She sat in the armchair across from Dean and flicked her fingers in a motion for him to switch off the VCR. The room became suddenly quiet. “No, nothing’s wrong, Dean. In fact, everything’s right. I just got an acting nomination. An Emmy nomination.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, waiting for her to continue.
“I wish Momma could know about this,” Sharleen said. “She’d be real pleased, I think.”
Dean nodded, then whistled, and Cara, Crimson, and Clover came over and sat down. “Sharleen won a prize,” he said, and made a clapping noise. The three dogs began to tap their front paws together, like applause. A new trick. Sharleen smiled. Dean always had a way to cheer her up.
“It’s not a prize yet. But Sy says this could help me get my next job.”
“Your next job? I thought you said we have so much money now that you’ll never have to work again?”
Sharleen thought for a moment. “Not how Mr. Ortis explains it. There’s taxes and fees and all kinds of stuff. Anyway, let’s say I did want another job after this, Sy says the nomination would help.”
“What’s a nomination?”
Sharleen tried to sort it out for herself while she explained it to Dean. “All the people in the television business write in to say who they think is the best actress on TV. From those, some people are picked to be nominated for the award. ‘Nominated’ means ‘considered.’ Then they take another vote for only those people, and the one that wins that vote gets the award.”
“So you got an award, Sharleen?” She could see Dean struggling to understand. How could he, when she didn’t understand so well?
“No, I’m one of the people that got picked for the semifinals, like…you know, like in football.”
“Does that mean that you got to go to playoffs?”
“No, honey. There’s nothing more I can do to get the award. The committee is going to vote on past performance.”
“Seems silly to judge people like they’re judging Aunt Bee’s pickles,” Dean said. “People ain’t pickles. But, hey, if there’s nothing more you can do, why do you look so worried?”
And Sharleen agreed, and didn’t know why.
“Who am I up against?” Lila snapped into the phone to Ara. When he didn’t answer right away, she asked again, “Who, Ara? Tell me.”
“Lila, that’s not really important right now, is it? After all, you’ve been nominated for an Emmy,” Ara said.
“It’s only a nomination, Ara.” What was it her mother used to say about nominations? They were like the last ten seconds in a game, the score tied. But only the final score mattered.
Ara didn’t try to stifle the sigh that he now released. “Sharleen Smith and Jahne Moore.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Ara. Those two bimbos? Those nobodies? They’re just supporting players. Dummies. Candy and Skinny. I’m competing with them?” Lila was screaming now.
“Don’t be what we Armenians would call an ‘ashek.’ A jackass. There is no competition, Lila,” Ara said gently. “You can see how it would be a very difficult decision for the Academy to pick one of you out of the three, considering the distribution of the three characters throughout the script.”
“I can see no such fucking thing, Ara. I’ve busted my ass to be an actress. It hasn’t been easy getting work, being the daughter of a star. I’ve had to work twice as hard as anyone else to get where I got. Those two bitches pop up out of nowhere and get made overnight. It just isn’t fair, Ara. And what about Birth of a Star? Still no word?”
“I hear that it’s deep in development hell, Lila. New trouble with the script. You gave a good audition. Now there is nothing more about the Emmys or Birth that you can do.”
Lila slammed down the phone.
She bit the skin on her knuckle. There’s got to be something I can do. Something. For the first time in her new house, Lila felt lonely. She had no one to tell about the nomination, no one to plot with, no one to praise her or admire her.
Lila let her gaze move beyond the glass doors of her house to the ocean beyond. What had she said the day she decided to buy this house? When she’d found it was Nadia Negron’s house. It’s going to bring me luck? Where’s my luck now, Nadia?
Nadia had won one of the first Oscars for her performance in Birth of a Star. Lila had read up on her since she bought this house. But there was something about the award. The other nominees died? No, there was scandal. Gigantic, humongous scandal. It destroyed the other nominees, and ensured Nadia her Oscar.
Now Lila remembered. Nadia Negron had been behind the scandal-mongering, it had been rumored for years. And Lila believed it. Nadia Negron had been powerful. She didn’t just sit and wait. Maybe Nadia could help me. Maybe she would help me.
“I’m going to try to contact Nadia,” she said aloud, as she walked upstairs.
18
Michael McLain literally dragged his feet down the hallway of the Château Martine, doing no good to the seventeen-hundred-dollar Tony Lama hand-painted snakeskin boots he was wearing, for this preliminary meeting with Sy, Lila Kyle, and that little prick Ricky Dunn. No other agent, no lawyers. A family get-together.
He was late, and he didn’t give a fuck. After all, he was the one who had already paid his dues. When this little twenty-three-year-old dickhead manages to stay on top of the slippery pile called Hollywood for twenty years, then he’ll deserve respect. Michael had decided to do the fuckin’ movie—after all, he hadn’t stayed on top this long by being stupid—but the kid would simply have to give him top billing. Like Newman and Cruise in The Color of Money. It was a sign of deference, of respect, and it had done good box office. So he’d do the movie, and Sy would get him top billing. And if playing the mentor instead of the hero made him look old, he’d fix that by having the character he played get the girl. Lila Kyle was wild for the part.
Sy had seen the video of Jahne and the faked Lila photo, and he had been forced to set this meeting up to go over the deal, to allow them all to meet face to face. But already Michael was annoyed. Why the fuck was it held here, instead of Sy’s office, or the production company? The Martine gave him the willies. It was the West Coast equivalent of New York’s Hotel Chelsea: where the hip went to die of overdoses. It was expensive, exclusive, and seedy, and it made Michael very uncomfortable.
He had driven over himself, left the Testarossa with the valet, who looked as if he would immediately fence it off to some East Hollywood chop shop, and now Michael stood outside of Room 711. A lucky number. He straightened himself to his full height, sucked in his gut, and knocked.
Sy opened the door. Weird, but if Sy wanted to play hostess that was up to him.
“Michael!” Sy said, as if he were surprised and deeply pleased to see him. Michael didn’t answer, just kept his gut in and entered.
The room was as shabby as the valet and hallway had been. Limp blue drapes hung a good four inches above the floor; the carpet was blue tweed, one of those speckled jobs erroneously touted not to show the dirt. It did, along with the cigarette burns on the side of the bureaus, the cheap glass ashtrays on the coffee table, and the sofa that looked as if it were covered in Herculon. Other than the sordid furnishings, the room was empty.
“Where the fuck is the little son-of-a-bitch? And where’s Lila?”
“Michael, he called. There was a problem. Something about some looping that wasn’t on target. He’ll be here any minute.”
“He’s late? He’s late for the meeting he set up?” Michael knew he himself was late by almost twenty minutes. That meant the little fuck was going to be half an hour late, or more. “Did he think I was sitting here with my dick in my hands, just praying for his arrival? Did you tell him I was late, too?”
Just then Lila Kyle walked out of the bathroom. Oh, great, now she was witness to his humiliation. Fuck! Michael grimaced. Ortis sighed. “Michael, please. This is no way to begin a picture. He’ll be here any minute. Just…”
Lila smiled at him. “Don’t you want
to talk to me?” she asked.
“Not unless you’re looking for top billing,” Michael cooed.
“Top billing? I’d be happy to be in anything with you,” she said. Christ, he didn’t know when she was worse: when she was doing her fake worship act or exposing her real piranha personality. Well, he wasn’t there to get her a part or make more points for Sy Ortis.
“Michael, this meeting is very important,” Sy said. “Lila wants to meet Ricky, he wants to meet you, and all of us need to talk about a few things. We still have to straighten out the billing…”
“Sy, this is starting to make a deal with Scott Rudin look good,” Michael sneered.
“You know, maybe I should have brought Ara,” Lila said.
“No. No. Not at all. He’s an old man. A sick man. We’ll wait until we have some of this ironed out.”
Michael snorted. Yeah, like when Sy has ironed out a contract to represent Lila. Jesus. Anyway, what needed to be straightened out?
“Straighten it out? I thought you straightened it out already?”
“Well, partly. But there are some issues, valid issues, and this meeting…”
“Just shove this meeting up your ass!” Michael cried, and had begun to walk to the door when it swung open. A tall, cadaverous man, the palest, thinnest guy Michael had ever seen, walked into the room. He was dressed all in black. If Morticia Addams has an anorectic younger brother, this was the guy. Behind him was the little prick, Ricky Dunn, who, Michael noticed immediately, was not so little. The kid was taller than Michael by a good two inches.
Dunn was dressed in a pair of torn and filthy jeans, some kind of T-shirt that looked like camouflage or something, and an oiled canvas duster that must have been out of Wardrobe, used for some stupid Australian-outback movie. The Mickey Rourke look, but clean. He also had on a pair of wraparound sunglasses with mirrored lenses. He didn’t take them off, though the room was dim.
“I’m Shay Wright,” the cadaver said, holding out his hand to Sy, who obviously already knew him but shook it. Michael didn’t make a move, and Shay dropped his skeletal arm. “And this,” he added, “is Ricky Dunn.”
Shay nodded to Ortis and Lila, but Ricky acknowledged none of them. The two of them moved to the sofa and sat down so close together that they looked as if they were joined at the hip. Sy moved an armchair out for Michael and, unwillingly, Michael sat down. Lila smiled at Ricky. Michael noticed that she both licked her lips and tossed her head before crossing her long legs in front of them all. Christ, why didn’t she just spread-eagle?
“We’re sorry we’re late,” Shay said.
“No problem,” Lila purred.
“I just got here myself,” Michael told them. Fuckers.
“Fine, fine,” Sy said. “So, Ricky, everything just about wrapped on Zoom?”
Ricky turned to Shay, bent even closer, and whispered something into his ear. “Mr. Dunn says he’s very pleased with the rough cut.”
Michael couldn’t believe his eyes—or his ears, for that matter. Before he could say anything, Sy continued. “Did you enjoy working with Carpenter? I hear he’s a hell of a director.”
Again, Ricky leaned over and murmured something inaudible into Shay’s ear. Shay nodded. “With all due respect, Mr. Dunn says that Bill Carpenter is a fucking bag of shit who couldn’t direct traffic with a stoplight to help him.”
Sy blinked. Michael definitely saw him blink, but he recovered without a whimper. What a reptile! “Have they picked a release date?”
This time, Shay answered without any tutelage. “Christmas Day.”
Sy nodded. “So, we just love the script for Scraper; don’t we, Michael?”
Michael hunched over to Sy and whispered, “What the fuck is going on?” Lila, still smiling, was following all this with eyes that looked as old as those of the Sphinx.
Sy only shrugged. “We did have a few questions about Buck, the character Michael will play.”
“Might play,” Michael corrected. He was sick of this charade. Why not get to the point? “But, more important than that, we need to talk about the billing.”
“That might be premature,” Sy said, and cleared his throat. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Michael flipped Sy a look.
“I’d expect top billing,” Michael said.
Ricky remained expressionless, as did Shay, but Ricky, once again, began his inaudible murmuring. When he was done, it was Shay’s turn to clear his throat. “Meaning no offense, Mr. Dunn says he would rather fuck Michael Jackson up the ass than take second billing to Mr. McLain. Understand that I’m only speaking for Mr. Dunn when I say that…”
Michael scrambled to his feet, knocking over the coffee table. “Hold it! Hold it. If Mr. Dunn wants to say something, he can fucking well say it for himself. If I hear one more word out of you, you fucking bloodless cadaver, I’ll break you into pieces…”
“No need for that kind of talk,” Sy began. “We’re reasonable people and…”
Without a word from Ricky Dunn, Shay bent forward. “With all due respect, Mr. Dunn says he’ll let you have top billing when you grow tits and fly away.”
“That’s it!” Michael McLain yelled. “I’m fuckin’ out-of-here.” He kicked the table out of his way and walked to the door.
“And fuck you, too,” Shay said sweetly.
Lila ran down out the door of the Martine after Michael. “I guess this means no part for me,” she said, almost breathless when she caught up with him. “Look, I never thought Ricky Dunn was worth shit. But you and me in Birth of a Star…”
Michael handed his claim check to the valet and only then turned to look at her.
“Forget about it,” he said.
She stood, silent for a moment. Then she tossed her long red hair. Like that would help her. Michael snorted.
“Look,” she said, “I thought we had an understanding. We had a deal.”
The Testarossa pulled up, and Michael nearly dragged the valet out of it in his hurry to get in. Only then did he look up at Lila, looming over the low-slung car. “Hey, babe, it was only a verbal. It’s not like I balled you,” he said, and, putting his foot on the gas, he peeled out.
Sy Ortis raised his head and stared at Jahne. “Are you crazy?” he asked, his voice low. “Are you?” he repeated.
He had already tried every rational reason he could think of to dissuade her. Faxed her half a dozen times, both on the set and at the hotel. Harangued her on the phone. Called her into his office for this special meeting. But she wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t cooperate. First Michael blows the meeting with Ricky. Then, in desperation, he wants to do this retread piece of shit for—of all people—April Irons, and now, now, this one, this one he made himself, waltzes in, cool as a frozen daiquiri, and tells him—tells him, mind you, not asks—that she’s going to costar in Birth. Without a preliminary goddamned word to him. He gets the contracts from April, and the whole thing is a fait accompli. Only he looks like an asshole. Well, he’d eat Michael’s shit and Ricky’s, too, if he had to, but he wasn’t going to eat Jahne’s and April’s for dessert.
He reached for his empty inhaler and fondled it as if it were some magic amulet that would make Jahne Moore disappear. “So, are you crazy, or what?” There was only one thing to do. He’d have to scare her. Then, maybe, she’d behave.
She stared back at him, insolently. She was an insolent bitch. Had been from the very beginning. “I don’t think so,” she said.
Sy laughed. “No, I guess you don’t. I guess you think you’re smart, or talented, or some other grandiose, self-inflated horseshit. The next Sarah Bernhardt. Better watch out you don’t become the next Sandra Bernhard.” Sy was so angry, so outraged, that he even slipped, his accent showing. “Well, let me esplain something to you. You aren’t here because you’re talented, or smart, or hardworking, or any of that crap. That doesn’t esplain why you’re here. What you are is lucky. Right now you might be one of the three luckiest bitches on the face of the planet. And you’re t
oo fucking stupid to realize it.”
“I guess that means that you don’t think Birth of a Star is a good idea,” she said coolly.
“Very good. Nice use of sarcasm. Maybe you’re not so stupid.” Sy felt his chest tightening. Hold on there, he told himself. You’re losing control. You got to scare them, but not scare them away. Still, this was outrageous. Sy Ortis, the ultimate deal-maker, cut out of the negotiations, not even consulted. Left out of the deal. By not one but two of his clients. April must be laughing like a hyena in a fun house. Which just about described both her and International Studios. The thought of April Irons was like a band tightening around his chest. When would his secretary get back with his inhaler? Jesus, these bitches!
“Sy, it’s a good deal. They’ve offered me points. Five points is very good.”
“Five points of the net. There’s never any net! Those are monkey points. Even Batman never made a net profit. You want gross points, and on this deal you want nada. You want out.”
“Why?”
“It will stay in development hell forever. There still isn’t a shooting script. And you have only ten weeks’ hiatus. This will take twice as long to film, if it ever gets made. Plus, it’s just not right for you.”
He tried to calm himself. “Listen, Jahne,” he said with a wheeze. “I’m talking to you the way I would to my own daughter. You can’t have your cake and eat it, too. And the show is the biggest thing on TV. It’s the biggest thing that’s ever been on TV. It may save a fucking network. You’re at the very best place you could possibly be. So why risk Birth? There isn’t even a decent script!” he repeated. “How could you commit to something without even seeing a finished script? Has everyone gone crazy? What if it’s muy malo—big-time bad? Why give up a gold mine for a bird in the bushes?”
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