A commissary waitress appeared instantly. "What can I get you today, Mr. Greenfield?" Barry recognized her as the same waitress who had spilled Green Goddess dressing on his jacket once last year. The jacket had been next to him on the seat. When he pointed the spilled dressing out to her she said, "Oh, yeah. Sorry, hon."
Today she didn't even look at him until she took his order, and then she called him sir. He was sure she didn't put him together with the Green Goddess dressing incident.
"Seen any of your old mail room pals?" Allyn asked him.
"No," Barry said. He hadn't. He knew she was asking about David Kane and he wished he had a more interesting answer. Even if it was just so Greenfield wouldn't think he was dull.
"How are things at World Records?" Greenfield asked. The waitress was already serving Greenfield his soup. "Is Henry Shmidt treating you all right, Golden?"
"Uh . . . yeah," Barry said. "Mr. Shmidt's an okay guy." Barry looked up and took in the view across the commissary from Harold Greenfield's booth. It was a remarkable vantage point. Barry noticed now that the booth was slightly elevated, built on a platform maybe, and from it there was a clear line of sight to every other booth in the room. At the far end of the commissary was the booth he'd sat in with Stan and David and Mickey. The mail room seemed like ages ago for Barry. My God. He was having lunch with Harold Greenfield.
"Then you're happy there?" Greenfield asked. Barry looked at Greenfield's face. The expression on it reminded him of the one his mother used to have when she asked him a question to which she already knew the answer.
"No, sir," he said. "I'm not."
Greenfield just nodded.
"After lunch you'll come to my office and we'll talk about it."
Barry ordered a salad, but he barely touched it. Allyn said she'd been to the Butterscotch concert and stopped backstage afterward to see Stan Rose and he'd been glowing with success. When the three of them finished, the waitress gave Greenfield a pen and he signed the check. When they walked back through the commissary, Barry felt everyone's eyes on them. And even though he knew Shmidt was out of town, he was sure when the old doll, as Gigi Boyd called him, got back to town, one of the other A&R men would tell him Barry had been with Greenfield at lunch.
Greenfield's office was cool and all of the furniture was antique and beautiful. Allyn made coffee and the three of them sat at a table by a window overlooking the lot.
Barry was nervous. Why did Greenfield care about his opinion? Maybe he needed to have some goods on Shmidt in order to fire him. No. That wasn't right. Harold Greenfield could fire anyone he wanted to.
"I wanted an assessment of the situation at World from the inside," Greenfield said. "I can talk to my business people until I'm blue in the face. And to Shmidt. But I'm curious to know what you think."
Barry took a deep breath. What the hell. He'd say it all. The worst thing that could happen is that Shmidt would come to his house in the storm trooper's uniform and goosestep all over his face.
"Here's what I think," Barry began, and then he said everything he'd been thinking for weeks. About how the music business was totally changed, and how World Records had to keep up or not make it, and how rock music wasn't just a trend but a total change of style. He told Greenfield about the new groups he'd heard, specifically Heaven, who didn't have a record deal yet, and how he'd met them through Harley Ellis, who was his friend. And how he'd been to Harley's recording sessions and watched Jim Garland work. And Greenfield listened carefully and finally asked:
"Can we hear them tonight?"
"Heaven?"
"Yes."
"Maybe. I'll get Danny Kyle's number."
"I'll call down and get us a room on the lot," Allyn said.
The room was a rehearsal hall that was next to stage 4.
Barry brought Harley and Marty and Yona. Allyn Grant came with Harold Greenfield and his wife, Julia. Danny Kyle was a little nervous and he and the other guys brought their women with them. There were two sound men.
Barry had gone home right after his afternoon meeting with Greenfield to tell Harley the news and to change for the audition. All the way back to the studio in the Mustang, Harley tried to reassure him that everything would be fine.
"Jesus, Harley. My ass is on the line. I've gone over Shmidt's head to the biggest person at Hemisphere," Barry said. "If this doesn't work out, Greenfield will think I'm a putz. If it does, Shmidt will have me killed."
Harley laughed.
"Easy for you to laugh," Barry said. But he was laughing, too. He couldn't believe this whole turn of events.
"You heard the group," Harley told him. "You know they're great."
"What do I know?" Barry said.
"A lot, man. I swear to God. You know a lot," Harley promised.
Now Dawson was tuning his guitar, and they would begin any second. Everyone sat in folding chairs watching the boys expectantly. Everyone but Barry. He stood in the back of the room leaning against the wall. He wanted desperately to look calm. But his stomach hurt, and he was a little queasy. Why the fuck didn't they start already? Dawson strummed a chord. Thank God. Harley's advice to the group had been not to talk. Just to play. Of course that was Harley's style because he was always too shy to talk, but it seemed to be a good idea.
They opened with "Where Do I Belong?" and Barry was sorry he was standing in the back, because he wanted to see Greenfield's face. The music was as good as he had remembered it, and his stomach was starting to feel better. Dawson was charming. He had a sweet voice. The tunes were good.
Barry could see the back of Harley's head. It was nodding to the rhythm of the song. He loved Harley so much. He never knew he could feel as peaceful with another person as he did with Harley. In fact, when he thought back on his life he didn't ever remember there being any peaceful moments like there were now. Always it had been his mother's complaining, or his father worrying, and later there was Mashe's bullying.
At the end of "Where Do I Belong?" the enthusiastic applause from the small group echoed through the big room. Now the group began another song. One Barry hadn't heard. Very up-tempo, and Barry started to worry again that Greenfield wouldn't like it, but when he looked at everyone, they were all moving to the beat, including Greenfield. And then someone, it must have been one of the girl friends of the group, started clapping out the rhythm, and then everyone else joined in. Greenfield and his wife, and Allyn Grant. Dawson was grinning while he sang. He knew his songs were a hit. Barry grinned, too.
After the third song, before the group could begin again, Greenfield stood. A second later, Mrs. Greenfield stood and then Allyn Grant.
"Boys," Greenfield said to the band. "Be in my office Friday morning."
Barry and Harley stopped to pick up four large pizzas and a bunch of six-packs and everyone in the group met them back at Barry's apartment.
"Hey, listen," Kyle said. "We gotta do some serious thinking between now and Friday about what we're gonna ask for if we make this deal. You know?"
"It's simple," Barry said. "I'll tell you what you ask for. To begin with, you want a twenty-five-thousand-dollar advance. Then you want the right to do two albums a year for five years. You want promotion money for a tour, say twenty-five thousand, and ten thousand for instruments. You also ask for ten percent of retail for royalties."
"Is that what Harley gets at Rainbow?" Dawson asked.
"It's better than Harley gets."
Harley laughed.
"Think World will give us that? Shit, we don't even have a goddamned agent."
There was a long silence. Barry picked a cold mushroom from a leftover piece of pizza and put it in his mouth. He looked at Harley, who was looking at him.
"Let's talk about that," Barry said.
The next morning Barry sat in his gray cubicle thinking about how he would handle the situation. Several times he reached for the phone and then stopped himself. Fuck. He'd sit here all day if he didn't do it now.
"Harold Greenfield's
office."
"Allyn?"
"No. Did you wish to speak to Miss Grant?"
Jesus. She doesn't even have to answer the phone.
"No," he said bravely. "I wish to speak to Mr. Greenfield."
"Who's calling, please?"
"Barry Golden."
She clicked off for a moment. Then back on.
"Mr. Golden? Mr. Greenfield asked that you come up here. Is that all right?"
"Yes," Barry said, and hung up the phone.
The secretary ushered him right in to Greenfield's office. Allyn was already there. Fresh. Pretty. Bearing coffee. Barry's stomach was hurting again.
"Golden," Greenfield said, gesturing to Barry to sit. "You beat me to the punch. I was just calling you when you called."
Yeah. Yeah. Sure.
"I liked the group, Golden. It was nice to meet them, and to meet your friend Ellis. I'd like to sign Heaven. Actually, I'd like you to sign them. And then we can talk about what position you'd like to hold at World Records. Oh, and don't worry about Henry Shmidt. I'll take care of that, and make sure he doesn't get upset by all this."
"Harold," Barry said. Jesus Christ. He called him Harold. "I'm leaving World Records. That's what I called to tell you."
Greenfield was silent, waiting to hear the rest.
"I'm a manager now. I represent Harley Ellis and I also represent Heaven."
A smile played on Harold Greenfield's lips. Then he laughed out loud. The laugh was sincere.
"Well, isn't that nice," he said. "Isn't that nice."
Allyn stood and shook Barry's hand.
"That's wonderful for you, Barry," she said. "Congratulations."
"Well, then," Greenfield said. "Well, then. I guess I'll be making my record deal for the group with you."
"I guess so," Barry said. "Provided you're willing to come up with what we want."
Greenfield smiled again and shook his head.
"You're on your way, Golden. Yes, you are. I think you're on your way to being very important in this town."
twenty-four
Mickey lifted the large canvas bag containing the morning mail, slung it over his shoulder and left the post office. He knew he could have sent one of the new boys over to make the pickup, but there was something he liked about this trip back and forth. Maybe it was that he needed to get away from the new boys. Just their presence, their young smug attitudes, made him uncomfortable.
One of them, Josh Crane, looked as if he were twelve years old. And he had a master's degree in cinema from U.S.C. One of the others, Burt Dubin, looked as if he'd just stepped out off the pages of Gentlemen's Quarterly. Pedaling around on a two-wheeler wearing those dress pants. Mickey told him he was crazy to wear good stuff like that to work, and the kid, Burt, only laughed. The worst of it was that even when Dubin ran the mail to transportation and places far across the lot, he'd come back and his dress pants wouldn't have one wrinkle. Little bastard.
And the third guy. Peter Daimler. He was like a Nazi, for Christ's sake. Real efficient. Always calling Mickey on mistakes, or bugging him about sitting around reading the trades. Maybe Daimler would get a job soon and get out of Mickey's hair.
A job. Mickey needed a fucking job. Here he was. Still running the mail. He had been in the mail room before Kane, and Golden and Rose. With Ned Carr, and Andy Solari. And now all those guys were gone. Of course, none of them were actors, and it was harder for an actor to get a break. Too many factors had to fall into place. The way a guy looked, experience, the right part. That's why it was taking him so long to get out of the mail room. Well, maybe it wasn't so bad. Most actors had a hard time finding jobs outside the acting profession to support themselves during the lean times. And this job not only paid his rent but allowed him to be where the action was in the industry. And it wasn't a hard job, like digging ditches or anything. It was pretty easy. Especially after all these years because he really had it down. It was serving his purpose because eventually someone would notice him and give him a few lines in something and then, look out. Shit, he'd had dinner at Jackie Levitz's house last week, and Levitz promised Mickey the workshop was going to put on a showcase production for agents within the next year.
"That'll do it for you, kid," Levitz promised. "That'll be the night that puts you on the map."
The three new boys were waiting when Mickey got back.
"Hey, Mick. Don Morgan called you," Josh Crane said.
"Okay."
While the three boys set on the large canvas bag to sort, Mickey dialed Don Morgan's office.
"Don Morgan's office."
"Mickey Ashman here."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Ashman. He'd like to see you in his office at ten."
"Yeah." Mickey hung up. What did Morgan want now? Maybe to tell him to fire Daimler. Mickey took a handful of mail and began sorting. He was very fast at it because he knew where each of the boxes was by memory.
"Look at that," Burt Dubin said, emitting a whistle at Mickey's style.
Mickey took another handful of letters. He loved having an audience. Now he would back up and spin letters into their boxes from a distance. Then he would send two at a time off in different directions. The three boys were loving the show. When he finished the third handful, Mickey bowed.
"Unreal!" Josh Crane exclaimed.
"Obviously the result of many years of practice," Peter Daimler said with a slight smile.
Mickey pulled a copy of Variety out of the mailbag and sat down at the table to read while the others finished sorting.
* * *
Don Morgan had a new secretary about once every three months. Stan Rose noticed that a long time ago and called it to the attention of the others. Mickey imagined it was probably because the ugly son of a bitch Morgan was always trying to grab the secretaries and they'd beg to be transferred somewhere else. The new girl was very ugly, which Mickey figured meant she'd have longevity. Either because Don Morgan wouldn't touch her or because if he did she'd be thrilled. She told Mickey to go right in. Don Morgan was on the phone. He motioned Mickey to sit down.
"Don't worry about me, baby," Don Morgan was saying into the phone. He winked at Mickey and made a gesture as if he was jerking off. The thought of Don Morgan jerking off turned Mickey's stomach.
"I'll be there. In a few hours I'll be there to lick your sweet thighs," Don Morgan laughed.
Mickey tried to look as though he hadn't heard that.
"'Bye," Don Morgan said into the phone and hung up.
Mickey braced himself for one of Don Morgan's graphic descriptions of the girl last night, or the girl on the phone, but Don Morgan's expression had already changed since hanging up the phone. He looked very serious.
"Ashman," he said. "I called you here to tell you that you're no longer head of the mail room."
A promotion. Somehow he was getting a promotion. How great. And he hadn't even kissed anybody's ass to get it. Where could they be sending him? he wondered. Maybe casting. An assistant in the casting department. That would be great. He could see all the scripts and submit himself for the good parts.
"Okay," Mickey said.
"From now on the head of the mail room is going to be Hal Bradford," Don Morgan said, and then he turned his chair and opened his desk drawer. Mickey waited for him to go on. Instead he pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy photograph of a naked girl with very big breasts who was sitting on the hood of a car smiling.
"Actress," he said, "loves me. The girl on the phone. Gives blow jobs like you can't believe. Swallows, too."
Mickey was annoyed.
"Morgan, where am I going?"
"Huh?"
"Where are they sending me?"
"Who?"
"The studio, Morgan," Mickey said. "If I'm not the head of the mail room anymore. What am I?"
"I don't know," Morgan said. "I guess you're in the mail room again. Like the old days."
"What?"
"Ashman, give me a break," Don Morgan said. "This one was forced on me. I'd
much rather see you keep the job. I like you, Ashman, you know I don't give a shit about hiring some nigger. But they have to. Hemisphere has to. Otherwise there'll be spooks all over the place picketing. You know what I mean?"
Mickey was on his feet now.
"You're saying they're giving some black guy my job?"
"Sorry, pal."
"But I can't go back to just being one of the boys. What do I do?"
Don Morgan snapped. "Maybe you could get a job in operations or scheduling," he said. "That would be okay."
"What?" Guys in operations and scheduling were little machinelike boring men, and most of them had been in those jobs for fifteen or twenty years. It was a dead end.
"I don't want that."
Don Morgan was silent. He had nothing more to offer.
"I quit, Morgan," Mickey heard himself say. Maybe now Morgan would come up with something.
"I think it's for the best," Don Morgan said. Mickey turned and walked out of Don Morgan's office.
He didn't want to stop by the mail room. He couldn't bear to tell the new boys and watch Peter Daimler smirk. He hadn't left any of his things there. He'd go straight home. He'd call Jackie Levitz and start hustling some business. Some real business. Acting jobs.
This wasn't bad news. It was good news. A blessing. Now he would have his days free to spend time looking for jobs as an actor. His true profession. No more of this deliver-the-mail-to-people-who-treat-you-like-shit kind of life. Yes. Now he would use all of his energy, and God knows he had a lot of that, to get this goddamned acting career off the ground. And when he made it, every one of them would kiss his adorable ass. Mickey Ashman the star. Ha. That was what he wanted more than anything and he was going to make it happen.
twenty-five
"There's a certain kind of chemistry that occurs between two people almost immediately upon meeting that can't be denied or reversed. It's knowing instantly that another human being has the ability to make you crazy if they want to, or happy if they choose to, because your need to be with them is so great it gives them a kind of power."
The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel Page 22