by D. W. Buffa
“Sometimes, Stanley, you talk like a character out of one of your own movies.”
He did not disagree. To the contrary, he seemed to think it the most normal thing in the world.
“Doesn’t everyone? I mean, talk like someone else? Act like someone else?”
I did not have a chance to respond; though if I had, I’m not sure what I would have said.
“I didn’t call you to get into a long discussion about the ‘effect of the media on modern American life,’” he said, invoking the phrase with the clear derision of someone who had been challenged on that particular point more often than he cared to remember. “I called to apologize, and to ask if you could come by sometime tonight. There are some things I want to talk to you about,” said Roth with the kind of vague ambiguity he used when he wanted me to think that I was one of the few people he could trust and that it would be a kind of betrayal if I did not go at once to see what he had to say.
“I accept your apology; but I have a lot of work yet to do and I need a decent night’s sleep.”
“It’s about Blue Zephyr.” Roth’s voice was quiet, ominous, as if those two words would by themselves impress upon me how important it was that we talk.
“The script—or the studio?”
“Both,” replied Roth with the utmost seriousness. Curious, I felt myself starting to yield. I threw up a half-hearted objection.
“I’m supposed to have dinner with... ”
“With Julie. Yes, I know. Go ahead, have dinner. Come later on,” he insisted, certain he had gotten his way. “Don’t worry about the time. I’ll be up.”
He made it sound like he was doing me a favor, and for a moment I almost felt he had. Once again he had persuaded me to do something I had had no intention of doing. I laughed about it, or tried to; but there was nothing all that funny about the way I let myself become subject to the changing moods, the sudden whims, the capricious demands of Stanley Roth. I could not stay mad at him, even after what he had done two nights before when I could have lost an eye. He was irresponsible, a grown-up, self-indulgent child; but that was who he was. He scarcely made a secret of it: He did everything short of bragging about it. I knew what he was; I had known it—or at least I should have known it—from the first time we talked. Yet I still could not quite bring myself to say no—to say no and mean it—when there was something he really wanted, especially when what he wanted was to tell me something about himself he had not told anyone—or at least not very many others— before. I could scream at him, swear at him, tell him to his face that he was a liar and worse; but I was never able simply to walk away. He was too interesting for that.
No, it was something else. Actually, there was not much about Stanley Roth that was interesting at all. He could not carry on a conversation for five minutes, unless it was about the motion picture industry; and he could not carry that on for more than ten minutes unless it was about a movie he had produced or directed. He had no serious interest in literature; and yet, despite that, some of the dialogue in that screenplay of his had held me riveted to the page. He had no interest in the arts; he was not even one of those people who admit they do not know anything about it, but insist they know what they like. Roth was always too wrapped up in what he was doing, what he was working on, to notice. He could not describe something he had seen happen right in front of his eyes without, so to speak, rearranging it to fit on the screen. His work was his life; but his work was fantasy and his life a kind of fiction, a story he seemed to rewrite every day as if it could always be whatever he wanted it to be. That was what was so interesting: not what he was—I’m not sure he was anything—but the way everything around him always seemed to be changing, and the way he made you believe he was the only one who knew—really knew—what was going to change next, and who was, for that reason, the only one you could be certain would not be left behind.
It was false and it was empty and I knew it, and I still could not quite resist. I told myself I was his lawyer; that I had to put up with his unusual demands and erratic behavior; that it was the only way to keep his confidence, but I knew it was a lie. I had been drawn to Mary Margaret Flanders, a woman I had never met, in a way I had seldom been attracted to any of the women I had known, because, I suppose, she had come to represent in those dreams I had shared with everyone who bought a ticket to see her, what I thought I wanted a woman to be. I was drawn to Stanley Roth because he had helped create those dreams. Or, if he did not create them, then convey them, promote them, do more than anyone else to make them the common categories by which the vast majority of us had come to look at the world around us. Because there was, after all, nothing terribly original about Stanley Roth. Not once had I heard him express a thought or voice an opinion I had not heard, not just from someone else, but from nearly everyone else before. I had started out wondering if he really believed any of the sentimental nonsense that characterized so many of his films; it was not long before I had begun to wonder if he had ever believed anything else.
It only seems a contradiction to say that Louis Griffin was right: that Stanley Roth was a genius. He was a genius, but not because of any new insight he had into the nature of things. He was a genius because, in some way he could never explain, he understood what people wanted before they knew it themselves, and because he could tell on the screen a story everyone already knew in a way that made it seem they were seeing it for the very first time. Blue Zephyr, the film that was going to rival Citizen Kane, was far better than anything Stanley Roth had ever done—better than anything almost anyone had done—but it could not have been written if Kane had not been written first.
Among the other riddles of Stanley Roth’s existence I could never quite solve was the precise nature of his relationship with Julie Evans. I had seen him look at her the way he had once looked at girls in high school, the good-looking girls he knew he could never have; look at her from a distance with a kind of dreamlike stare. But then, when they were in the same room, he seemed not to notice her at all; and when he did remember she was there, it was usually to tell her in that short, abbreviated fashion of his what she was supposed to do next, or with barely concealed contempt remind her what she should have done already. He must have known she was in love with him, and yet he was the one who warned me that there was a limit to her loyalty, and that, if she thought she had to, she would not hesitate to abandon and perhaps even betray him.
I had the feeling that Roth was right, that she might eventually leave him, but not because of some cold assessment of her own self-interest. It was not that she was incapable of looking to her own advantage. She had that gift, not dissimilar to Stanley Roth’s gift, of knowing instinctively the next thing that was going to happen and which among the thousand different threads of power and influence would be the one that unraveled all the rest. If she had not been in love with Stanley Roth I think she might not have had any conscience at all. But she was in love with Stanley Roth, and she was not going to do anything that would jeopardize whatever chance she thought she had with him until she was either convinced he was never going to fall in love with her or something happened that simply gave her no choice.
Was that why she asked if we could have dinner tonight, I wondered as I watched her step out of her car and walk toward me in front of the Chateau Marmont? I was supposed to meet her in the lobby, but I liked watching her walk: I liked the way she looked, sleek and glistening in the golden light, moving toward me, one long leg in front of the other, blonde from head to toe. She saw me, and I knew what she was going to do next: She looked at me and kept looking at me, her mouth a half-mocking smile, the way a woman stares up at you while you help her out of the car so you won’t look anywhere else, her eyes teasing you, laughing at you, with the knowledge of your temptation.
Julie took my arm and tugged thoughtfully on my sleeve. “You were great the other night.”
I was still thinking about the way she had looked at me and what it had made me remember. And now this. I s
tarted to laugh.
“The way you reacted; the way you stopped Stanley before he could... ” She shook her head, obviously still troubled by what had happened. “Stanley was crazy. I’ve never seen him like that before.”
“Louis Griffin has,” I said in a tone of voice that suggested I did not quite believe her. “Stanley has a temper. You know that as well as I do. You’re the one who told me he might have killed his wife, remember? Might have done it in a rage—because of something she had done?”
Julie was looking down at the ground, holding my arm lightly with both her hands, idly swinging her foot.
“I know he has a temper,” she replied, her eyes hidden beneath her lashes. “And I know what I said— about what he might have done. But the other night was the first time I’ve ever seen him actually try to hurt someone—physically. It surprised me.”
Julie let go of my arm and raised her head. “I made a reservation.”
The restaurant, small, but not too crowded, was tucked into a side street not far from Rodeo Drive. It was a few minutes past seven, and under the nighttime sky the stores, thronged with customers, were bursting with artificial, man-made light.
I ordered a scotch and soda. Julie thought for a moment, and then ordered one as well.
“I need this,” she explained with a grim smile when the waiter returned with our drinks.
She took a fairly healthy dose of it, then put down the glass. Frowning, she searched my eyes.
“Can Stanley win?”
I tapped the edge of the table, wondering not so much about what might happen at the end of the trial as at the apparent urgency with which she wanted to know.
“It’s important,” insisted Julie, biting her lip. I kept tapping the edge of the table, waiting for more.
“Blue Zephyr is finished.” A look of confusion entered her eyes. “No, it isn’t finished yet; but it may as well be. Stanley resigned. Apparently, he did it yesterday, late in the afternoon. He didn’t tell me—he didn’t tell anyone. Michael told me, this afternoon, before Stanley got back from court.”
At first I could not believe it; not after what had happened the other night.
“He was ready to kill Michael Wirthlin for even suggesting it; now he’s gone ahead and done it? What for?”
Even as I asked the question, I began to suspect the answer. It was precisely because of what had happened the other night. By attacking Wirthlin, Roth had put himself into Wirthlin’s hands; and Wirthlin, it had become all too apparent, would not hesitate to exploit any weakness he found. It was not difficult to guess what Wirthlin had threatened to do.
Julie had not guessed; she had not thought about it. Her mind was on other things.
“I don’t know why he did it,” she replied absently.
She took another drink. A look of distaste spread over her rather wide mouth. Shoving aside the glass, she beckoned the waiter. She ordered a glass of wine to replace the scotch, then changed her mind and, with a glance at me to see if I would share it, told him we wanted a bottle.
“I have to make a decision,” said Julie, laying her head back against the leather booth. “Michael plans to reorganize everything. He wants me to be in charge of day-to-day operations. He’s offered to make me head of the studio.”
The waiter arrived with a bottle of Artessa Pinot Noir. Julie tasted it, nodded her approval, and waited while he filled our glasses.
“Take it,” I said with indifference. She seemed surprised.
“You don’t think Stanley can ... ?”
“Win? What does that matter?”
I was a little annoyed at being asked what I thought was going to happen to Stanley Roth by people who were interested only in how it would affect them. “All right, you asked. He’s going to win. He’s going to be acquitted,” I announced with all the confidence I could muster. “He didn’t murder Mary Margaret Flanders. I thought you knew that.”
Julie’s eyes flashed with anger, but only for an instant. She bent forward, glancing around the restaurant to make sure no one was close enough to overhear.
“I don’t know that; I don’t know anything, except that I’d rather take my chances with Stanley Roth—even if he doesn’t have the studio—than with anyone else in this town. But if he isn’t acquitted, then... ”
I sat back, my hands at my sides, watching her struggle with the sudden realization that whatever she did might be a mistake. Without much sympathy, I summed up her dilemma:
“You can take your chances: leave with Roth, show everyone how loyal you are; or you can stay where you are and become head of the studio. It’s a great-sounding title, and without Stanley Roth the only person you would have to deal with is Michael Wirthlin. He may be difficult, but probably nothing like as demanding as Stanley Roth. And besides, you probably know more about this business than anyone except, maybe, Stanley Roth himself. Has he asked you to stay with him, to leave the studio?” I asked abruptly.
“No,” replied Julie; “but he’ll expect it.”
It was none of my business what she did, and that was the reason that I now told her the truth: that I could not even hazard a guess what the jury might ultimately decide, weeks from now, when the trial was finally over. She nodded as if she had known it all along, and I suspect she had. I think the only reason she had asked was to confirm that very point, to be sure about the precise extent of her uncertainty as she measured the risk Stanley Roth expected her to take.
Julie shut her eyes and pressed her lips together. Her body tensed and a shudder passed through her. She opened her eyes, and with an icy, malicious stare directed at some imaginary figure sitting next to me, remarked:
“I’ve done things for him I never thought I’d do for anyone.”
She kept staring at that spot, but the malice in her eyes was replaced with the look of someone who has made a decision and, having made it, wonders why it had taken them so long to do it. When her eyes came back round to me, a smile had begun to form at the corners of her mouth, an easy, teasing smile, as if she did not have a care in the world. She sipped on the wine, and as she did, the glow came back on her cheeks.
“I’m not really hungry. Are you?” she asked. Her voice was soft, insistent, with none of the tortured self-doubt that had been there just a few minutes before. “Let’s go somewhere else,” said Julie with a rush of enthusiasm. We left the restaurant and without a word about where we were going or what we were going to do, Julie began to drive. We drove for miles, part of an endless caravan of yellow-eyed machines sailing through the purple crystal night, making our anonymous way across what not that many years ago had been a vast forgotten desert on the western edge of the civilized world.
There had been something I had wanted to ask her, something I was certain she knew.
“What happened to Louis Griffin’s daughter? He told me she died, but the way he said it... ”
“Louis likes you,” said Julie, her eyes, blue and shiny, fastened straight ahead. We had left the freeway and a few turns later had entered a narrow, winding road that led into the Hollywood hills. “He doesn’t talk about that with anyone,” continued Julie. “She was killed.”
“Murdered?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Six years ago next month.”
Julie’s eyes stayed fixed on the road. She did not glance across at me; she did not make any gesture by which to show how she felt. She spoke quietly, concisely; careful, as I thought, not to say anything more than she had to.
“She was murdered—six years ago? Why didn’t I read anything about it?”
“I suppose because Louis Griffin isn’t Stanley Roth. It was in the papers; it’s just that it wasn’t on the front page, and it never became a major story. Not many people outside the industry know who Louis is. The police never found the killer, so there was nothing else to report, nothing else to cover. And besides,” she added in a cryptic tone, “Louis didn’t want any publicity. No one did.”
Sensing
my confusion, Julie explained:
“His daughter—Elizabeth—was kidnapped. She was a sophomore at USC. They think it must have been someone she knew, at least knew well enough to get into a car. One of her friends saw it happen, saw her get into the car late on a Friday night, a few blocks from campus. They asked for a million dollars; made the usual threats about not bringing in the police. Louis did what he was told— or, rather, Stanley did. Louis was going to call the police, but Stanley told him not to take the risk. Stanley got the money—it was his money—and he paid it. He took it to where it was supposed to go, left it where he was supposed to leave it. They killed her anyway. They left her body in a place where it wouldn’t be found for a long time. Poor Louis, he had to identify her. He’s never gotten over it, and I’m afraid he never will. He never talks about her—ever. And you have to know that he thinks about her all the time. She was his whole life.”
“Does he blame Roth—for convincing him not to call in the police?”
“No, he doesn’t blame Stanley at all. Stanley loved her almost as much as he did. He doesn’t blame Stanley, but Stanley does. To this day he thinks it’s his fault; that if he hadn’t talked Louis out of calling the police, Elizabeth would still be alive.”
Julie turned to me, and with her eyes asked for a promise.
“No one knows any of this. I only know it because one night, years ago, I found Stanley late at night in the bungalow, drunk and crying and he told me then. You can’t ever... ”
“No, of course not,” I assured her. “But that wasn’t the reason Griffin didn’t want any publicity. He wasn’t trying to conceal the fact that he had paid the ransom instead of calling in the police or the FBI?”
“He didn’t want it to happen to anyone else. Look, everyone here is vulnerable. All these famous people, walking around, going places, out in the open; their children going to school; and all those lunatics out there who want to get famous or want to get rich—Louis didn’t want someone like that to find out just how easy it was, how easy to take a girl off the street, make all that money and get away with it. Stanley thought they ought to do everything they could to let everyone know what happened. He thought it might help find whoever killed her. But by that time the last thing he was going to do was tell Louis he was wrong.”