And he knew she had his number.
• •
Actors shuttled in and out of Mick Stefan’s office at a lightning pace. He was not a patient man, and if someone started to read and Mick wasn’t immediately sure they were getting it, he leaped to his feet, waved his gangly arms in the air and yelled “Sayonara,” before they could finish. There were a lot of pissed-off performers marching out of his office.
Nikki was in shock. He did not work like other directors. He certainly didn’t work like Richard. Speed was his mantra—get it done and get it done now! And he didn’t care whose feelings he hurt.
As a favor to her, Richard came to one casting session—and left after twenty minutes, shaking his head in disgust. “You can’t treat people the way he does and live,” he said. “The man’s insane. One of these days he’ll find an actor waiting in the parking lot with a loaded forty-five!”
Nikki felt she had to support Mick; this was her movie, and it was absolutely necessary that she was in synch with the director, otherwise the film would run away from her. “It’s his way,” she informed Richard. “Everyone has a different work method.”
She was worried about Lara’s reaction to Mick. He was definitely an acquired taste, and once he and Lara got together, she might balk at working with him. Even though Lara had verbally agreed to make the movie, she still hadn’t signed a contract. Her agent was stalling. Nikki called him daily, but he always had an excuse. It was obvious that he didn’t want his most important client starring in a small, low-budget movie—especially since his client had made the decision without consulting him.
Nikki was sure that once Lara got to L.A., Quinn planned on talking her out of it. That’s why there was no signed contract on Nikki’s desk.
Oh God! What a nightmare if Lara backed out.
She spoke to Mick. “Listen,” she said. “I’m not saying Lara’s on a star trip or anything, only it’s imperative that you treat her with respect.”
“Respect—what’s that?” Mick said, smirking, the eternal cigarette dangling from his lower lip.
“For starters she hates cigarette smoke,” Nikki said briskly. “And she won’t appreciate your smoking on the set.”
“Don’t do it when I’m working,” he said, crinkling his eyes. “Freakin’ problem solved.”
“Also, your language. Can you clean it up for her?”
“Are you out of your mothafuckin’ mind?” he said, baiting Nikki because he got off on putting her on. “I’m gonna treat her like I treat any other actor.”
“Great,” Nikki groaned. “That’ll go down really well.”
Richard couldn’t wait to inform her that she’d hired the wrong director. “He’s a loose cannon,” he said ominously. “I’ve checked him out.”
“You’ve also seen his work, so you know he’s very talented.”
“I’m very talented,” Richard replied immodestly. “And / don’t run around screaming at people and acting like a maniac.”
“Let’s give him a chance,” she said. “I can always fire him.”
“That’s a great attitude,” he answered with a derisive snort. “Do you know how much it costs to fire a director once you’ve started shooting? Revenge is a low-budget movie, and it’s your job to keep it that way. If you want my opinion, you’ve made a big mistake talking Lara into doing this.”
“I didn’t talk her into it,” Nikki said defensively.
“I think you’ll find that when she and your precious little genius director get together, it won’t be a walk in the park.”
Richard was voicing her worst fears. “Everything will work out,” she said, standing firm. “You’ll see.”
“I hope so,” he said grimly. “For your sake.”
Mick persuaded her to hire Aiden Sean for the lead villain. Aiden was an edgy and dangerous actor. Not conventionally good-looking, he had a certain sinister style that worked perfectly for the role of the main rapist. The problem was he’d been in and out of drug rehab so many times, he was almost uninsurable. Coke had been his pleasure, heroin his pain. Supposedly he was now straight. The fact that he was an extraordinary actor was his only saving grace.
“Can you control him?” she asked Mick, before agreeing to hire him.
“Me?” Mick said innocently. “I can control an army of ants parading up your cute little chick babe ass!”
“We’re on such a tight budget,” she said, worried, ignoring his sexist remark. “We can’t afford to be a second over.”
“So you tell me every day,” Mick replied with a wide-mouthed yawn.
“I tell you every day so that hopefully it’ll sink in.”
“Y’know, I like you,” Mick said as if he’d just made up his mind. “You’re a tough chick babe—but sexy with it. How’d you get into this business?”
“Don’t worry about that,” she said sternly. “All you’ve got to worry about is getting Revenge finished on time and on budget.”
• •
The next morning, Summer got up early for once, catching Nikki on her way out. “How’s your movie going, Mom?” she asked, cute and pretty in rumpled cotton pajamas.
Nikki had taken Richard’s advice and eased up on her daughter. It wasn’t like she was responsible. Summer lived in Chicago and would soon be on a plane home. Still . . . she couldn’t help regretting that they weren’t closer.
“It’s going great,” she replied, surprised, as this was the first glimmer of interest Summer had shown in her project.
“Like, I’m kinda psyched,” Summer said. “It’s such a way cool thing to do.”
“Yes, it is,” Nikki said, pleased that her daughter was finally paying attention.
“Uh . . . Richard told me you signed Aiden Sean,” Summer added, trailing her to the door.
“That’s right,” Nikki said, groping in her purse for her car keys. “Do you approve?”
“Like, he’s totally bitchin’!” Summer exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “I’d give anything to meet him.”
So that’s what this newfound interest was all about. Hmm . . . Nikki thought, remembering her own hero-worship days. She’d loved Robert Redford. Had a huge crush on Al Pacino. Been destroyed when John Lennon got assassinated.
“We don’t start shooting for a while,” she said. “But when we do, maybe you’ll visit the set.”
“That’d be awesome!”
“I have to go now,” she said, checking in her purse to make sure she had her Filofax. “What are your plans today?”
“The usual,” Summer answered vaguely.
“What’s the usual?”
“Shopping, sunbathing. I met this girl—Tina—we hang out together.”
“Sounds fun to me.”
“It is!” Summer said with a big smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
“For what?”
“Oh, I dunno. It’s kinda way cool being here.”
Nikki left with a good feeling. When Summer wanted to, she could be adorable.
• •
That night, Nikki and Richard had a quiet dinner at a small Italian restaurant in Malibu. Richard was still in a lecturing mood, carrying on about the do’s and don’t’s of moviemaking.
“Contrary to what you think, I do know what I’m doing,” Nikki said, fed up with his constant criticism.
“You’ve got a crazed director, a drugged-out leading man and Lara for a leading lady,” he nagged. “This is destined to be some fucked-up shoot.”
“Thanks, Richard,” she said flatly. “I appreciate your words of encouragement.”
Later they lay in bed, both keeping to their own sides. David Letterman was chatting with Sandra Bernhard on television. Neither of them watched.
This movie is not good for my marriage, Nikki thought. It’s separating us. Driving us apart.
Unfortunately there was nothing she could do. She had to proceed, there was no choice.
• •
While Richard and Nikki were safely in bed, Summer was cruising the clubs
on the Strip. Her vacation had turned out to be a total blast. It was so cool the way Richard kept telling her mother to lay off, giving her the freedom she deserved. Things were way too complicated back in Chicago, what with her father and all. If only she could move to L.A. permanently.
At the Viper Room, Johnny Depp’s club on Sunset, she sat in a corner with Jed, Tina and a few other friends, most of them stoned or drunk.
“Ohmigod!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Take a look at who just came in.”
“Who?” Tina asked, stretching her neck to see.
“Aiden Sean and Mick Stefan,” Summer said, her eyes swiveling to follow the emaciated-looking actor and the gawky director as they walked up to the bar, accompanied by a drugged-out redhead in a black-rubber tube dress and purple ankle boots. “They’re both so out there!” she said, flushed with excitement. “I’m going over.”
“You can’t do that,” Jed said, frowning. “You don’t even know ’em.”
“Who cares?” Summer said recklessly. “Aiden’s going to be in my mother’s movie, and Mick’s directing it, so it’s almost like I know them.” Her blue eyes gleamed. “C’mon, Tina, go with me.”
“No,” Tina said haughtily. “I don’t pick up men—they come to me.”
“That’s right!” Jed muttered, not pleased Summer was chasing other guys.
“Well, I’m going over,” Summer said, jumping to her feet and sashaying across the room before anyone could stop her.
She went straight up to Aiden Sean. “Hi,” she said, staring directly at him. He ignored her.
“Get lost, blondie,” said the drugged-out redhead.
“Hello, gorgeous!” Mick responded, lowering his glasses to gaze at this innocent teenage vision with the pouty lips and big blue eyes. “How about a drink?”
She was carrying a fake I.D. Jed had given her, so why not?
“Martini,” she said, aware that it was a cool drink.
“One martini comin’ up,” Mick said, licking his rubbery lips.
“Uh . . . thanks,” she said, still staring at Aiden, who was taking absolutely no notice of her. A real bummer, because she considered him a killer. It was him she wanted, not the geek-faced director.
Three martinis later she was feeling delightfully dizzy. Jed came over and said they had to go.
“I’ll take her home,” Mick said.
“No way, man,” Jed replied.
“S’okay,” she managed, even though the room was starting to spin. “Mick’ll look after me.”
Reluctantly, Jed left.
“I’m gonna have a big hangover tomorrow,” she giggled. “Big, big hangover.”
“I got a magic cure for hangovers,” Mick said with a knowing wink.
“What’s that?” she asked boldly.
“Come outside to my limo an’ I’ll show you,” he offered.
Should she? Shouldn’t she?
Why not? If she went with Mick, maybe Aiden would notice she existed.
“Okay,” she said, suppressing a hiccup.
“Okay!” Mick repeated with a wild cackle. And off they went.
By the time I was twenty-one I had a reputation for being a guy who could deliver the goods. And there were plenty of rich women in Hollywood who were into having regular sex with a man who could actually get it up.
I had my own apartment, a new Corvette and a slew of regular appointments. In a way I was living the good life, although I didn’t have what I really craved, which was to be a movie star.
I was definitely leading a double life. I had a closet full of expensive clothes, most of them bought for me by grateful clients, and a separate closet filled with jeans and T-shirts.
On the one hand I was the big stud. On the other, a guy who still went to acting class, mixing with people who were pumping gas and parking cars.
I even had a legitimate girlfriend, Margie, a sweet girl who didn’t know shit about what I did on the side. She was under the mistaken impression I came from a rich family.
I liked Margie because of her innocence. Most of the girls I’d encountered in Hollywood were hard nuts who’d gotten where they were by winning a beauty contest or some such shit, after which they’d hightailed it out to Hollywood, done time at the Playboy mansion, fucked every sleazeball playboy in town and ended up stoned out of their minds.
Margie was different. She lived in the Valley with her family. A former child star, she’d starred in a series until she was fifteen, when suddenly her career came to an abrupt stop.
Now she was nineteen and trying to get back in the business.
Margie and I had fun together. She was different, and I liked it. Besides, it was the first time I’d had fun with a girl who wasn’t handing me money.
I had one particular client, Ellie von Steuben, who I had a hunch could do me some good. Ellie was married to Maxwell von Steuben, a big-shot producer. Ellie and I met twice a week in a fancy penthouse on Wilshire Boulevard. I had no idea whose apartment it was, but I suspected it wasn’t Ellie’s since there was never anything personal around.
“This your place?” I asked her once.
“No,” she replied, refusing to reveal any more information.
Ellie was probably a real looker in her time, and even in her fifties she could still turn heads. She told me her husband hadn’t touched her in years. “He’s too kinky for me anyway,” she confided, scratching my back with long talonlike nails. “He prefers call girls, so why shouldn’t I have my own pleasure?”
No reason, sweetheart. Especially when you’re paying me five hundred bucks a time.
Ellie was very businesslike. She made sure the money was always on the bedside table—five crisp hundred dollar bills. And she wasn’t into conversation, all she required was sex and plenty of it.
I could do that. I could do it better than anyone she’d ever had before.
After a while she started recommending me to friends, which was how I built up such an exclusive clientele. The Hollywood women who weren’t gettin’ any—they were all mine. The big director’s wife. The ex-wife of a superstar. The horniest old agent in town.
One day I asked Ellie if she’d help me with my career.
“I already have,” she replied coolly. “I’ve given you more clients than you can handle.”
“That’s not the career I’m talking about,” I replied.
She cupped my balls with a perfectly manicured hand and said, “You don’t want to be an actor; darling. Actors are jerk-offs—everybody treats them like garbage. You’re king in your field. Stay a king.”
I was angry that she took my ambition so lightly. That night in acting class I got up and performed a scene with Margie. We kicked ass. The whole fuckin’ class stood up and applauded.
Our acting teacher, an older man with flowing white hair and yellow skin, took me aside. “It’s time you got yourself an agent,” he said. “You’re ready.”
It was the first encouragement I’d ever gotten. He was telling me I was good enough to be a professional! He was saying I could do it. And fuck it—I could.
I made a decision. I was going to give up hustling and go for it. But first I had to get myself a stash of money. I’d already opened a bank account and rented a safe-deposit box, in which I had laid away a few thousand in cash. Now I had to concentrate on really piling it up.
I decided to spend six more months servicing women, then I’d say good-bye to that business. Maybe I’d even marry Margie, buy a little house in the Valley, have a couple of kids—live a normal life.
I started asking Ellie about agents. She started telling me to shut the fuck up and do what I had to do. She wasn’t a nice woman.
One night I was doing what I had to do, when Maxwell von Steuben walked in on us. “Jesus Christ!” he screamed, taking in the scene—Ellie with her legs clasped around my neck and me with my ass in the air. “Jesus Christ! What kind of a whore am I married to?”
“What kind of a whore are you married to?” she retorted, wriggling o
ut from under me. “You’re the worst whoremonger in this city, and you have the gall to criticize me?”
While they were screaming at each other, I began scrambling for my clothes, not forgetting to scoop up the money from its usual place.
Maxwell von Steuben ignored Ellie for a moment, turning his anger on me. “Who are you?” he yelled, red in the face. “Who the fuck are you?”
Oh, yeah. Like I was gonna tell him.
“You’d better get your filthy ass out of this town. I never want to set eyes on you again.”
I grabbed my clothes and ran.
Ellie usually called me every Monday to set up our weekly appointments. The following Monday she did not call, nor did any of her friends.
The truth dawned. Ellie had been caught, and I was blacklisted.
Fuck!
I decided it was a sign. I’d go straight.
So I sold my expensive suits, moved out of my costly apartment, rented a small place and, with my savings managed to keep it together while I did the rounds of agents and spent more time with Margie, who, although she was very sweet, had begun to bore me.
I finally found an agent who liked me as much as I liked myself. A woman, naturally. Had to fuck her, of course, but then she started sending me on auditions, and that was a real kick. I actually landed a couple of small parts in TV shows. And I was good. One thing led to another, and one day I was sent out on an audition for a big action movie.
The day of my interview I sat in an outer office in Hollywood with seven other guys, all of us nervously sweating until it was our turn to go in.
Eventually I was called. I sauntered into the casting room, determined to impress.
Sitting around were the usual casting people, a well-known director, and—wouldn’t you know it?—Maxwell von Steuben himself.
What kind of a lucky break was this?
Our eyes met. It took him a couple of seconds, but he recognized me. The old man leaped to his feet, waving his arms in a blind fury. “Get him out of here!” he screamed. “Get him the fuck out! You’re finished in this town. Finished! Do you hear me, punk?”
The entire town heard him.
So once again my career as a movie star was put on hold.
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