD with attitude, called everyone together on the set, the interior of a hippie restaurant. Neil’s heart started pounding as he saw the three stars of the show cross the floor from their dressing rooms to the set. He wasn’t a fan type, but they really were spectacular. Neil hadn’t been prepared for this reaction. He had made it a point not to watch the most-watched show in America, just because it was, and also because the dynasty-kid was on it, Lila Kyle. But when he got the gig, one of the guys he worked with had provided Neil with the tapes of every show since day one, and Neil had spent a brain-numbing twenty-four hours watching them on a borrowed VCR. He would have assumed that he had been desensitized to the three beauties, but instead he found himself gaping. He hated to admit it, but Lila was even more beautiful in person than on-screen. And the other two weren’t chopped liver.
Marty DiGennaro joined them, and immediately got down to work. Neil hardly had time to be impressed by the guy, who was almost as short and skinny as he was. Neil started to relax. When there was a moment’s silence, he even filled it with a little joke. The blocking was going well until Lila finally looked at his face. “Wait a minute,” she said, stopping rehearsal. “Don’t I know you?”
“I’ve never had the pleasure, Ms. Kyle. I’m Neil Morelli,” he said, smiling, holding out his hand, then dropping it to his side. His face colored. Everyone on the set was looking. But, hey, she was gorgeous.
“That’s what I thought. I heard about you. You’re the guy that has a lot to say about families in the business. It’s nice to see you’re not too righteous to make money off them, though.”
Neil noticed Sharleen Smith wince and avert her eyes and fold her arms across her chest, and Jahne Moore take a tentative step forward, then stop. “I work when I can, Ms. Kyle.”
Sharleen came over and introduced herself. “Glad to have you on board, Neil. I heard you’re very funny.” Jahne Moore was right behind her. She patted him quickly on the shoulder, then moved away.
The tension on the set was real. And Neil became more and more agitated the closer he got to doing his bit. In the first take, Lila stepped on his lines, then glared at him like he made the mistake. Then, for the second take, she jostled him with her elbow, and accused him of being off his mark. Neil wanted to strangle the bitch. He was so on edge, he was sure he was going to make a real mistake now. This witch was working on him.
They tried a third take, then a fourth—too many tries for a simple line. Neil started sweating, certain this was going to do him in. Sure enough, “I want a conference, Marty,” she said, as she walked over to him. Neil heard Lila say, as he was meant to, “Get this guy off the set.” But, this time, Marty shook his head, and walked away. Jesus, what do I do now? Neil knew that everyone’s eyes would be on him, his every move scrutinized. And right there he made a vow to himself. Someday, he’d kill Lila Kyle. But in the meantime, he’d save face.
He tried to lighten the tension, and leaned over to Sharleen. “Was Lila ever a nun? She reminds me of my third-grade teacher.”
“Oh, no,” Sharleen said without the slightest glimmer of a smile. “She’s been in show business all her life.”
“It’s not enough I have the Birth of a Star audition today, but now I have to put up with that asshole? Marty, I’m a nervous wreck. I can’t work with him here. I’m too upset.” She held her forehead in one hand, as if she had a bad headache.
“Fine. Let’s finish the take so you can prepare yourself for your audition. Forget about the guy, Lila.”
“I can’t forget about him, for Christ’s sake, Marty. He’s the bastard who puts me down, compares me to Tori Spelling! He’s upsetting everyone. Look at the expression on Jahne’s face.”
She saw Marty turn to Jahne, then back to her. “You’re right, Lila. Okay? Now, go along with me on this one. Then I’ll even help you with your script for the audition.”
“Get him off the set,” she said, making sure her voice was loud enough to carry. She wanted the worm to know, when he got canned, who was responsible.
Marty shook his head. “I can’t, Lila. I owe someone. I have to keep him for one episode, at least.” Then he turned from her and rejoined the cast.
Lila felt humiliated. Everyone had heard her demand the guy be kicked off. And now everyone knew Marty had said no to her. He didn’t usually do that, but this time was more than she could tolerate. To take this guy’s side over her! This little weasel, this ferret! Everyone knew what his comedy routine was. Lila had heard the crew snicker over some of the lines from Neil’s act. She cursed Neil, and cursed Marty.
She pushed it from her mind. I’ve got other things I have to handle today, she thought. The big part, my chance of a lifetime. A part in Birth of a Star. Time enough to deal with the Neil Morellis of the world. After today, when s
he got the part. After today, when she would be more famous than her mother. Wait until April Irons sees me. Marty says I can be good. But I know I will be great. Then, then I’ll step on the cockroaches. Lila flounced off to her trailer and jerked open the door.
It was comparatively dark inside, and she didn’t bother to turn on the light. The darkness and the coolness were a relief after the hot lights. She began to tear off her sweaty blouse and underwire brassiere. The goddamn thing felt as if it was cutting holes in her rib cage. Then she unzipped the buckskin jeans that she wore and let them drop to the floor.
“Excuse me…” a heavily accented voice said out of the darkness. “I vas just leaving your new costume…”
Lila clutched at herself, bending over and trying to hide her body. She scrabbled in the dim light for a towel, a robe, anything to cover herself with. What the fuck was anyone doing in her trailer?
Mai Von Trilling handed her a cotton cover-up from the hook next to her dressing table. Lila snatched it from her hand and struggled into it, tearing a sleeve as she viciously pushed her arm through the armhole. “What the fuck are you doing here?” she screamed. “Who gave you permission to spy on me?”
“I’m very sorry, I vas only…”
“You were only snooping. Did Jahne tell you to look through my things? Have you taken anything?” The skinny old bitch was backing out the door. Did she think that was it? Did she think she was going to get away with this? Did everybody think they could treat Lila Kyle like shit and get away with it? Lila followed her to the door and began calling for Marty.
“That’s it! THAT’S IT! I want this bitch fired! I mean it, Marty.”
The crew all turned to see the commotion. Jahne, Marty, and a few others ran toward the door. By now, Jahne could see that Lila was out of control. She was raving. “Goddamn it! How many times do I have to tell the old cunt that I want some fucking privacy?” Lila was screaming. “Tell the wrinkled bitch to keep her fucking nose out of my ass!”
Mai’s face was pale, and Jahne could see tiny beads of sweat on her forehead and under her nose. “My God, and she eats vith that mouth!” Mai said, and, for a moment, Jahne had to smile.
17
Michael McLain had already given the photos of Sharleen to Sy. Next he sent over the video of Jahne Moore and himself. But either he had to bed Lila or fake a photo of it to save face and get top billing from Ricky Dunn.
Well, he figured, the other two proofs were legit; so what if he had to fabricate the third? Any tall, young hooker with a long red wig and a fuzzy focus ought to be enough. After all, how much could Sy expect? Close-ups?
But, somehow, this whole adventure left a bad taste in his mouth. It wasn’t that he cared about that bitch Lila, or Sharleen. He had actually liked Jahne—she was smart and funny—but had sensed that she wasn’t either smitten with him or overeager to please. And Michael liked his women to be both. Plus, there were those scars. Unsightly, almost ghoulish, but so secretive as to be almost erotic. And Michael didn’t believe for a moment that they were from an accident. For one thing, they were too symmetrical. For another, what kind of accident causes incisions on the inside of thighs, or across the pelvic girdle, or under each buttock? Clearly, she had had plastic surgery, but how much could she have had? After all, a girl her age is too young for most of those operations.
He wrinkled his brow, then reminded himself to stop. After all, it wasn’t worth a collagen treatment to him. Well, he could give up Jahne Moore. No problem. And, despite her bitchiness, he’d concentrate on Lila. Let word get back to Sy that they were an item. He smoothed his forehead and then dialed Lila’s number.
She was weird. She certainly didn’t seem to desire him. But she did seem, in some ways, eager to please. Michael knew her type: she wanted his help, his influence, but she didn’t seem willing to come across with the standard quid pro quo. Michael was tempting her with two apples: a part in Birth, or in the Ricky Dunn thing. She seemed eager for either. And if he got her in on the Dunn thing, it would be one more person on his side. Then she’d have to come across.
Occasionally, just for a change of pace, Michael enjoyed fucking a woman who didn’t want to fuck him. It added spice to a sex life that could otherwise be compared to shooting ducks in a barrel. Having a young and reluctant woman go down on him had a distinctive pleasure all its own. The last time he had done it—aside from the little dust-up with Sharleen Smith—had been when he promised a small part in a film to his friend Bob’s fiancée in return for a blow job on the morning of her wedding. She didn’t want to, but he knew how much she wanted the part. After she’d serviced him, he’d stood over her and asked if she’d liked it.
“No,” she said, wiping her mouth, tears filling her eyes.
“Well. You weren’t supposed to,” he told her and, shrugging, zippered his fly.
So perhaps Lila would, in the end, reluctantly, coldly, come across. And maybe Michael would really enjoy that most of all. He’d promise her a part in the Ricky Dunn movie and make it clear how the deal stood.
Jahne sat in the big, overstuffed chair in her suite at the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel. She was camped there temporarily until she found a new place to live and had it vetted by La Brecque. It was very luxurious camping. The phone that rang at her elbow was one of six in the two vast rooms: there was another on the desk, one on each of the two bedside tables, and extensions beside the bathtub shower and toilet. Jahne wondered who actually talked to friends or business associates as they washed their armpits or relieved themselves. The bathroom itself was splendid, and larger than her whole New York apartment had been. It was white marble, and in addition to two sinks, the loo, and the deep, almost pool-sized tub, there was a separate steam-and-shower stall with more jets than she could count, a makeup table that looked like something out of a Jean Harlow movie, and a dressing area complete with walk-in closets, three-way mirrors, and a white chaise longue.
“The nominations are in,” Sy announced over the phone, a trace of triumph in his voice.
Jahne remembered that the Emmy nominations, formally known as the awards of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences, were being announced this week. “So, how did we do?” she asked. Although by now she had little regard for Industry awards, the cast and crew of Three for the Road had worked so hard. It wasn’t what she had hoped it would be, but the show deserved something.
“You mean you haven’t heard yet? You got it.”
“I got it? Well, I’ll be damned.” Jahne thought back to her days off-Broadway, to Jack and Jill and the Obie award she had received for her performance. Her friends at St. Malachy’s had rejoiced, and she had, too. And Sam. Back then, everyone was forecasting a rosy future for her.
“But what about the show? What about the rest of the cast?” she asked again.
“Forget about the show for a minute, Jahne. Forget about the others. You have been nominated for an award—an Emmy Award. What, six months in television? Do you realize what that does for your career? With your talent and an Emmy nomination? Maybe even the award itself? Vaboom, kid. We’ll be flooded with offers.” Jahne winced. She had told Sy about the audition for Birth. And the offer. But not that she was determined to do it. He would only try to talk her out of it.
“Sy, I’m grateful for the recognition, I really am. But, you know, ‘you’re only as good as your last, et cetera.’” She laughed. “In a year or two, if I come begging you to get me a part somewhere—and I might be begging, you know that, too—I want you to remember this conversation. And when I say, ‘After all, I’ve had an Emmy nomination,’ I don’t want you to tell me, ‘Yeah, but what have you done lately?’ Okay, Sy?”
Now it was Sy’s turn to laugh. “You’re very cynical for such a young woman.”
“I prefer to think that I keep things in perspective.”
“Well, I hope Sharleen keeps it in perspective. She’s been nominated, too.”
“Both of us? No kidding.”
“No kidding. And
Lila, too.”
“All three of us have been nominated?” Typical. Just in case there weren’t already enough stories about the competition between the three of them. Jesus! Hollywood! This would not lessen tensions on the set.
“Listen, Sy, did you go over the contract for Birth of a Star?”
“Listen, yourself: I have three better offers for you.”
“Forget it, Sy. Do you have the contract?”
“Yes.”
“Great. That’s all I care about. Because I’m going to do the film. Don’t say one more word about it. So, are you going to call Sharleen with the good news?”
“Yes.” She could hear his silent fuming.
“Great. I’ll call to congratulate her, too.” But before she could, the phone shrilled again. She lifted it to her ear, and almost dropped it when she heard Sam Shields’ voice.
“Congratulations.”
“Good news travels fast!” She laughed.
“How are you going to celebrate?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How about lunch with your director on Friday?”
“No,” she teased. “I hate eating with Marty.”
He laughed. “Your film director. Have you signed the contract?”
“I will by then,” she promised.
“Great! Then we have two things to celebrate! Friday at the Getty Museum? One o’clock?”
Back in New York, Sam often made dates to meet in the museum cafeterias. Inexpensive and usually beautiful, although the food was rarely artful. The more things change, the more they remain the same, she thought. “One o’clock,” she agreed, and held the phone to her ear long after he had hung up.
Sharleen hung up her phone and turned to Dean.
“What’s the matter, Sharleen? You look like something’s wrong.”
Dean was watching The Andy Griffith Show, the episode where Aunt Bee enters her pickles in the contest. Sharleen knew he’d seen it a thousand times, that he knew that Andy and Opie hated her pickles and had replaced them with store-bought, and that, when Aunt Bee won the contest, they’d have to tell her. Dean knew all that, too, but he was watching as if for the first time. Sharleen sighed.
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