by Ben Tyler
Finally, with the sheets pulled down, Bart lay on his back, pinned under Rusty. Bart was panting, his chest heaving, his wrists in a grip that made him unable to move. Rusty lowered himself onto Bart’s body. It was as though a lifetime of passion had been pent up inside. Unleashed were the beasts that lie within all men. Their kisses were gentle, then hard, then gentle again.
This was the way they made love every time they were together—love mixed with lust, pouring from their souls as they both whimpered from the ecstasy.
Chapter Eighteen
Jim and Michael were both high on martinis when Rod returned home after another lunch at the studio with Bart a week after they’d reestablished contact.
“Rod,” Jim cried. “Great news! Perfect Love, er, Blind as a Bat, is sold! Sterling bought the script. We just heard from Cy Lupiano. Isn’t this terrific? Have a drink.”
Rod was stunned. His questions all flooded out in an avalanche of exhilaration and confusion rolled into a stammer of chaotic cross-examination. “Are you serious? What’s the deal? Who’s starring? The script’s not even finished! When do they go into production? How much money? What’s Perfect Love?”
Rod hated martinis, but he accepted the one offered by Michael. “Shouldn’t we have a toast or something,” Rod said, hardly able to control his enthusiasm.
“Look at this kid, here!” Jim said to Michael. “It’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened in his life, and we’re responsible. Absolutely we should raise our glasses!”
“To Perfect Love,” Michael sang. “May it bring us all a shitload of money and Oscars all around!”
“Blind as a Bat or Perfect Love or whatever,” Rod said incredulously. “I can’t believe it sold!” He made a dramatic sweeping gesture with his right hand, an arc high above his head: “Perfect Love. Original screenplay by Rodrigo Dominguez. From a story by Rodrigo Dominguez. Executive producer, Rodrigo Dominguez. Brought to you by the new Ford Explorer—and Rodrigo Dominguez.” He laughed.
“The details! Details,” Rod squealed after a sip of his gin. “And I didn’t think the script was ready. I guess you pros know what you’re doing, after all. Tell me everything. How much money am I gonna get up front?”
Jim looked at Michael. Michael looked at Jim. They both looked at Rod. “There are still a million details to work out,” Michael finally said. “This is just the first step.”
“Don’t count your chickens and all that sort of thing. It’s bad luck in Hollywood. Like actors whistling backstage,” Jim added.
Rod said, “But the script is sold, isn’t it? Which must mean there’s money. You had to talk money. How much am I getting? Just ballpark it.”
Jim turned around and went back to the bar to pour himself another drink.
“Well, the thing of it is,” Michael began, “since you’re a first-time writer…you don’t even belong to the WGA. For Christ’s sake…things get complicated.”
“Loan me the twenty-five hundred dollars it costs to join the freakin’ Writers Guild,” Rod said, starting to feel a little wary. “Or better yet, I’ll just take it out of the check I get from Sterling. I only want to know how much. High six figures? Mid? What? It’s worth every penny they’re paying—and more.”
“Well,” Michael continued, “since the screenplay isn’t really yours…”
“Isn’t mine?” Rod said, taken aback.
“Michael and I thought that…” Jim interrupted.
Rod waved a hand. “Perfect Love isn’t my title, but the script is mine. I’ve worked for months on all the rewrites of a perfectly good—no, excellent—original screenplay. Of course it’s mine. What are you talking about? I’m the author. You guys acted as consultants. I took creative direction from you, but I wrote the freakin’ script.”
“Let’s talk about the specifics after we celebrate,” Jim said. “This is a victory for all of us, Rod. You should be thrilled that something which began as a kernel of an idea—granted you contributed to the start of this—is about to become a motion picture, with a juicy role for me.”
“No. I want to talk about it now,” Rod insisted. “What do you mean, ‘It began as a kernel?’ And ‘I contributed to the start?’ That freakin’ screenplay is all mine!”
Rod was dumbfounded. Surely, he thought, this must be April Fools’ Day. At any moment, Jim and Michael would say, “Can’t you take a joke, you little hustler? You’re a genius, man. We could never have done this without you!”
Instead, Michael said, “I don’t think you quite know how things work in Hollywood. No first-time writer…”
“God, what a stupid line. ‘First-time writer!’” Rod shot back. “No writer is a ‘first-time writer.’ First time published, perhaps. Or first time produced. But every writer works years for that so-called first-time bullshit.”
“What I’m trying to tell you,” Michael continued, “is that there’s a hierarchy. You have to have a track record—”
“Fuck you. You’re not making a bit of sense. Are you telling me that a screenplay that I’ve written can’t be sold with my name on it because I don’t have a track record? How else do you get a track record other than selling a screenplay, goddamn it?”
Michael answered in a patronizing tone. “A lot of writers start out doing rewrites or doctoring other people’s scripts, but the WGA doesn’t officially recognize their contributions. It’s just how the Guild works.”
“This is a very complicated business,” Jim intervened.
“There’s nothing complicated about getting credit where credit is due,” Rod snapped.
“There’s no use talking to you when you’re in this kind of mood,” Michael countered.
“Mood? What kind of ‘mood’ am I in? Shouldn’t I be in a ‘fuck me over’ mood? It seems you guys have already done that—with my clothes on, for once. I read the trades. Every day there’s a story about a so-called first-time writer getting big bucks for a mere story treatment. I’ve written the whole damn screenplay. Five others, too! You guys have screwed me, literally and figuratively. You’re both going to be so sorry you ever fucked with me. You think I’m some little plaything that just gives great head on command? You think I’ll take a slap in the face as well as I take a slap on the ass? You guys invited the wrong stud into your den of iniquity.”
Jim and Michael abandoned Rod and congregated at the bar. They poured more martinis and talked among themselves about the film.
Rod stood motionless, glued to the floor, looking as bewildered as Leona Helmsley hearing her sentence of jail time for income-tax evasion, her cushy life literally ripped out from under her.
Finally, still dazed, Rod threw the now-empty martini glass against the framed portrait of Jim. Shards of glass exploded onto the fireplace mantel and hearth. Rod drifted out of the room. As he departed, Jim and Michael looked up at him, then at each other. Nobody said a word. Rod picked up his car keys from the Lalique table in the foyer, where they were always automatically placed.
Rod left the house and got into his Dodge Dart. He turned on the ignition, put the car in gear, and drove down the hill. The gates parted when he passed Jim’s infrared sensor. Turning on to Woodrow Wilson, he drove away angry, confused and bewildered, the way a loyal employee leaves his office after unexpectedly being fired. He didn’t know what to do or where to go. His first urge was to call Bart. But he was too numb to take out his cell phone.
Somehow he drove on automatic pilot along Mulholland, down to Cahuenga. He turned left at the light and right onto Barham, on down to Sterling Studios.
Rich was at the gate. When Rod pulled up at the guard kiosk, Rich acted smug and self-satisfied. “Hey, man,” he said, smiling. “What took you so long? We haven’t done it in a week. Guess you’re ready for more action, eh? Meet me over at Stage 21. I can get away in about five.”
Rod had already forgotten about their first (and hopefully last) tryst. He tried to turn on his infinite charm but was so drained from his altercation with Jim and Michael that
he failed. “Rain check, okay, man? I’ve got a meeting across town and just need to get Bart Cain to sign some papers.”
Rich was obviously disappointed. “The cast of Totally Kewl returns in two weeks,” he said. “Better make some time before then.” It wasn’t a polite request. It sounded more like a threat, as if his access to the lot were dependent on another performance on Stage 21. “Don’t be a stranger,” he finally said as he waved Rod through.
“Yeah. Can’t wait to fuck your tight hairy ass again,” Rod said without a trace of excitement. “Asshole,” he added inaudibly with what little breath he had in his lungs and weakened body as he pulled away to find an open space in the parking area.
Rod’s trip from the parking lot to the publicity building seemed to take forever. He felt as though he were walking with lead-filled boots. When he finally reached the reception area of the publicity building, he came up to Audrey, who immediately recognized him and addressed him by name. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Dominguez. I didn’t have a chance to say a proper good-bye to you last time. May I tell Mr. Cain that you’re here?”
“Mind if I just go up and surprise him?”
“Rules are made to be broken, right?” Audrey giggled.
“Thanks, Audrey,” he said. “By the way, great earrings.”
She blushed as Rod stepped into the elevator. He gave her a wave.
“Fuck!” said perfect and perky Audrey under her breath. On the outside she looked as if she could play hostess to visiting VIPs and dignitaries at Disneyland. Inside, she was a woman whose libido twitched for almost every man under thirty that she laid her blue eyes on. The few heterosexual mail-delivery boys didn’t stand a chance with her. Even Vic Bowen, the executive vice president of film distribution, had had Audrey.
“Why do all the fucking faggots around this fuckhole get all the fucking good-looking guys!” she lamented bitterly, thinking Bart and Rod were probably doing it. Then she blinked back to reality and displayed her disingenuous smile for the next man who came up to the receptionist’s desk. It was Rupert Everett, asking to be announced for an appointment with Shari Draper. In an instant, Audrey forgot all about Rod. However, since she didn’t know who the hell this Rupert Everett was—even later when she told her aghast girlfriend, Bertha, who berated her for not knowing Rupert Everett, for Christ’s sake!—there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of getting this man, either.
Rod stepped off the elevator on the tenth floor and wandered down to Bart’s office. As usual, Cheets wasn’t at her desk, so Rod simply stood in Bart’s doorway until he looked up from his computer monitor.
Bart was momentarily startled. Then he smiled. “Hey, man. What’s going on? Time flies. Seems I just saw you four hours ago. But it feels like ages.”
“Hope you don’t mind me coming back. I just needed someone to talk to,” Rod said, staring almost lifelessly at Bart, who sat behind his desk in a plush leather chair, surrounded by movie posters of his favorite films hanging on the walls.
Suddenly, tears began to well up in Rod’s eyes and roll down his beautiful, silky cheeks.
“What the hell!” Bart exclaimed. He jumped up from behind his desk and ushered Rod into a chair. He then closed the door, reached for a box of Kleenex, and handed it to Rod. “What’s the matter? What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing,” Rod said evasively. “Nothing that either suicide or murder or both won’t cure.”
“What in the world…?”
“Jim. The screenplay. Michael. Sterling. Stealing my material. The end of my career before it’s even begun.”
Bart opened his small office-size refrigerator and took out a plastic bottle of cold Arrowhead spring water. He handed it to Rod and said, “Sorry, I’m not following. Start at the beginning.”
Rod took a long moment to regain his composure as best he could. Then he described the situation he’d just encountered at home—Jim Fallon’s home—he was quick to remind Bart. “They stole my screenplay. Simple as that. Jim’s going to star. They’ve fucked up my life.”
Bart tried to console Rod. “There’s nothing to be concerned about. They can’t get away with this. There’s a long paper trail dating all the way back to the studio’s story analyst to prove the script is indeed yours.”
“You don’t understand,” Rod countered. “There’s nothing left of the original script or even the original story. Well, maybe a little bit, but not enough to prove I did a damned thing on what’s now called Perfect Love.”
“What was Dorothy Parker’s famous line? ‘The only “ism” Hollywood believes in is plagiarism,’” Bart said, trying to lighten the mood.
“She was dead right. And how many years ago did she say that? It’s still standard practice. Jim and Michael have it all worked out. I thought this kind of stuff was over after Paramount settled with Buchwald for Coming to America. I’ve been a complete idiot.”
Bart shook his head. “This is too insane. There’s got to be a logical explanation and something we can do. Let me call a friend in the legal department to find out if they’re even telling you the truth. Maybe we haven’t even acquired the script.”
Rod sat quietly while Bart spoke to his friend Jeffrey in legal clearances. Bart made up a story saying he’d been asked to start a press release announcing a new film called Perfect Love and what could Jeffrey tell him about it.
“God, word travels fast,” Jeffrey said, astonished at how short the grapevine was—even by Hollywood’s standards. “There isn’t even a contract yet. But, yeah, supposedly it’s been acquired. I’ve got the file right here.”
Bart pressed on. “Just so I can get a head start, can you give me the billing credits?”
“No director yet and no stars attached. But there’s a deal memo here that’s been prepared for Rupert Everett.”
“I’ve heard Jim Fallon’s signed,” Bart interrupted.
“That old closet case. Doubt it. There’s a Michael Scott as producer.”
“Screenplay credit?” Bart asked.
“Same as the producer, Michael Scott. And somebody named Troy Bentley. Oh, this is interesting. It does say, ‘Additional dialogue by Jim Fallon.’ Hmmm. I don’t see that kind of credit very often. Jim Fallon. I thought that dude was through after the s/m video. As long as I’ve worked in this biz, I’m still surprised at what goes on. Bet there was a lot of gang-bangin’ to get him on this film.” Jeffrey laughed, thinking of Jim’s reputation.
Bart thanked Jeffrey and asked to be kept advised of new developments—casting and start of production and anything else pertinent to a press release. He hung up the phone and looked across the desk at Rod. “Seems to be true. You’re not listed as a screenwriter. But hold on, these things often go into arbitration.”
“How can I arbitrate if I don’t even belong to the fucking WGA?” Rod said.
“You said Jim was going to be one of the stars? There’s no one listed yet—except the possibility of Rupert Everett.”
“That was one of my ideas, too! I wrote it with him in mind!”
“Jim does however get some strange ‘additional dialogue by’ credit. What if Michael is screwing Jim over, too? Think that’s possible?”
“After what I’ve seen of this town, anything’s possible—and probable,” Rod said. “I want ’em both screwed—for life. They’re gonna pay.”
“Trust me, we’ll work this out,” Bart said, trying to reassure Rod. “Come on. I’ll leave now. Let’s go have a drink and talk.”
Bart wrote a note for Cheets, whom he could never find when he needed her. He posted the message on her computer monitor.
“Are you okay to drive?” Bart asked Rod. “We can take my car, if you want.”
“No. Let’s just go over to Ricky’s on Santa Monica. I’ll meet you there.”
“I’ll call Rusty to let him know where I’ll be. Maybe he can join us. Actually, he’d be a great one for you to talk to about this. He’s extremely analytical. Much more than me. Maybe he can come up with so
me ideas.”
“Whatever, man. I just want a drink. And I never want to see Jim Fallon as long as I live. Can I camp out with you for a while?”
With Rod feeling so low, Bart couldn’t say no. “Sure, we can turn the office into a bedroom for a couple of nights.”
Rod had been thinking of a longer-term arrangement, but he was too physically and emotionally wasted to discuss it any further. He didn’t even acknowledge Bart’s support. “See you at Ricky’s.”
Bart telephoned Rusty from the car and asked if he was available to meet with him and Rod. Rusty was nearly finished with a client, and he suggested that Bart pick him up on the way over the hill.
Rusty actually liked the idea that Bart wanted him to be part of helping out Rod. Not that Rusty felt the least bit of jealousy about Rod, but it would be nice to finally meet the only other man who, at another time, would have been his competition for Bart’s love and affection.
When Bart and Rusty walked into the dimly lit Ricky’s, which even at 5:30 was alive with loud music and a collection of some of West Hollywood’s most drop-dead-gorgeous men, they found Rod at a table, turning away a guy in blue jeans ripped at the left butt cheek. The guy was wearing a black leather vest with nothing underneath but his hairy, muscled torso and nipple rings connected by a silver chain. He was holding a bottle of beer, and he slinked away when Bart and Rusty showed up.
“I may not command respect for my writing,” Rod said, “but as long as I have my youth and my looks, the world’s certainly interested in hiring me for a roll in the sack. Lucky you two came along when you did. He was the fifth guy in five minutes. Maybe I should stick where my true talents lie.”
Bart made the introductions. “Rod, I’d like you to meet my lover, Rusty.”
Rusty held out his hand to shake Rod’s. Rod, however, didn’t bother to look up, brushing Rusty off as he brushed off the five suitors who had approached him before. “I hear you’re nice,” Rod said sarcastically. “Bart says you’re nice. Isn’t that nice?”