The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  “That makes sense. Has he released it to the media?”

  “Yeah, earlier today. You haven’t watched TV?”

  “No.”

  “It’s been on there. Hogan made sure he was interviewed about it, so he’d get credit for being a hard charger. I’ll send a copy of the drawing to your phone. Or better still, I’ll fax it to you at your hotel. And I’ll call you if it produces anything.”

  “Okay, good. Also, at the post they made a photo of the fléchette Robbins dug out of Delure. Fax me a copy of that too, will you?”

  “Yeah, will do.”

  Barker hung up and opened his travel bag, got out a pair of swim trunks. He was stripping off his clothes when the phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Bart Hopkins here. I called Zarkov and he said there’s a party scheduled for tomorrow night, and he’d be delighted to have me come. I told him I’d be bringing a friend, and he said that’d be fine. So I’ll pick you up tomorrow at, say, eight thirty. Okay?”

  “Sure, I’ll see you then. And thanks.”

  Barker next called Dana Laramie’s number. She sounded glad to hear from him. He told her about his visit to Bart Hopkins’s house.

  “And you say his girlfriend was with him?”

  “Yes. Her name was Donna Ferrante.”

  “Ah, the Italian firecracker.”

  “You know her?”

  “I’ve met her. She’s an actress. Catherine couldn’t stand her. Said she drew guys like a magnet.”

  Barker could understand that.

  “So was Bart willing to help you?”

  “Yeah, he’s going to Len Zarkov’s place tomorrow night. Zarkov is having one of his parties. And Hopkins is taking me with him.”

  “Hey, nice going.”

  “Thanks, I’ll fill you in afterward.”

  Barker hung up and got into his trunks and a T-shirt. He left the room and went down to the poolside patio, where he put on sunglasses and sat at a table. Wouldn’t be a bad life living in Southern California, he thought.

  A waiter came by, and Barker ordered a shrimp cocktail, a strip steak medium rare, a baked potato, a green salad, and a glass of pinot noir.

  As he waited for his food, he looked at the sky. It was a high, hard blue, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. A light breeze was waving the fronds of the palm trees, and two girls in bikinis were frolicking in the pool.

  Not a bad life at all.

  22.

  At eight thirty sharp, Barker went out the front entrance of the hotel. He wore his blazer, and because this was LA, no tie. Bart Hopkins was waiting for him in the white Rolls, the top down and the engine idling. Barker had guessed right about the tie; Hopkins wasn’t wearing one. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, either.

  “Zarkov’s house is on Mulholland,” Hopkins said as they pulled away. “You ever been up there?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’d remember it if you had. At least if the weather was clear.”

  Tonight it was quite clear, and the air was balmy and redolent with the fragrance of night jasmine. The convertible purred its way west, and then made a right onto Laurel Canyon. As the big car climbed the winding curves it struck Barker that not so long ago he couldn’t have envisioned himself riding through Beverly Hills in a Rolls-Royce.

  “Nice car,” he said.

  Hopkins looked over at him and smiled. “Thanks. I like it. Rolls makes good machinery.”

  “Didn’t I read the company was sold a while back?”

  “Right. The Germans own it now. BMW bought it. Remember the old expression, dress British, think Yiddish? This is a new wrinkle on that.”

  When they reached the Zarkov house, Barker saw that it was a prime example of contemporary design, one story high and with walls of glass. A large crowd of people was visible inside, and the sound of their chatter blended with music as it drifted out onto the circular drive.

  Attendants wearing white jackets opened the doors of the Rolls and the two men stepped out. One of the attendants handed Hopkins a card with a number on it and then whisked the Rolls away to wherever they were parking guests’ cars.

  Other attendants were obviously security. Hopkins gave one of them his name and told him to let Mr. Zarkov know he’d arrived. The man hurried off.

  Hopkins grabbed Barker’s arm and said, “Turn around and look back.”

  From this height, the view was panoramic. To Barker, it was as if the city were laid out at his feet. Lights were coming on in the dusk, giving the scene a magical appearance.

  “Something, isn’t it?” Hopkins said. “Tells you why people like Jack Nicholson live up here.”

  He pointed. “That’s Hollywood down there, and beyond that is LA’s business district, where you see the tall buildings. Over there is the Palos Verde Peninsula. And those are the San Bernardino Mountains, on the horizon.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “We’re lucky,” Hopkins said. “Tonight there isn’t much smog, and unfortunately there usually is. It’s caused by an inversion layer that forms over the LA basin. It traps the smoke and gases and makes it a crapshoot to breathe the air. Do it long enough, and it just might kill you.”

  They went inside, where it was wall-to-wall people, everyone deeply tanned and dressed in casual but elegant clothing. Waiters moved through the crowd, offering glasses of champagne from trays.

  There was also a bar at one end of the room, and the more serious drinkers were clustered near it. At the other end, a long table held a wide variety of both hot and cold dishes. Two men in chef’s hats stood behind the table, serving guests.

  “Hey, glad you could make it.” A heavyset man in an ivory-colored silk shirt came toward them, smiling broadly. The shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing a gold chain nestled among the hairs.

  “Hello, Len,” Hopkins said, and shook the man’s hand. “This is my friend Jeb.”

  Zarkov glanced at Barker. “Hi.”

  “Quite a blowout,” Hopkins said. “You really do this often?”

  “Damn near every night, when I’m in town. It’s a good way for me to keep a finger on what’s going on in the business. And to see friends and make contacts. How about a drink?”

  “The champagne looks good,” Hopkins said. “You too, Jeb?”

  “That’d be fine.”

  Zarkov raised a finger, and one of the tray bearers hurried to them. Hopkins and Barker both took glasses and sipped the sparkling wine.

  It was excellent, Barker thought. Although he’d never tasted enough of the stuff to be much of a judge.

  “You’ll probably recognize the actors and actresses,” Zarkov said. He waved in the direction of the crowd. “There’s a lot of them here. That’s Terry Falcon over there, poor Catherine’s costar in Hot Cargo. Also Laura Bennett, who’s just finishing her new picture. And more’ll be coming. Tom Cruise may stop by, and Bob De Niro. Brad might also come.” He grinned. “If he does, I hope he’ll bring Angelina.”

  “I hope so too,” Hopkins said.

  “Do you know Jerry Chu, the cinematographer?”

  “Only by reputation. Is he here?”

  “Sure is. Let me introduce you.” Zarkov beckoned to a small Asian man who was talking to a tall blonde. “Jerry, come on over here, will you? Want you to meet somebody.”

  When Chu joined them, Zarkov introduced him to Hopkins. He didn’t acknowledge Barker’s presence.

  “Jerry won an Oscar for his work on Savage World,” Zarkov said.

  “I saw the picture and the photography was wonderful,” Hopkins said. “That kind of expertise bowls me over.”

  Chu said, “The technology is constantly changing. And usually for the better.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, but you deserve your reputation. You’re a real artist.”
/>   If Chu was pleased by the remark, he didn’t show it. “The secret,” he said, “is to understand that photography is light. Doesn’t matter whether you’re shooting thirty-five millimeter or using film lenses with videotape. I can achieve a wide range of moods through different lighting effects. And I train my camera operators to give me exactly what I want.”

  “I’d love to hear more about that,” Hopkins said. “Whenever you might have some time.”

  “Be a pleasure,” Chu said. “But right now I want to get back to my girlfriend. Good to meet you.” He hurried over to the blonde, who’d begun talking with another man.

  Next Zarkov waved to Terry Falcon, who steered his companion to the producer. Falcon’s tan was so dark that when he smiled it made his teeth appear startlingly white. He was also much shorter than he appeared in films.

  The companion was another blonde, well built and giggly. Her name was Jean Adair. When Zarkov introduced them, the blonde flashed a smile at Barker. He decided she probably didn’t realize he was nobody.

  “I’ve enjoyed seeing your work,” Hopkins said to Falcon.

  The actor displayed his white teeth. “Thank you. All a matter of getting good roles.” He looked at Zarkov. “Isn’t that right, Len?”

  “It helps,” the producer said.

  “Nice to meet you,” Falcon said. He squeezed the blonde’s buttocks and she giggled. “Come on, baby,” he said. “I need a new drink.”

  After they left, Zarkov said to Hopkins, “You still thinking about getting into the business?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Good. Let me collect my assistant, who keeps track of money matters. We’ll go into my office.”

  23.

  The producer moved off and returned moments later with another man in tow. He introduced him to Hopkins as Norman Klein.

  With his clean-cut features and smooth manner, Klein could have been one of the actors, Barker thought. Even had the proper toothy smile.

  Zarkov led them to the other end of the house. On the way they passed a large patio, where more people were chatting and boozing. Barker noticed that off to one side a couple were crouched over a low table and snorting lines, apparently not caring whether anyone saw them or not.

  Zarkov’s office was as impressive as the rest of the place. His desk was a slab of zebrawood, and the entire wall behind it was glass. Another wall held a large TV monitor. And hanging on another was a large painting, an abstract burst of reds and greens and yellows.

  The view from here was almost as spectacular as the one from the front of the house. The office looked out over the San Fernando Valley, and it was dark now and the valley was a carpet of lights.

  Opposite the desk was a grouping of Barcelona chairs, and the men sat in them, with Zarkov and Klein facing Hopkins and Barker.

  Zarkov said, “As Ron Apperson explained to you, Bart, producing a movie is a risky proposition. In fact, financial failures are the rule, not the exception. People lose a lot of money in the business. Right, Norman?”

  “Yes, that’s quite true,” Klein said.

  “But I have a formula,” Zarkov said. “And it’s actually quite simple. For one thing, I finance most of my pictures myself. Sometimes I borrow from the banks in New York, but only because I might have more than one project going at the same time. So with my own money on the line, I keep a tight fist on every aspect of production. Behind my back my line producers call me Attila the Hun. They don’t think I know that, but I do.” He grinned. “And to tell the truth, I like it.”

  “Explain to Bart why you remain independent,” Klein said.

  “Simple reason for that, too. It means I don’t have to listen to a lot of shit from know-nothing schmucks at the studio while my picture’s in production. All studio people do is slow down the work and make everything cost more. But until my movie’s a finished product, they can’t get their hands on it.”

  “I see,” Hopkins said. “But you do have a relationship with a studio, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Zarkov said. “With strict limitations. Mainly, I use them to release the picture. By then it’s too late for them to fuck it up. I also use them for marketing and promotion. At my direction, of course.”

  “How many hits have you had?” Hopkins asked.

  “Depends on how you define hits,” the producer said. “You’re talking high grosses, maybe four or five. Hot Cargo is turning out to be a big one. It may become my biggest hit ever.”

  “I hope it does,” Hopkins said.

  “Thanks. My standard is does a film make money or not. Take a movie like Out of Body. Box office was so-so, and the critics said it was dreck. And you know something? They were right. But with the DVD and foreign distribution, even that made a profit. So the way I see it, the picture was successful. You understand, Bart?”

  “Absolutely,” Hopkins said.

  “Now that’s not to say none of my pictures ever lose money,” Zarkov went on. “Some of them have bombed, I don’t deny it. But those have been few and far between. Anyhow, financial control is only part of my formula when I’m considering whether to make a certain movie. When it comes to the creative aspects, there are two factors I believe are most important. One is the premise, and the other is the stars I think I can get for it. Paul Newman once said a star can’t make a movie, but if the story is a good one, then a star can help make it a hit. I couldn’t agree more.”

  “So to sum it up,” Klein said, “Len’s success is due to good stories featuring top stars, and tight financial control.”

  “That’s about it,” Zarkov said.

  “Is there a specific opportunity for me?” Hopkins said “One you could talk about?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” Zarkov said. “At the moment, I’m developing a new movie. And from what Ron Apperson has told me, it sounds like you might make a good partner for the project.”

  Hopkins said, “How far along are you?”

  “Just putting the pieces together. Are you familiar with the screenwriter Jonathan Gault?”

  “I’ve heard the name,” Hopkins said.

  “He’s one of the best. Won an Oscar for The Devil at Dawn. Anyway, this picture is a thriller, and he’s done a first draft of the script.”

  “What’s the premise?” Hopkins asked.

  Listen to him, Barker thought. Getting into the lingo.

  Zarkov said, “CIA counterintelligence agent tracks down a suspected Russian spy. There’s a great reversal when he discovers it may be his wife.”

  “Wow. That sounds terrific,” Hopkins said. “Who’ll star?”

  “I want Cruise. That’s why I hope he’ll show up tonight. I told him on the phone I wanted to discuss it with him.”

  “You think he’ll go for it?”

  “Good chance he will, yes. It’s just the kind of offbeat idea that appeals to him.”

  “How about the female lead?”

  Zarkov laughed. “That’s easy. I get Cruise, I can take my pick.”

  “I assume there’ll be plenty of action?”

  “Absolutely. Audiences today are mostly kids. Teenagers. What you want to do is get them excited. First, put in enough sex to give ’em a hard-on. Next, show ’em how much fun it’d be to shoot somebody. Then you can’t miss.” He laughed again.

  “You have a title?”

  “Yeah, Gault came up with it. Picture’ll be called The Betrayal.”

  “Ah, I like that.” Hopkins was quiet for a moment. “If I were to invest in the project, would it be strictly financial? Or would I have any involvement with the actual production?”

  “That’d be up to you,” Zarkov said.

  “Suppose I wanted to sit in on some of the creative discussions. With the director and the screenwriter, for instance. Would I be able to do that?”

  “Of
course. You’d always be welcome.”

  “Glad to hear it. Even though I’ve made my money through investments, I have a lot of creative ideas. I’ve even done a little writing. So contributing to the creative process would be important to me.”

  Zarkov nodded. “As I said, we’d be delighted to have your input.”

  “How about going to the set? Would I be welcome there too?”

  “Sure. You’d be a partner, wouldn’t you?”

  “Sounds really interesting. So now comes the delicate part. How much would I have to invest?”

  “I can’t give you a precise figure, because I haven’t finished making projections. There are a lot of variables, such as talent costs.”

  “How about a ballpark?”

  Zarkov puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. “Okay, top of my head, production’ll total around a hundred million.”

  “Isn’t that very expensive? More than the average cost of making a movie?”

  “Yes. But for an action thriller it’s on the low side. Especially when we’ll be shooting some sequences on location, places like London and Moscow. That costs money, and you can’t cheapshot it.”

  “I see.”

  “Then there’s another fifty million for marketing and advertising. So for the sake of discussion, a hundred fifty million is a reasonably accurate figure. Therefore if I let you in for say, ten percent, the share would cost you about fifteen million.”

  “And the profits?”

  “Proportionate. Whatever the net, you’d get ten percent.”

  Hopkins tapped his fingertips together for several seconds. Then he said, “I like what I’m hearing, Len. Can you give me an outline of the deal?”

  “Yeah, I can do that.” Zarkov turned and picked up a phone from the desk behind him, touched some buttons. When he got an answer he said, “Find Tyler and send him in here. I’m in my office.” He put the phone down.

  “What happens,” Hopkins said, “if you can’t get Cruise?”