Therefore, I have an emissary who will be tending to Pinsky's needs, as well as acting under my instruction as a liaison between Pinsky and your office. The man is called Stan Rose and he has unwittingly been chosen as my liaison, based on his low profile as a mail room employee. He knows nothing of his mission. Merely that he is doing a service for the studio.
Certain that you will carry this out with discretion and haste, and without further correspondence, I remain,
Sincerely yours,
HAROLD GREENFIELD
(P.S. Naturally you will destroy this letter.)
"I'm gonna piss in my pants," Mickey said.
Tears were streaming down David Kane's face. He couldn't stop laughing. None of them could.
"It's brilliant," Barry said.
"I love that part where you say you don't know anything about it."
"Yeah," Stan said, "that was kind of my favorite part, too. Okay, what do we want?"
"Four parking spaces on the lot," Barry said. The walk to the mail room from the lot the boys called "peon parking" was nearly half a mile away. On rainy days it was miserable, and by the time they were dry it was time to ride the bikes back out into the rain.
"Pinsky wouldn't ask for four spaces," Stan said. "What if we try for one space and we take turns using it?"
"Okay," they all agreed.
"Jesus," Barry said, looking at the letterhead. FROM THE DESK OF HAROLD GREENFIELD. "This stationery looks real."
"It is real," Stan said. "Greenfield ordered twelve new boxes. I delivered eleven and kept one for us."
"What else does Pinsky want?"
"An office. But make it around here. With a television, and a secretary," Mickey said.
"Great." David couldn't believe it.
"I'll interview the secretaries," Mickey said.
"Don't get crazy," Stan told him. Stan made notes while the others looked over his shoulder.
"Pinsky's Russian," Barry said. "He probably likes vodka. Maybe caviar."
"My guess is that Pinsky would like to see a print of Tomorrow We Live in a private studio screening room with just a few of his close friends," Stan said.
"Tomorrow We Live hasn't been released yet. No one can screen it. Those guys aren't gonna release their biggest picture for next year to be screened," David said.
"Hey, Arch," Stan said, "why tell me? Tell that to Pinsky."
The four of them laughed and Stan sealed the letter, then rose to his feet. He stood at attention, his face a mask of seriousness.
Mickey couldn't stand it. "I swear to God I'm gonna piss in my pants."
"Wish me luck, boys," Stan said.
The other three were holding on to one another, convulsed with laughter as Stan walked out of the mail room to take the letter to Noel Gordon.
By the end of the week Rose had delivered two other letters.
"Coffee, Mr. Rose?" Gordon's secretary said.
"Huh?" No one ever offered a mail room boy coffee.
Stan knew by the look on the woman's face that even though Gordon may not have told her why, he obviously had told her to be nice to Stan Rose. She was a bitchy old spinster who up until the past week had called him "kid." She always covered the work she was doing with a cupped hand when he came near her desk to get the mail, as though she were the class goody-goody and he were a potential copycat.
"That bleached-out bitch," Barry said gleefully when Stan told the others she'd offered him coffee. "She must hate it that you bring the letters straight to Gordon and she doesn't see them first."
"She does," Stan said, "and you should see Gordon," he went on, describing the reaction the Milquetoast head of business affairs was having to the Pinsky letters. "He thinks it's a James Bond movie. He lets me into the office, and then he closes the blinds."
"He's on the eighteenth floor," David said laughing. "Who's going to see you? A bird?"
"It's fabulous," Stan said.
Late that day when Mickey came back from a run, he saw the painter with the stencil in the parking lot. The message to Gordon was that, of course, Pinsky, fearing discovery, could not have his own name on his parking space. So, to avoid suspicion, they would paint an alias on his space. The name chosen was Sorrel Naft. Sorrel Naft was the name of a boy who had been in the third grade with David Kane.
"Oh, Jesus," Mickey said, bursting in on the others. "I swear to God. It says Sorrel Naft on a parking space."
"Gordon gave me an envelope this morning with a parking pass in it for Pinsky. Pinsky's supposed to put it inside his windshield when he drives on the lot."
One at a time they strolled out to the parking lot just to see the sign.
On Monday David and Stan were coming in from the post office. Moving men were carrying a desk off a truck.
"Oh, look," Stan said. "Someone's moving into an office down here."
By the time the boys finished their first run that morning, the office near the mail room was completely and quite elegantly furnished.
"Oh, my God," Stan said as the four of them passed the open door of the new office on their way to lunch. "I'll bet this is our office. Pinsky's office!"
"No!"
"I think so."
The four of them looked up and down the hall to make sure no one was around, then went into the new office.
There was a reception room, complete with coffee-making paraphernalia and phones, and an inner office with a carpet, a television and a bar. It was Barry who opened the bar. Inside was a case of Crown Russe.
"Oh, my God," Mickey said.
"I'm gonna—"
"Don't piss in your pants, Reg. Do it in here," Stan said, and he opened the door to Pinsky's bathroom. It was wallpapered in mylar, and it had a shower.
"I'll stop by Gordon's office today to get Pinsky the key," Stan told them.
"Let's hit the commissary. I'm starved," David said.
"Yeah. I love to watch Gordon trying not to look over at our table," Barry said.
"Or at Greenfield's," Mickey said.
The Pinsky Caper, as they later called it, went on for quite a while.
Dear Gordon,
For the past few months our correspondence has been solely in the form of lists written on my letterhead regarding items which Pinsky needed. Your quick action in obtaining them was splendid, and your use of the service of my innocent mail room boy convinced me that your future with Hemisphere will be long and profound. I am particularly impressed with the catering service you chose for Pinsky's private party (Pinsky told me about it; I did not attend) and the alacrity with which the studio limousine was able, via your instructions, with merely a call from your home late one night, to pick up Pinsky and his friends at a bar and drive them to the beach. (You see I am aware of it all.)
My next request is complicated. It may surprise you to discover that Pinsky is ready to step out in public. Appropriately, I think he wishes this emergence to occur at the Oscar telecast and he would like the studio to obtain V.I.P. seating as well as parking for him and his wife, Natasha. Unfortunately, because of circumstances, Pinsky can go nowhere alone. He must travel in a group so he may remain protected. Therefore, I am hoping through the Academy you will secure two additional tickets for Pinsky's bodyguards. With continuing faith in your confidence, I remain,
Sincerely,
HAROLD GREENFIELD
The four tickets arrived two hours after Stan dropped off the note.
"Oh, Reggie, what's Pinsky gonna wear to this?" Mickey asked Stan. "We know you're wearin' khaki and plaid 'cause that's all you've got."
"And what about us? The Pinsky-ettes?" Barry said.
"How 'bout your pal Allred?" David said to Barry. Barry flushed. "Maybe he'd spring for four tuxes. He's got access to a roomful of them."
"No, I don't—I—"
"It's okay," Stan said. "Pinsky can order the suits."
"I think we've gotta be a little cool with Pinsky," David said. "He's gonna get caught."
"Not until after Oscar n
ight."
The next day Pinsky's friends sent their sizes to costumes. The suits arrived within three hours. They were perfect. The boys each used Pinsky's bathroom to dress. Raised Pinsky's glasses filled with Pinsky's champagne, left over from Pinsky's party, in a toast to Pinsky, and took Pinsky's limo to Santa Monica Civic.
David had loved the whole Pinsky thing. It scared him a little but it made him laugh to think of pulling the wool over the eyes of those assholes in the gold building. But now, as the car drove up outside the auditorium, as he saw the bright searchlights and the paparazzi, he was afraid the four of them would be caught and punished and told to find jobs somewhere else.
And he couldn't do that. He was busting his nuts to make good relationships at the studio. This could fuck it all up. Someone would surely see them—recognize them. The others were climbing out of the car. David was tempted to stay inside the car and wait. Wait with the limousine driver. Probably the driver was a nice guy. A smart guy. A guy who was once headed for a vice-president's job until he fucked around with Harold Greenfield.
"C'mon, Arch," Barry said, looking into the car.
"Yeah, okay."
As the boys made their way through the crowd and down to their seats, they passed Jack Shear and his wife, Al Dietrich and a date, and Lonny Paxton, who nodded absently to them. David was sweating. Stan shook his head and grinned knowingly as they sat down.
"It's like being invisible," he said. "Those guys look at us in these tuxes and they don't have a clue who we are."
David was starting to relax. The Oscarcast was exciting for all of them, and Rose was right. At the party afterward, executives pushed past them, either ignoring them totally or grabbing their hands to shake, with an absent look in their eyes that proved Stan was right. They knew they'd seen those four young men. But they didn't know where.
The boys found the table near the back that had been reserved in Pinsky's name. It was a good vantage point and they made a game of pointing out the stars to one another.
"Milton Pinsky. Paging Mr. Milton Pinsky." Barry, who was the first to hear it, turned pale and dropped his fork.
"Jug?" he said. "Did you hear that?"
The music was very loud and so was the chatter.
"Listen."
David and Mickey were having a discussion about how bad the food was. "Milton Pinsky." The P.A. was full of static, but there was no mistaking it. David and Mickey turned to Stan. David looked panicky.
"Oh, shit," he said.
"Relax," Stan told him. "It's got to be Gordon. He's the only one who knows. He's probably checking to see if Pinsky's having a good time."
"No," David said. "Pinsky's supposed to be kept a secret, Rose. Gordon would never page him on the P.A. at a place like this." He stood, nervous and red-faced.
"Jesus, Kane," Barry said. "Sit down. Don't get crazy."
"Fuck you," David said hotly. "This could be our jobs. My job."
The page was more clear this time.
"I'll go," Stan said.
As he walked into the lobby of the hotel, the sound level changed drastically, and he took a deep breath. It must be Gordon. He headed for the sign that said House Phones. Gordon probably was at home, and since the show wasn't telecast until later, he was making sure Pinsky was—
"Operator?"
"Yes," Rose said, placing two fingers under his collar to loosen it a little. "I'm taking the call for Mr. Pinsky."
"One moment."
It'll be Gordon, Stan thought, but his heart was pounding.
"Hello." It was a familiar voice. Not Gordon's.
"Hello," Stan said. Maybe he should try to use a Russian accent.
"Good evening, Rose. This is Harold Greenfield."
Stan's mouth was very dry. He pulled at the black satin tie until it opened.
"Uh, hi there, sir," he said.
"Having a good time, Rose?" Greenfield said. Stan looked around the lobby quickly. If this was a movie, Greenfield would be at the phone right next to his, and they would be standing back to back with phones to their ears. Greenfield was nowhere in sight.
"Yes, sir," Stan said. Oh, shit. Maybe he could get a job back in Florida.
"And the others?"
"Yes, sir."
"What about Pinsky, Rose?" Greenfield asked.
"What about him, sir?" Stan said, wincing.
"Is he having a good time? Shall I send him a glass of wine, or do you think I've done enough for him, Rose?"
Stan tried to figure out exactly what it was he was hearing in Greenfield's voice. For some reason it didn't sound like anger, but then he'd read books about these big movie moguls. The key to their enormous power was that they never lost control. They could ruin people's entire lives with smiles on their faces. Oh, what the hell. Florida was nice all year round, and Stan's father would be glad to have him back.
"How long have you known about this, sir?" Stan asked, looking around nervously. At the entrance to the ballroom, Mickey, Barry and David were waiting. Mickey smoked a cigar and paced. Barry and David looked like they were arguing.
"From the beginning," Greenfield answered. Stan closed his eyes. How could that be? "But I loved watching it, Rose. And you. You're quite remarkable and I like your style. Your group of boys has been happier than any group I've ever had in the mail room. It was worth every penny. Now, however, I think it's time for Pinsky to go the way of all legends."
Stan was grinning. He was holding back a relieved laugh. "You bet, Mr. Greenfield," he said.
The others must have seen Stan's face because they were heading in his direction. By the time he hung the phone up they were beside him.
"Well?"
"Boys," Stan said, "someone very close to us just passed on."
VARIETY PERSONALS
DEATHS
Milton Pinsky. Russian film director, from natural causes. Recently defected to U.S. in order to carry on his brilliant filmmaking career here in association with Hemisphere Studios. Pinsky leaves behind his four boys Stanley, Barry, David and Mickey. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations sent to Actors Fund.
INTEROFFICE MEMO FROM THE DESK OF HAROLD GREENFIELD
Nice work. Send me the rest of my stationery.
Best, H.G.
By Tuesday morning Pinsky's office was empty, but the boys barely noticed. Stan Rose had an appointment for a job interview on the lot with a man named Walter Barton. Barry Golden was waiting for a return call from Henry Shmidt's office at World Records. Mickey was meeting after work with a new commercial agent, and David had decided to try to become the assistant to Harold Greenfield.
eight
David Kane pushed the up button on the elevator in the lobby of the gold building. He was carrying an armful of mail for the executive office upstairs, and that made him nervous. It never occurred to him to feel nervous on the days he was delivering and picking up the mail at costumes or makeup or transportation. That's because there was no one in those departments he wanted to impress. But in this building, the executive manpower overwhelmed him. And he needed those men to notice him. They had to notice him. It was the only way he'd ever get out of the fucking mail room. Jesus, he hated it there.
First that little prick Ned Carr, and now Ashman running the place, telling him what to do. And as the months went by, David kept thinking it would be over any day and someone would take him out of there and make him their assistant. But hustling around the gold building, visiting their offices, getting to know their secretaries, the standard mail room pattern, didn't seem to be doing him much good.
"So, how's it goin' there, Red?"
Willie the guard, whose domain was the lobby of the gold building, yelled across the hollow space to David.
David didn't answer. Just nodded. He wasn't going to get into a conversation with some guard.
The elevator doors opened and Al Dietrich got off.
"Morning, Mr. Dietrich," David said.
Dietrich nodded and headed for the glass doors
leading to the parking lot.
"Sir?" David would ask him if he needed an assistant. This was a great time. He hadn't been able to get past that bitchy secretary of his. "Uh, Mr. Dietrich?"
Dietrich kept walking.
"He didn't even hear ya, Red," Willie the guard said.
The elevator doors had closed and David pushed the button again. When the doors opened, he got on and stood for a moment shaking his head. Shit!
David pushed the button marked nineteen. He was carrying mail for several of the producers whose offices were on that floor. He had already asked around if any of them needed an assistant, but if there was any response at all it was usually something on the order of "I'd love to give you a job, kid, but by next season I may not have one myself."
It was true. The television producers and many of the film producers came and went quickly. That's why David wanted to work upstairs. With the studio heads. For Harold Greenfield. But Greenfield was never available. He was in Europe, or in a meeting, or at lunch, or too busy, or not seeing anyone this month or something like that. But David was hanging in. Calling and leaving messages with Greenfield's secretary. He believed that if he could have a half hour of Greenfield's time just to talk, Greenfield would see how aggressive he could be and take him on as an assistant. David got off the elevator, sorting the mail as he walked. He would hurry through nineteen and get to twenty quickly.
"Hi, David."
Lonny Paxton's secretary. Big tits. What was her name? "Hi, honey," David said.
Harry Mann's secretary. Tough old broad. He liked her.
"Morning."
"Take that pile in the box for outgoing, will you?" she said. The telephone was at her ear, a cigarette hung from her mouth and she was typing rapidly. David grinned.
Part of the nineteenth floor was casting. Tom Rich's office. Three blond girls, each wearing too much makeup for that hour of the morning, sat in three chairs lined up just next to Rich's door. Each was holding a picture portfolio on her lap. Rich's fat secretary, Enid, was reading a novel.
The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel Page 10