Tricks Of The Trade
Page 9
“Except yours,” Bart said snidely.
“When I shot my load, he gagged so hard I thought I might have to call 911!”
“How amusing,” Bart said sarcastically.
“It was. What a kick watching from three different mirrored angles as this punk almost choked to death. He foamed at the mouth like a rabid wolf by the time I finished with him.” Rod laughed again. “I told him he had to lick his chops like a ‘Got Milk?’ commercial and swallow everything or else I’d kick his ass. His tongue was like a squeegee. He got every precious drop of my hot varnish. Sucked me completely empty. Then, after catching his breath, just to prove to himself how much meat he was able to take, the kid used his measuring tape to get my exact dimensions.”
“Did he tell you how much?”
“All the guy could do was stammer, ‘F-f-fucking A!’ Then he wrote my stats on the back of an order blank. When he caught his breath, he said the tux would be ready the next afternoon. No charge.”
“I like that part,” Bart said. “I didn’t really need to hear all the graphic details.”
“Sure you did. Isn’t it queer, man?”
“Yes, queer, as in ‘I suppose I should be grateful that I no longer have to pay you for the pleasure’ kind of queer.”
“You’ve paid me enough with all your help getting the script read and taking me to this party,” Rod said, his tone registering genuine appreciation.
“Speaking of which,” Bart said, reaching into the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket, “here’s the official coverage on Blind as a Bat.”
“No way! Excellent! How cool is this, man!”
Rod grabbed the manila envelope, which was folded lengthwise to fit into Bart’s breast pocket. Rod looked at the four typewritten, single-spaced pages. The detail into which the script reader had gone was extremely analytic. Under the heading “Synopsis,” Rod’s entire story and characters were boiled down for quick reading. Rod skipped two pages of synopsis and flipped to the one that was headed “Comments.”
It read:
BLIND AS A BAT appears to be a tightly woven screwball comedy from start to finish. It’s filled with memorable characters, enhanced by witty dialogue. There is a payoff at the end that heightens the emotional farewell between main characters Jesus Parez and Maria Esplande. The writer brilliantly puts a perfect spin on the contemporary issues of love and romance in the twenty-first century. In terms of overall appeal, there seem to be many fresh and intriguing elements to this project. Again, the writer (and story) offer much in the way of fresh imagination and inventiveness. The principal characters are nicely drawn, and the dialogue throughout has energy and humor. The writer is obviously good at devising poignant “moments” and character reactions.
At the bottom of the page, next to the heading “Script,” was the single word Excellent. The next line down, beside the word writer, was another single word: Brilliant. Next to the word comments, the reader had typed: “Don’t let this one get away.”
“‘The characters are nicely drawn’?” Rod said with incredulous disdain. “How could he say they were ‘nicely drawn.’ They’re perfectly drawn, for Christ sake.”
Bart was baffled. “Rod, that’s the best coverage I’ve ever read! ‘Nicely drawn’ is a good thing. How can you take those two words out of an entire document that practically hails you as the Second Coming? You sound like an actor who gets rave reviews from all the respected critics; then a little wuss in some freebie throwaway says his performance was rigid or something equally stupid, and the actor’s ego is destroyed. What you’ve got here is as good as gold! You’re validated as a screenwriter! You can probably take it to any agent in town and get a deal!”
Rod, suddenly ashamed for overreacting, admitted he had never expected anything so glowing. He knew it was one of his better scripts, even if that cocksucker suit from Actors and Others hadn’t recognized its merit. But he truly hadn’t expected quite the effusive reaction from a professional reader.
“So now we get in the car, drive to the party, and start making contacts,” Bart said. Then he took out a small rectangular white box tied with a red bow. “Open it,” he said, handing the box to Rod.
Rod looked quizzically at Bart, then untied the bow and lifted the cover off the box. Inside he found five hundred white cards. Each was engraved:
RODRIGO DOMINGUEZ
(310) 555–2847
Bart said, “After all our fucking, I’ve never known if I had the correct spelling of your last name. Does it end with a Z or an S?”
“Yeah, man.” That was all Rod could say. He was obviously touched by Bart’s gesture. “I’ve never had business cards before!”
“I guarantee they’ll go fast,” Bart said. “Everybody at this party is going to want to know who you are. Once the right agent gets a copy of the script and the coverage, everybody will know who Rodrigo Dominguez is. Believe me.”
Chapter Eight
“…And all the stars, there never were, are parking cars and pumping ga-a-a-ass! I’ve got lots of friends in San Jose…”
Rod was singing that old Bacharach/David song—the Carpenters’ arrangement—as they pulled up to the valet sign at the bottom of the private road that led to Jim Fallon’s mansion. Rod indicated the two young valets. “Think these guys are ‘all the stars that never were?’ They’re parkin’ cars. And probably pumpin’ ass.” He laughed at his own joke. “But who’d be caught dead living in San Jose, for Christ sake.”
He was still on an emotional high from reading the coverage and anticipating his first Hollywood party. The two blond hunks in red vests rushed to either side of Bart’s Mustang and opened the doors. “Fallon party?” one asked as Bart stepped out of the vehicle and was handed a pink claim ticket. The valet did not expect a reply to the obvious. He nodded toward a waiting Rolls-Royce at the entrance to the driveway. “The car will drive you up the hill.”
“How do I look?” Rod nervously asked Bart. “Is my tie straight? Is my hair okay? Should I have worn underpants?”
“You look great. I guarantee all the gay agents and managers and straight women in this crowd will be choking on their crudities the minute you walk in the house. And the underwear—wouldn’t want your panty lines to show.”
The two of them got into the backseat of the Rolls for the short but elegant ride up the hill to Jim Fallon’s estate. At the top, dominating the center of the circular drive, was a three-tiered water fountain bathed in lights of red, green, and amber. As two more red-vested liveries opened their car doors, Bart and Rod stepped out of opposite sides of the vehicle. The sound of water falling and gurgling in the fountain, combined with a miasma of voices and music emanating from within the house, gave the evening a fairy tale aura. On the outside, the mansion was an ultramodern affair. It reminded Bart of a tacky but trendy Thai restaurant. All that was missing was a neon sign: Jim’s Pad Thai Palace.
A card table was set up at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door. A burly black man dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and black necktie was seated on a folding chair, checking off names on a guest list. On the table beside the list was his walkie-talkie, which emitted mostly static, but every now and then, incoherent voices.
“They have a list?” Rod said nervously as he and Bart stood in a short line and approached the table.
Bart smiled at Rod’s naïveté. “All the news about Jim’s sex play probably makes him a sitting duck for religious freaks. Plus, more than half of Hollywood is here tonight. They love to see the mighty tumble. And it’s free food and booze. Blow this place up and the whole town goes with it.”
“Then my script would never get made,” Rod said. That was Rod, thinking of himself first.
“What if we’re not on the list?”
“We’re on. I’ve got the invitation. Plus one of the guys I work with is Jim’s friend. He set the whole thing up.”
When the couple ahead of them had been cleared, Bart announced, “Cain and…guest.”
“You always bring a guest,” Bart said testily. Was the guy an idiot? “Nobody expects you to come alone.”
“Apparently Mr. Fallon did.” The black man’s jaundiced, bloodshot-but-knowing eyes looked up at Bart, judging the young white boy: another yuppie poof.
Other guests were waiting behind Bart and Rod. “What’s the holdup?” one complained.
“What’s going on up there?” He could hear another’s impatience, as if a restaurant maître d’ had the impudence to make Mr. Big wait for his usual high-profile table. These were industry people unaccustomed to cooling their heels for a fraction of a moment for so much as a blow job, if not a cup of decaf.
“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Bart said. “Call Mitch Wood on your walkie-talkie thing,” Bart said dictatorially.
The security man sighed insolently and picked up his black walkie-talkie. He spoke to someone inside the house.
Within moments, the front door flew open, and Mitch danced down the steps to the table. He gave Bart a peck on the cheek, hugged Rod, and went behind the table. He grabbed the pen out of the security guy’s hand and, next to Cain, Bart, wrote: plus one. “There!” he admonished the guard. “Everything copacetic? Come, boys,” he said, and led Bart and Rod into the house.
The mansion’s entryway was Architectural Digest perfection. In the center of the foyer was a nearly priceless, round Lalique table. Its crystal base of Erté-like vestal virgins, standing side by side in a circle, formed the base platform on which the beveled glass top could rest. A vase containing Casablanca lilies the size of the arrangement found in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel was perfectly centered.
“Welcome to ‘Fallon’s Lair’! Not to be confused with Valentino’s ‘Falcon’s Lair,’ up on the other hill,” Mitch explained. “My, you guys are so-o-o-o handsome,” their escort gushed. “It’s definitely the man who makes the clothes, not the other way around,” he said, giving Rod a long, lascivious look.
The house was stunning in every respect. From the Italian-tile entryway floor and the crown moldings where the walls met the ceiling to the lighted artworks on the trompe l’oeil walls. As they followed Mitch, passing the lilies, to the top step of the sunken living room, both Bart and Rod were suddenly taken aback by the most breathtaking view of the city either had ever seen. Los Angeles was revealed through floor-to-ceiling glass windows, a 180-degree expanse like the view one might see from a news traffic helicopter. A Santa Ana wind was blowing, so the lights of the city below were a sequined cape laid out and shimmering as if it were one of Bob Mackie’s bugle-beaded costumes for Cher, magnified a zillion times.
Two steps below, the sunken living room was packed with recognizable faces from television, motion pictures, and music. Bart immediately observed Will Smith, Shania Twain, Melissa Etheridge, Jerry Seinfeld, Jodie Foster, Toby McGuire, Tim Allen, Loretta Devine, Rue McClanahan, Hilary Swank, and Ellen DeGeneres, giving Anne Heche a sneer from across the room.
Rod caught sight of Courteney Love, Ashley Judd, Jewel, Marilyn Manson, Jane Krakowsky, Dylan McDermott, Halle Berry, Milla Jovovic, and shit, Ricky Martin!
Most of the women were wearing New York black, but a few sluts—assistants from agents’ offices, no doubt—had slipped in wearing red or teal. They were there to be noticed by any straight man attending—of which there was a definite dearth.
Silver trays with flutes of champagne were passed among the wall-to-wall guests by an array of handsome, smiling blond men and women. Mitch signaled for one of the caterers, a young Brad Pitt type, who appeared and offered Bart and Rod their first drinks of the evening.
“Cristal, of course,” Mitch preened.
“And where’s our infamous host?” Bart asked, sotto voce.
Mitch raised an eyebrow. “This way, boys,” he said.
He took Bart by the hand, and Bart took Rod by the hand. They wended their way through the crowd in the living room toward the backyard, Mitch acting as cattle catcher. Jennifer Holiday, the first cow, looked startled, then perturbed, as they shimmied past her big butt, which she still carried despite losing enough weight for two extra divas. Kate Jackson splashed her drink when Mitch accidentally stepped on the toe of one of her black velvet high-heel shoes. Helen Hunt was knocked against Kevin Spacey as Hank Azaria glowered from across the room, splashing her drink, too. Sheryl Crow, Sean “Puffy” Combs, and Jennifer Lopez didn’t fare any better.
Soon they were poolside. It was a perfect, balmy Southern California night. Adding to the magical atmosphere, a full moon was hanging over the city. Even Bart was impressed. Rod was bowled over and could hardly maintain his well-trained façade of indifference especially when he inadvertently pushed against Julia Roberts as she started to nibble on a stuffed mushroom. She began to complain, but when she looked at Rod, it was as if she’d just been baptized and seen the light. She absorbed the full spectacle of Rod and smiled the way she did when she couldn’t believe the size of Richard Gere’s dick just before she put her face in his lap and gave him a blow job in Pretty Woman.
Opposite them, across the pool, seated on a chaise longue, was the man himself—Jim Fallon. Holding the stem of a martini glass, the base of which was resting on the arm of the chaise, Jim was surrounded by a group of attractive and successful-looking men and women all dressed in formal wear but looking as comfortable as if they were in jogging togs. Bart could tell that Rod envied their composure. For the first time, Rod understood what was meant by “to the manner born.”
Mitch led his charges forward, but he stopped the train a few paces before reaching the depot. He paused to point out the particular people who were fawning over Jim. “The tall one is Brent from over at Fox. Who’s he kidding with his so-called fiancée in tow, the so-called woman to his right?” Mitch clucked. “I had him years ago. I’ll wager she’s a transsexual who hasn’t had the whole job done. See the bone structure? Am I right, or am I right?
“That one’s Pucky,” Mitch continued. “Cute, but he knows it—if you get my drift. Untouchable now. He belongs to his boss, or vice versa. I’m surprised he’s not wearing his leash; master-slave, that sort of scene. He’s with Writers and Actors.”
Bart gave Rod the elbow and a nod, indicating he should keep Pucky in mind for a pitch of the screenplay.
“Standing next to Pucky is what’s her name, the new bitch in charge of prime-time programming for NBC. I hear she’s a cocksucker by day and a commander in the God Squad by night. There’s no way she didn’t have something to do with dropping Jim’s show so quickly.”
Then, practically jumping up and down, Mitch said, “Goody! There’s Sue Ann Nivens, the man-hungry Happy Homemaker!”
“Isn’t that another Golden Girl behind the chaise?” Rod said, astonished to see Betty White in person.
“How old is Miss Thing here?” Mitch quipped to Bart. “Sue Ann can’t be before anyone’s time! She’s smiling as though she doesn’t know the bastard in front of her is in fact responsible for her being out of work. She’s a doll, really. One of the goodies.
“Oh, and speaking of man hungry, but doesn’t want Mommy and Daddy and the industry to know, is that scummy Michael Scott from Actors and Others. Ick.” Mitch improvised a shudder.
“Shit,” Rod whispered to Bart. “That’s the asshole who comes into the Trap each week. The one I told you about—the one who promised to read my script and then never mentioned it again.”
“The guy who likes to have you piss in his mouth?” Bart asked.
A woman who looked like Esther Williams—oh, my God, Bart realized, it was Esther Williams—heard the remark and gave Bart a look of haughty disdain.
“Oh-oh. I shouldn’t have said that,” Bart whispered to Mitch, wincing with embarrassment. “That’s the Esther Williams.”
“Let the b
itch drown in her feigned nausea,” Mitch declared, undeterred. “She’s the last one who should throw stones. Not after what she wrote in her ‘as told to’ tell-all about her dates with a cross-dressing Jeff Chandler and him having a fetish for slipping into silk panties, for Christ’s sake.”
Intentionally turning to Esther Williams, as only Mitch could do and get away with it, he said in a confidential tone, “Always figured Michael to be a perv.” He gave Esther a nudge with his elbow, then pointed toward the Actors and Others agent. “He’s the Devil incarnate,” he whispered conspiratorially.
“Unfortunately, he’s my bête noire,” Esther said as she waddled away from the area.
“She’s packed on more than a few sardines since her swimsuit days at M-G-M,” Bart observed.
“She’s still a million-dollar mermaid as the old stars die off,” Mitch declared, returning his attention to Bart and Rod. “Michael thinks he’s a hotshot just because his uncle, who’s the chief counsel for Actors and Others, got him a job at the agency. The other agents all hate him. Even his clients hate him. You heard Esther. Unfortunately, Jim’s too stupid to hate him. Oh, I can’t wait to see Michael’s reaction when he sees you here, Rod. Let’s go make a splash, shall we?”
Rod was up for it. He hated Michael from the first moment they met at Rod’s mirrored door. The feeling was mutual. Michael thought he was degrading Rod by paying him to do what they did in the storeroom at the Trap. But it was Rod who held all the cards, and the deck was stacked. Friday evenings, he controlled his bladder as long as possible until Michael showed up. When he shoved Michael into the back room and forced him to his knees and impaled his cock into Michael’s mouth, holding his victim’s head in the vice of his two strong hands, he made certain Michael swallowed every drop, topping him off like a car’s gas tank—using high octane, of course.