by Amy Sohn
He dialed Topper. Kate patched him through. “Topper,” he said, “I need you to help me find a girl.”
“You’re a married man,” Topper said.
“I just need this phone number. She’s a singer, she sings at the Hotel Café, and her name is—”
“You know what, man? Other agents do this, I don’t do this. You’re on the verge of some very exciting shit here, don’t mess it up, all right?”
Gottlieb was embarrassed. You couldn’t start asking your agent to track down a girl until you’d earned him some big-time money. He thought about calling back to apologize and decided that would make things worse.
He got in bed, still dripping wet, and opened the laptop. On her website there were photos of her with red circles on her cheeks and polka-dot pants. On the main page it said, “Hattie Rivera was found swaddled in burlap on the corner of Eighty-first and Columbus in New York City. She was taken in by a loving family and given the name Hattie, after a parakeet they once owned. After studying at a convent in Zurich, she escaped one night and woke up on a train bound for Aachen with the urge to sing. Now she resides in an early apartment of Jayne Mansfield’s and feels haunted at night.”
There was a contact link. He clicked and an e-mail form came up. “Dear Hattie, I had an accident and lost your number. Please call me.” He typed the hotel number and room, and his cell. She probably had an art-school intern who read all this stuff and leaned back in an ergonomic chair, tickling her ribs as she laughed.
Gottlieb visited half a dozen fan sites to see if any contained clues as to how to reach her. One said her father was a reclusive New Yorker reporter who’d had an affair with an office typist. There were differing accounts as to where she lived; some said she split her time between the Hudson Valley and L.A. Others said she lived in Portland.
He went on Hotelcafe.com. There were six acts a night; he scanned the pages for her photo and couldn’t find her. He scrolled into November, and the page stopped. He grabbed his cell and called the venue. A recording, of course. It was too early, not even nine. He stared at his wrinkled hand with the faded ghost of her handwritten numbers. What a jerk-off.
• • •
By two o’clock that afternoon he was stuck in slow-crawling traffic on Sunset, headed back to his hotel from the last meeting, at DreamWorks. It hadn’t gone well—twice the executive had left the room after her assistant handed her a buck slip—and on her second return she apologized, said something had come up, and ended the meeting. Both he and Andy agreed the calls probably had been fake.
After the pitch, Gottlieb had gotten Andy alone by his car. “About last night,” he said.
“I just wish I hadn’t seen it,” Andy said.
“It’s L.A.!” Gottlieb said. “We’re in L.A.!”
“You are,” Andy said.
“So does this mean—”
“I’m going to pretend I never saw anything, but I hate it. Our wives are friends. You put me in a lousy position, man.”
“I didn’t want you to stay at the same hotel!” Gottlieb cried, and Andy aimed his remote at the door.
In the Cayenne now, Gottlieb shuddered, remembering the look on Andy’s face at the Tower Bar. His cell phone rang. “So here’s what I have,” said Topper after Jed, Andy, and Ross came on the call, too. “Lionsgate, DreamWorks, and Relativity have passed. The final Universal, Summit, Paramount, and Fox offers are all in. Fox has come up to $650K; Universal has come up to $600; Summit came in with $575; and Paramount’s at $575.”
The numbers were stunning, it was too crazy, he couldn’t keep them straight. “So here’s what I think we should do,” Topper said. “You’re going to have really good support at any of these places. But I want to get you on the phone with all four studios and let them pitch you on why they should make the movie. Kate’s trying to get call times for everyone later this afternoon. You take each call and let them sell you. How does that sound?”
“What about Warner?” asked Gottlieb.
“I can’t get Igor Hecht on the phone,” Topper said. “But you shouldn’t think about that. Think about the fact that you have four solid offers. I want everyone to keep their schedules clear from four on today for the calls. Then you’ll have the weekend to think it over. You guys are gonna fly home Monday night with a deal.”
“I think Topper’s right,” Jed piped in. “You guys have to feel comfortable about where you’re going to be. You need to be protected, to believe they really want this. You don’t want them to fire you and put other writers on.”
“Hold on, boys,” Topper said. “It’s going to be a ride.”
It was incredible, the way life could be like the movies. You went to L.A. a nobody, and by sheer talent, you could leave a somebody. Over the course of the week, they had gone from pitching to being pitched. No matter which studio they picked, this would be life-changing. Gottlieb would no longer be a failed screenwriter, wincing when another dad asked him what he did; no longer tell women at Dyer Pond to watch his movie on Netflix Instant.
When he got back to his hotel room, there was a message from a woman with an Indian accent saying, “I have Judd Apatow for you.” He thought it was a joke but dialed the number anyway. She connected him to a voice adenoidal and vaguely Long Island enough to seem genuine. “I heard about your pitch,” Judd Apatow said, “and I just wanted to let you know how happy you’ll be at Universal. They really understand smart comedy. In six years of directing for them, I’ve always felt like they cared about artists. That’s not true at many studios.”
“They told you to call me?”
“I became aware of your project and wanted to put in a call. They don’t tell me what to do.”
When he hung up, the phone rang again. It was a polite, extremely familiar-accented male English voice. “Hallo, is this Daniel Gottlieb?”
“Yes?”
“This is Sacha Baron Cohen. Listen, I know you have a call coming up with Paramount, and you may or may not know this, but I’m doing my next film with them, The Dictator. We took a bunch of meetings, like you did, and I felt Paramount was the absolute right place to be. I just want you to know I couldn’t be happier with my decision. You’ll be in very good hands if you go with them.”
Gottlieb chuckled incredulously. There was a knock on the door. He went to answer it, and a bellman stood there with a magnum of Krug and two envelopes. A note on the champagne read, “While you’re mulling your options, thought you might enjoy this.—Judd.”
“Listen, man,” said Sacha Baron Cohen, “whatever happens, I look forward to meeting you someday. I’ve had three people tell me you’re going to be me in a couple of years. The world needs more me’s.”
Gottlieb opened the small envelope first. Elvis Costello at the Nokia Center Saturday night. There was a note signed by Brad Grey, whom they’d pitched at Paramount. Gottlieb was beginning to feel like the most popular girl in school. Elvis Fucking Costello.
The big envelope contained all the mail that had come to Gottlieb in August at Brooklyn Film School. He’d had his assistant forward it, not sure how long he would be in L.A. He set it on the dresser.
Kate called to say their first was at five. When the phoners were done, he didn’t know what to do with himself. All the execs said the right thing. All of them sounded as if they could produce a great movie.
He was too exhausted to go out, and it was too dark to surf. He remembered that he hadn’t gotten through to the Hotel Café in the morning, so he called to see if Hattie was playing again, subbing for someone. The guy said she wasn’t.
He called Evan and asked for Lara’s phone number. He drove to her house in Silver Lake. She put on a band called Vetiver, and they smoked a joint and had sex on her flokati rug. She put on the condom with her mouth again and did the weird orgasm thing. Maybe it was yogic or tantric. There was something hardened about her that depressed him. On her mantel were dozens of photos of the now-dead dog. While they made love, through the window he saw a police helico
pter flying low, its searchlight scanning the urban grid for some desperado. He imagined himself inside, shining a blinding spot on the city of Los Angeles until it led him to Hattie Rivera.
• • •
Saturday turned out to be one of those days Gottlieb knew he would never forget, even as it was happening. At noon he and Andy, who, as promised, seemed to be pretending he hadn’t seen anything, met Jed and Ross at the Polo Lounge for brunch. Gottlieb ate a thirty-four-dollar lobster Cobb salad and saw Cameron Diaz a few tables away. They talked about the conference calls and decided to go with Universal even though Fox was offering more money, not only because of the Judd Apatow call but because they thought Universal would do the best job of marketing the movie.
At brunch Jed invited Gottlieb to his house in Malibu for a sunset paddle before the Elvis Costello concert, which Jed said he was attending as well. Jed’s house was stark and modern and even bigger than it had seemed on Skype. Jed freaked out on Gottlieb’s new board, and they agreed to switch, Gottlieb borrowing Jed’s custom-made Dick Brewer nose rider. The sun was just starting to set as they took the private path down to the beach.
In the water they spotted Jack Johnson, Ben Stiller, and Kelly Slater. Kelly turned out to be a friendly guy and decent. He was almost forty, but his physique was incredible. Aging was a state of mind. After Gottlieb had a particularly good run, Kelly said, “Nice ride, brah.” Kelly Slater had paid him a compliment. Gottlieb’s surf buddy Tom in Wellfleet would never believe him. The five of them traded waves and watched the sun sit on the horizon like a big red ball until it disappeared slowly into the Pacific.
Afterward Gottlieb went back up to Jed’s for dinner on the deck—sashimi served by a gorgeous blond live-in chef who was, inexplicably, named Dvorah. Sea urchin; uni, it was called. Briny and rich. They drank artisanal Japanese beer. “Those are the ’nads,” Jed said.
“What?”
“You’re eating the gonads. Of the sea urchin. They were taken from a live one. The uni from live ones is a different class, a different category.”
Gottlieb almost choked, but then he tried to forget what Jed had told him and focus on the flavor. If he didn’t think about what it was, then it was the best meal of his life. “Great board, man,” Gottlieb said.
“You want it?”
“Are you serious?”
“Keep it. It’s yours. You just gotta figure out how to get it back to the city.”
Gottlieb was wowed by Jed’s generosity and felt confident that they would have a great working relationship. It could last years, one of those perfect collaborations: John Hughes and John Candy, Cameron Crowe and Tom Cruise, Billy Wilder and Jack Lemmon.
“You should try some of the wave-osity down in north San Diego,” Jed said. “It started yesterday. It’s been insane. You been down there?”
“No. You know any good beaches?”
“Swami’s, in Encinitas. It’s Eddie Vedder’s favorite surf spot, but we all wish he hadn’t told the whole world that in an interview, because now it gets crowded some days. They call it Swarm-i’s. It’s underneath a meditation center. Real good vibe, a lot of groovy surf-guru types. If you can get out there on this trip, you should.” Gottlieb stared out at the purple-yellow sky over the water, wondering if someday he would have a beach house in Malibu and look at this view every night. “Congratulations,” Jed said, raising his beer bottle.
Gottlieb choked up a little, envisioning himself directing Jed in Say Uncle. “I just want to say—” he started, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I just want to say I really appreciate you coming on board with this. Taking a risk on me. There’s no way we would have been in this position without you attached.”
“What can I say?” Jed said. “I responded to the material.” Then he flashed a mental-patient grin.
Gottlieb caravanned to Elvis Costello behind Jed’s arcadian blue 1967 Mustang. The seats were in the front row, and dozens of well-wishers came up to get Jed’s autograph. Gottlieb watched the way he handled them, classy but with boundaries, and admired his ability to pull off the feat of not offending anyone.
The lights dimmed and everyone got quiet. Gottlieb was relieved when Jed sat between him and Andy, who had arrived on his own. The less they talked, the better. Soon the Tower Bar incident would blow over. When you’d known someone twenty years, you learned to forgive each other.
Elvis came out and the crowd went crazy. He played early-eighties stuff, and some heart-wrenching country cover ballads by George Jones and Gram Parsons. They were so close to the stage, they could see the sweat on his brow. After about an hour’s worth of songs, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce a very special friend of mine, Miss Hattie Rivera. If you don’t know her name, you should.”
Standing at the mike so close they could almost kiss, they sang a duet. The lyrics were unfamiliar, and Gottlieb decided Hattie had written them: “I grabbed for your coat / It slipped onto the ground / It covered a puddle / You turned your head ’round.” Twice Jed said to him, “This girl is really good,” and he didn’t sound sarcastic.
While Hattie played, Gottlieb kept trying to catch her eye. For a second he thought she was looking right at him, singing to him, but then he remembered their conversation and smiled to himself.
In the set break, the three men went outside so Jed could smoke. Gottlieb looked at every girl to see if she was Hattie. He excused himself and went back inside. He asked an usher where the stage door was, found it, flashed his pass to a big bouncer type in front. The door opened. Jerry Seinfeld and some friends were in a corner eating from a spread. Bret Easton Ellis was in another corner. Officious-looking young people bustled by. Gottlieb tapped one on the shoulder. “Is Hattie here?”
“She left. Sorry.”
During the second set, Gottlieb kept glancing around to see if Hattie was in the audience, to no avail. Elvis was singing “I Want You” from Blood and Chocolate. “Everything else is a waste of breath . . .” And then his signature “I want you,” the dissonant, jangling, crushing, angry guitar chord crying out what Gottlieb felt so keenly. I want you. Hattie. I want you.
Jed tapped his arm. “We’re out of here.”
“What?”
“We gotta get to the club.”
“But I love this song.”
“You’ll love Sparkle more.”
Before Gottlieb knew it, he was caravanning to a nightclub in Hollywood behind Jed. The velvet rope came up as the bouncer greeted Jed, and they filed in behind him. It was dark inside, and pulsing hip-hop blared from the speakers. Jed led them straight to the back, to a private booth and a banquette for twenty. Bottles of Grey Goose and cranberry juice littered the table, and girls appeared as though from nowhere. They all looked like starlets, with perfect, creamy skin and cascading hair. Asian, black, most white, all classy. Like a buffet.
One girl, who resembled Rachel McAdams just enough for it to be spooky, asked Gottlieb to dance. He poured himself a vodka cranberry, took a big swig, and went. They got on the floor and grooved as people clapped and cheered. “You’re a really good dancer,” she said. It felt like she really was Rachel McAdams telling him this, and he got an electric jolt that began at the back of his neck and went down to his cock. He took a seat in the banquette, and Will Forte, Jason Segel, Rob Corddry, Charlie Day, and a few familiar-looking male network comedy stars streamed in. Jed ordered champagne and more bottles of vodka for everyone. Toasts were made, shots were poured. All the guys said they wanted to audition for Say Uncle.
Jed was squeezed between two girls, both with high cheekbones and flat, perfect hair. One was an Emma Roberts look-alike, another an Anna Faris. Andy was sitting between two lookers and working very hard on looking into his drink. Fakel McAdams slid in next to Gottlieb. “Are you an actress?” he asked her.
“You could say that,” she said.
“That’s Lacey!” Jed shouted to Gottlieb. “Be gentle with her.”
“You’re an asshole,
Jed,” she said.
Fake Anna Faris was nuzzling Jed’s neck. Then, as though in a dated porno, she disappeared under the table. Jed’s head tilted back and his jaw dropped open. A fist clenched in Gottlieb’s stomach. They were going to call Universal on Monday and say they wanted to do it. It didn’t seem smart for Jed to be doing this in public. He had seemed so mild-mannered just hours ago at his house. This Jed was like Charlie Sheen.
Gottlieb glanced anxiously over at Andy to see if he had noticed the girl disappearing. Andy was leaning over intently, and at first Gottlieb thought he was inspecting his plate, but as Andy lifted his head, Gottlieb saw that he had one finger held to his nostril. There were a couple of lines in front of him. What was going on? As far as Gottlieb knew, Andy didn’t do blow. At Princeton he’d been into microbrews, back before everyone was into microbrews. When Andy finished, the Asian girl next to him hoovered a few lines as if it were her own DNA.
Gottlieb glanced at Jed again and was alarmed to find that he was smiling at him, while the girl was doing whatever she was doing. Suddenly, foil materialized and Lacey was cutting up coke. He probably hadn’t done it in close to twenty years, since an old friend from home who went to Bennington had died of heart failure after a wild party. Besides, who knew what was in this? His head was spinning. He was tired from the excitement and the sunset surfing session. Andy’s face was aglow; he was clearly lit up. Gottlieb decided a little couldn’t hurt. He was worrying too much. What he needed to do was kick back like Andy, party on. The deal was cause to celebrate.
When he came up, he could feel his capillaries pumping. Fake Anna Faris was back by Jed’s side, drinking a vodka cranberry through a straw. Gottlieb realized that his upper teeth and gums were numb.
Lacey was doing another line. Gottlieb began to feel like he might vomit. Roy Ayers was singing “Everybody Loves the Sunshine,” but it sounded scary and ominous. Girls were dancing on the table like stoned hippies. He glanced through a pair of bronze legs at Andy, but his partner had disappeared as though into thin air.