And he excuses himself. “Do please come see us again.”
I get a call from the receptionist. Tony Suarez is here. Send him in. Suarez appears wearing a western-cut, midthigh-length jacket (a duster, I think it’s called), and he strides in like Wyatt Earp sauntering into a saloon, looking for a gunfight. He takes a seat beside Susan and asks if she has explained that we will be working together on the Chapin project. He suggests Susan and I get to know each other, spend some time together, talk over the story once I have had a chance to read the book, and make plans as to how we might approach the writing.
“Sure,” I say. “But let’s talk money first.”
Suarez agrees to pay me five grand to write a treatment, half up front, and half upon delivery. “When can you get started?”
“As soon as you’re ready to pay me.”
“Don’t worry,” he assures me. “The money is no problem. I’ll get you the twenty-five hundred right away.”
Susan hands him the copy of Smack Goddess.
“Are the film rights available?” he asks.
This guy is a trip. I’m sure he sees himself as a smooth operator, a player. But to me he’s so blatant, so obvious, it’s not working. He figures he’ll dazzle me with the prospect of working in close contact with a beautiful woman, the delectable Susan Loring, and hold out the possibility of optioning the film rights to my book as an added attraction. Susan is certainly enticing, but Suarez’s whole come-on is incompetent, so amateurish and inept that I have no real difficulty reminding myself to stay focused on the goal—get paid. I may be fresh out of prison, but I am hardly new to the scenario of the honey trap. Perhaps Suarez fails to consider that I spent most of a good number of years in the criminal underground where trust is earned, where cash talks and bullshit walks. Pussy must take a backseat to business. That is not to say that I am immune to the charms of Ms. Loring. I would love to get to know her better. But even she looks uncomfortable with how transparent Suarez has made his come-on. I sense she can see that I see right through Suarez. And I believe she knows I am not about to be snookered into working on this project for no money just because I hope to get into her pants. If I do it—if I take the job and write the treatment—it will be because I intend to get paid, and also because it’s something that I want to do. From what I know of Harry Chapin’s life, there is a movie here. And who knows, maybe Suarez will come up with the money. Maybe I’ll write a treatment, and then a screenplay. Maybe the movie will actually get made, and I’ll have the beginnings of a new career in Hollywood.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll read the book. Let me know as soon as you’re ready to get started.”
THE REST OF the week I work on the motion to suppress in the Munoz case. Ivan reads my draft and pronounces it, “Not bad.” Not bad is his way of saying good. I join Ivan and his investigator, Charlie Kelly, in a follow-up meeting with the Munoz co-counsel, three of Manhattan’s better-known criminal defense attorneys, after all the parties have received a copy of the motion. I’m the only one in the room who has done any research on the legal issues involved, possibly the only one who has read the indictment and discovery, so Ivan asks me to explain the merits of the suppression motion. I say that I also found what I believe to be a defect in the indictment; it is all explained in the motion. Ivan is pleased. As I make ready to leave for the day, he comes into my office, sits down, crosses his long legs, and asks about Tony Suarez’s assistant, Susan Loring.
“Who was that, Richard? You’re holding out on me.”
“No, not holding out at all. I just met her myself. It has been proposed that we work together, but I’m not sure it will happen.”
“Why not?” he wants to know. “When you meet a woman like that, you mustn’t hesitate. They don’t come along every day.”
“Yes, I believe that. But I think this guy Suarez is hoping to lure me into a honey trap.”
“Explain,” Fisher says.
“Well, he wants me to believe that a fringe benefit of the job would include the opportunity to possibly seduce Susan when in fact I know he’s trying to use her to seduce me into writing a treatment for him without paying me.”
He considers for a moment, and then says, “In that case, by all means, play along. Allow this fellow to believe his lady friend can seduce you. In fact, let her seduce you . . . if she is so inclined. Don’t hesitate. But never allow that to deter you from getting paid. Make her your ally in getting well compensated. Make the deal, and get the girl.”
“Yes,” I say, “that’s good advice.” And I remind him that I was educated in the Beirut school of business where one of the basic principles holds that everything is a negotiation.
“Indeed, you were,” Ivan agrees. “And that is true. Everything is negotiable.”
Ivan uses this to segue into a counteroffer to my proposal of $30 an hour. He offers me $22.50. He says he can’t see his way clear to pay a nonlawyer sixty grand a year. So far, he continues, he’s pleased with my work. I should expect a raise in four to six months. I thank him and say I’ll think about it and get back to him. After all we went through to get my parole officer to approve this job, it hardly seems right to quit now. Perhaps, I say, what’s needed is a less formal arrangement where I work from home and give up my office. That way, Ivan can rent the space out to another attorney and cut down on his overhead.
“Ah, but then I’ll miss you,” he says, “And possibly miss the opportunity of meeting other charming ladies with hidden agendas.”
He stands, and we shake hands.
“By the way,” he tells me, “I finished your book. It’s good.” He allows a definite improvement over his usual critique of not bad. “You’re a good writer, Richard. I particularly enjoyed the courtroom scenes. I was impressed with the technical skills you displayed in pulling off the legal and law-enforcement aspects of the story.”
“I should expect to have some understanding of what I write. Prison was my law school. And that’s why I’m worth thirty bucks an hour.”
“Point well taken,” he says.
Ivan then informs me that he needs an emergency brief, a petition for certification to the New Jersey Supreme Court that must be submitted by the end of the day tomorrow. I tell him that I have a new name for him: “Eleventh-Hour Ivan.”
“The name may be new,” he says, “but the concept is not.”
“You are hampering my abilities. If I had a week, I might be able to do a good job.”
“Yes,” he says. “And if I had tubes, I’d be a radio. Come on, Richard, show me you’re worth thirty dollars an hour.”
MY EDITOR, HILLEL Black, takes me to lunch at the cafeteria in the zoo at Central Park. I feel empathy for the animals in their cages, reminds me of from where I came. Hillel says that the publisher, Steven Schragis, might be willing to throw us a book launch party, and he wants to know if I would like that. I’m not sure. Much as I love a party, it may be better to spend the money on advertising. Hillel says word-of-mouth is the best advertising. A well-attended party of New York literati may have a bigger impact than paid advertising.
“Let me think about it,” I say. “And talk it over with Norman.”
“Relax,” Hillel tells me. “Enjoy the moment. We don’t need to decide anything today. This is just your editor taking you to lunch. It’s a New York publishing rite of passage. You are on your way, Richard. But now you’ve got to write another book.”
I tell him of the novel I’m thinking about and have been making notes on, which I call Holy War. It is to be set in Beirut and the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon at the height of the Lebanese Civil War and play out during the Iran hostage crisis and Iran-Contra scandal. Also, I have compiled a collection of my prison stories I call American Gulag. Hillel says he’s eager to see both as soon as they are ready. Much will depend on how Smack Goddess is received.
Back at the Birch Lane offices after lunch, Hillel and I check in with Fern Edison in the publicity department. “Promotion, this is where you really
must focus now,” Hillel tells me. Fern says that Steve Fishman got an assignment to do a story for GQ magazine. He’s doing his reporting now and will be in touch with me again soon to set up another interview.
I HAVE PLANS to meet with Tony Suarez this evening to pick up a check for the initial payment of $2,500, but he calls and begs off at the last minute, claims that he is “backed up on something.”
Yeah, backed up on bullshit. This is hardly encouraging.
Then Norman calls. He’s still on the cape. He says he spoke with a woman named Radha Battachargi who came to visit in Provincetown. She is a producer who works for the Guber-Peters Company. He told her about my novel, and she asked to meet me. I’m to call her. Then, just as I am about to leave, I get a call from a guy named Mike Marvel from Interview magazine. He’s interested in doing a story, but says he has to clear it with his editor first.
Ah, yes, promotion . . . It’s not enough to write the book, you’ve got to promote it as well.
AT THE TRIBECA Grill, Clem Caserta sits at the bar with another guy, Vinnie, who also appears to have been called in for an audition from central casting, New York mobster division. Soon a guy named Ron, Clem Caserta’s factotum, joins us. He lays a “package” on me. I hand it back. I explain that when someone who looks like Clem and his friends wants to give me a “package,” I’m wary of what it might contain. It takes a minute, but then they get it. Of course, not to worry, it’s nothing illegal. It contains two of Clem’s original screenplays and a video: Clem’s reel of the scenes he’s been in from Once Upon a Time in America, to Goodfellas, and A Bronx Tale. He indicates a table in the rear corner of the restaurant where Robert DeNiro sits in deep conversation with Al Pacino, both bearded and incognito. Clem tells me DeNiro always insists that his friends be cast in his movies, no matter how small the part.
LATER, BACK IN Brooklyn Heights, I meet with my new landlord. He’s pleasant enough: a gay, aging bachelor who lives in a beautifully appointed apartment directly above where I will be living—hardly an ideal situation. He says he has a home in the Hamptons and is away a good deal of the time. We sit for an hour talking and drinking cranberry juice. He seems impressed that I am close to the Mailers. After our meeting, I walk over to Montague Street for Japanese. Flying solo tonight.
The Mailers have decided that they can no longer keep young Hubert, the pug canine that has become my charge and companion over the summer. Norman’s wife, Barbara, also known as Norris, calls to ask if I know anyone who might like to have Hubert. I call Naomi, whose youngest son had expressed a desire to have a dog. Would they like Hubert? He needs a new home with a loving family. It’s decided to have the dog go visit for the weekend and see if everyone is compatible. I’ll miss my long walks with Hubert along the promenade, but he will no doubt be happier living in the country with a family that enjoys having him around.
I send my father, Emery, a check to help my parents with their rent. It feels good to be able to help them, though I admit I am beginning to experience some preliminary money anxieties of my own. This week alone my bill from Eisenberg is $1,250. Then there is the deposit and first month’s rent on the new apartment. I eat out in restaurants practically every night—a foolish extravagance. I’m blowing through the advance from my publisher at an alarming rate. In prison I never had to worry about money—food, shelter, clothing, everything was provided—but out here, the basics are my primary concern.
The truth is, I’ve never been good with money. Good at making it, yes, just not good at saving it, not good at budgeting. Actually, the word “budget” is not part of my working vocabulary. I make money; I spend it. As Ivan advises, life is short. You never know when some crazy motherfucker may come along and club you on the head with a paving stone. No doubt this is one of the main reasons Ivan and I get along so well—he too spends money lavishly. A luncheon with Ivan at the Four Seasons can go for several hundred dollars. His extravagant lifestyle is what got him in trouble with the taxman.
I wrote myself out of prison, now I will write myself out of debt and into prosperity. I visualize large checks coming to me from various sources. This week I should make around eight hundred dollars cash working for Ivan. And then there is the Harry Chapin movie deal, an initial payment of twenty-five hundred if Suarez comes through with the cash. I still hold on to some hope that he will.
No sooner do I begin to fret over Suarez when the phone rings. It’s the lovely Susan Loring, Suarez’s ersatz assistant and my would-be seductress. She tells me she finished reading Smack Goddess and she loves it. Couldn’t put it down. Stayed up reading until three in the morning. I hope this isn’t just more of the Suarez shuffle. I decide to ask her outright if the guy is real. She says she’s not sure; she doesn’t really know him. I’m not surprised. Suarez does apparently have some kind of an arrangement with Harry Chapin’s wife, Sandy, who Susan says she has met. But beyond that all she knows is that Suarez claims to have made money in Manhattan real estate, and now he wants to branch out into making movies. The fact that Suarez comes to me through Dick Goodwin is not encouraging. Dick once introduced me to another guy who turned out to be not only a fraud, but also an out-and-out crook.
Never mind. I’m not going to worry about Suarez. There are others with real credentials on the horizon. Norman’s friend, Radha Battachargi from the Guber-Peters Company, sent a messenger to Birch Lane to pick up a copy of Smack Goddess. And Danny Marino’s pal from the DeNiro camp, Clem Caserta, also sent his guy Ron Peterson by for a copy, though I have no clue what those guys are capable of beyond playing wiseguys in DeNiro’s movies.
I had lunch with my former Empire College professor, Shirley Ariker. Shirley was helpful during my time in MCC. She gave me a copy of Man’s Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl that chronicles his experiences in Auschwitz. That book more than anything else helped me during those early years to navigate the psychological pitfalls of imprisonment. Shirley has agreed to help me compile my college credits so I can get a BA from Empire State. And then, who knows—law school? I thought I had my mind made up not to pursue becoming a lawyer after my visit with Norman, but the lure of the law persists. I do enjoy it, and besides, it’s a real job. Writing as a career may never be enough to sustain me.
Times have changed since Norman began writing and publishing novels. People aren’t reading as much—particularly fiction, and particularly men. Unless you’re Stephen King or some other megabest-selling writer, publishers are loath to spend money to promote novels. It’s tough to make a living writing books. Screenwriting pays much better. I just read an article in the Times about how the studios are paying big bucks for spec scripts. We’ll see what happens. Best to keep all options open and pay attention to what appears to be working. Guber-Peters is no fly-by-night operation. These guys are the real deal. Producers of Rain Man, Batman, and Gorillas in the Mist, among other films that were both critically acclaimed and made lots of money at the box office. Let’s hope Radha Battachargi likes Smack Goddess as much as Susan Loring does.
I feel an acute need to get back to writing something other than legal briefs. So much of my future will depend on whether I can make a living doing what I love. I can’t go back to smuggling pot. No, no, never, much as I loved that occupation, and the option remains open to me, the lure is still strong, very strong indeed. I have all the right connections. I could do one big trip, make several million in cash, and then retire. But if I get busted again, it’s an automatic life sentence with no possibility of parole. And these days everybody gets busted. There is no honor anymore. Rats come out of the woodwork. No one stands up.
Forget that. I’ll stay legit. And stay out of prison.
NAOMI COMES IN for the weekend and brings me a computer and a printer. She gives them to me as a gift, she says, to encourage me to get back to my writing. She explains that the computer belonged to her oldest son, but he has a new laptop, and he has gone off to college at Amherst, so they both agreed to give the computer and printer to me. I’m blown awa
y. This woman is so thoughtful, so good to me. For years I’ve been writing in longhand on yellow legal pads. Then I type my manuscripts on a manual or electric typewriter. I make copies using carbon paper. I have to go back and retype the whole manuscript after a line edit. I do have access to a computer, and I am familiar with the word processing program on the system at Ivan’s office. But to have my own computer, and my own printer, and once I have my own apartment, this will be a huge boon to my fledgling career as an author.
Friday evening, Naomi cooks dinner for us at the Mailers’ apartment. She makes a salad and sautés fresh vegetables from her garden. It’s delicious. We sit out on the balcony and drink wine. I confess my reservations about committing to an exclusive relationship. My life in the world is still so new, I’m trying to figure out who I am and what I want to do with my life. I do love her. She’s a fantastic person. Amazing lover. Great cook. So good to me . . . I just don’t know what I want to do with my life and whom I want to do it with. But I do know that I want a family eventually and children of my own. I know I want to be a father.
She says not to worry. She understands, and she appreciates my being open and honest with her. These past few weeks have been her way of welcoming me back into the world. After our steamy correspondence, we had to see where it might lead. She says she has not been disappointed, and she hopes that we can continue our friendship, and see where it goes.
But that night, after we make love, we both know that it’s over, if not immediately, then soon. Hubert leaves with her on Sunday. He gives me a dismayed look as they drive away—where am I going? I immediately miss them both.
I SIGN A two-year lease for the apartment at 150 Columbia Heights, pay the landlord nearly four grand I can hardly afford. I’m set to move in August 1, a little over a week from today. Ivan takes me out to lunch at his favorite sushi place. He says he has a new case he wants me to focus all my attention on. It’s a big heroin-trafficking case out of the Middle East being prosecuted in the Eastern District. It involves a DEA investigation code-named Operation Pyramid Overdrive. Ivan’s client, said to be the ringleader, is an Israeli citizen named Chaim Levy.
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