by Ben Tyler
Shari Draper has been appointed to the position of president, worldwide marketing and promotions, for Galaxy Pictures, it was announced today by Bert Heinz, chairman of Galaxy Studios. Draper will report directly to Heinz.
Commenting on the announcement, Heinz said, “Shari Draper is an outstanding motion-picture executive. She has done extraordinary work throughout her career, and we are delighted that she has chosen to accept this position at Galaxy. We know she will play a vital role in helping us meet our expanded production schedule and maintain the high standards of quality that have been a hallmark of her career. She is tops in her field and will be a tremendous asset to our team.”
The articles that appeared in Daily Variety and the Hollywood Reporter only briefly touched upon her recent dismissal from Sterling. There was no reference to the sexual-harassment trial or reports from the media about her transgender identity. Her clout in Hollywood was still so strong that there was hardly any negative publicity. She simply and blissfully continued her upward spiral as a power-hungry studio executive.
“She’s got an itchy clit today.” Mitch Wood whispered the warning to Galaxy Studios’ staff writer Tim Waters, who had just been summoned to Shari’s office to rewrite a press release he’d been rewriting all day.
Tim, in his mid-thirties, was a rising star in the Galaxy Studios publicity department, where he’d been the staff writer for five years. His awards for excellence from the Publicists Guild made him an easy choice when other studios needed a qualified writer for their marketing divisions. But he turned down every offer, fully expecting to one day retire from Galaxy, which he considered the preeminent studio in Hollywood. He loved his job. He loved Galaxy. He loved his colleagues.
Until Shari Draper came aboard.
It took Tim only one private meeting with Shari for him to know his days were numbered. Shari had practically said as much. “You’ve got a great reputation in town, Tim. I’ve only heard good reports.” Tim had smiled self-consciously. “So how come all the good writers are queer?”
Tim blanched from the sucker punch.
“You know, Tim, Sterling Studios is desperate to find a new writer. Perhaps you’d fit in better over there.”
Tim teetered out of that introductory meeting in a daze. He knew right away that nothing he ever did from that moment on would please his new boss. He was right. POOR SYNTAX. POOR SENTENCE STRUCTURE. POOR EDITING. I COULDN’T FINISH READING THIS CRAP! was scrawled across his press-kit notes and press releases. Now he wished he’d accepted that last offer from Disney. At least their marketing department was known to be run by intelligent human beings—the operative word being “human.”
Now Tim looked at Mitch and swallowed hard as he prepared to enter Shari’s office for her to review the press release she’d made him rewrite five times.
“Is it finally finished?” she sneered.
“I guess you’ll tell me.”
“Don’t get sarcastic with me.”
“I was only—”
“Whoever said you could write, for Christ’s sake?”
Mitch, listening to the repartee, was experiencing déjà vu.
Although Mitch himself had betrayed Shari, she was incapable of doing her job without him. She had the balls and hairy scrotum, but he had the brains and ability to anticipate potential publicity land mines before they detonated. (He had tried to warn her about WACS in the White House, but she wouldn’t listen.) As is the case with most Hollywood executives, they’re not too bright when it comes to the details of running an office, and they need their underpaid assistants, who, if they had to, could easily perform most, if not all, of their boss’s duties.
A mere few hours after Mitch had read in the trades about Shari’s new job, the telephone rang in his apartment. Blessed with a kinky version of ESP that was an equal to his discerning gaydar and never one to play the sycophant (regardless of how well hung a studio messenger or water-delivery guy may be), Mitch didn’t even say hello when he picked up his cordless phone.
“Look, missy,” he hissed, knowing it was Shari. “I want half your yearly bonus and a car allowance. I come in at ten and leave at six. I don’t play sentinel while you’re screwing on studio property, and I don’t massage your feet or trim your nose hairs.”
“You little-dick shit,” Shari bellowed her introduction, “I wouldn’t have you back if—”
“I want all the terms in writing, honey. Notarized. And maybe I’ll remember not to ever accidentally call you…Larry.”
“Have your skinny ass at the desk tomorrow!”
“Monday. This is only Wednesday, and I’m expecting a UPS delivery at any moment. Oh, and a platinum parking sticker so I can park in the reserved spaces,” Mitch added.
“Gold. It’s still subterranean.”
“Platinum.”
“Gold, I said! You little fucker!”
“Platinum.”
Shari paused. Then: “Platinum.”
“Oh, and—”
“Fuck you, Judas,” Shari screamed. She hung up the telephone.
Mitch was actually thrilled to be getting back to work, and at a new studio. While still holding his cordless telephone, he thought, “New office. Fresh meat. And the guys at Galaxy are reputed to be just as cute as the ones at Sterling or Disney.”
Epilogue
“Quiet on the set!” screamed the first assistant director. “Blind as a Bat! Scene twenty-seven! Take ten!”
“Action,” roared the director, Rodrigo Dominguez, as he watched the monitor on which was projected each frame of film that his cinematographer was shooting. It was the movie’s most dramatic moment. The two main characters, David Morgan and Martin Stone, a wealthy gay tenant and his nefarious slumlord, respectively, argue about the costly renovations to David’s apartment in a dilapidated brownstone in Chelsea. As the actors began their repeated altercation, the tension on the soundstage kept the entire crew silently transfixed on the scene.
Just a few moments into their dialogue, director Dominguez called, “Cut!” He left his chair beside the monitor and walked slowly to the set, which was a precise replication of an apartment near Greenwich Village in New York.
“Jimbo, Jimbo,” Rod said in a deprecating tone, placing a hand on Jim Fallon’s shoulder. “Subtext, man. Subtext! We’ve had two weeks of rehearsal. How many times do I have to tell you, this is where you pour out all your bitterness and anger at the inequity of not getting what you want from this scummy slumlord. No offense, Ben. How’s this for a reference? Just think of the animosity you had when your freakin’ The Grass Is Always Greener sitcom was so unceremoniously canceled. Remember that, Jimbo? Or maybe just dig down and find that hostility you felt for your old agent, Michael, rest his soul. I don’t care what you have to do, just do it! We’re behind schedule!”
Rod turned to Ben Affleck. “By the way, Ben, you’re doing a great job.” Rod’s voice became honeyed, which he hoped would irritate Jim to no end. “Okay, guys, back to work!”
It took another five takes before Rod was satisfied with the scene and called, “Cut!” for the last time that day. It was Friday, and the first assistant director yelled for everyone to check their call sheets for the time they were expected on set Monday and also to bone up on what scenes were scheduled to be shot. Jim walked off to the makeup trailer to get the gunk off his face and have his hair washed.
Rod separated himself from a conversation with the script supervisor when Troy, who was producing the film, came up to him. “Hey, Rod, I’ve been watching the dailies. I knew you were the ideal guy for the job.”
Rod nodded his head in agreement, indicating he never had a doubt that he could direct his own screenplay; nothing to it. “At last I finally have that fucking Jim Fallon under my domination.” Rod chuckled. “What goes around comes around, eh? I’m making a public asshole of him in front of the entire crew. I humiliate him, and he hates me. He should have heeded that famous warning Be nice to the people you meet on the way up. Of course he lo
ves you, ’cause you convinced the studio to take a chance with him.”
“You’re getting a damned good performance out of him,” Troy countered. “So far he’s walking away with the picture.”
“It’s not Jim, it’s the role,” Rod said as they began to walk off the set. “It could be played by Tom Arnold. Even he couldn’t screw it up.”
“Well, the suits are starting to smell a winner. I think Bruckheimer wants you to direct one of his pictures next. At least I’ve heard talk.”
“Ha! That prick couldn’t pay me enough!”
Troy hesitated before revealing another piece of news. “There’s also talk of another series for Jim.”
Rod stopped in his tracks. “Good. He’ll sink or swim. God knows he’s no Bob Newhart. But maybe this film will give him another shot.”
“You’re not still angry with him?”
“Too much waste of time. I’m not into getting even. The way I’ve been treating Jim on the set, it’s really just so he gives value to the words I wrote. This is my picture, all the way, and I won’t let him fuck it up with a mediocre performance.”
Troy smiled. “And that’s precisely why I hired you. ’Cause you’re one of the most manipulative sons of bitches I’ve ever known.”
By the end of the summer, Bart and Rusty had ensconced themselves on a small farm in Loch Mere, Scotland. Two horses, as well as twenty-four head of sheep and a border collie, came with the property.
The cozy thatched-roof house was filled with music and books. One of the first items on their agenda was to hire a woman from the village to cook and clean for them. Mrs. MacBurney served a two fold purpose. First, she was a terrific housekeeper. But more importantly to Bart and Rusty, she was a gossip. The men deliberately wanted a woman who would take positive impressions of them back to the village.
It had been suggested by their real-estate agent that this was the best way to become accepted by the people in the village. Soon they weren’t just a pair of rich interlopers from America, but rather the two nice gentlemen who were sharing the old MacEwen place, Glenlough Cottage. Everyone who met Bart and Rusty agreed they would be hard-pressed to find two more interesting and delightful men. Mrs. MacBurney had only glowing things to say about them, and her chatter at home and in the village shops and church soon made the men less of a curiosity and more of an accepted part of the community.
The area where Bart and Rusty had decided to settle would have seemed miserable to many people. It rained almost daily. The cold was as bitter as either had ever experienced. And the wind at night would often shake the sturdy old house in a way that reminded them of the earthquakes of Los Angeles. But those were the best nights, the nights when, snuggled together in bed beneath a thick down comforter, they found the most peace. While the wind and rain lashed the outside world, inside they felt completely protected, as if they were in a cocoon.
On such nights, as chill air permeated the house—they did not have central heating, and the warmth from the fireplace on the first floor failed miserably to reach the bedrooms upstairs—Bart and Rusty raced into bed. The first biting coldness from the sheets (even the flannel was cold) was soon replaced by the warmth of their two bare bodies, entwined. Their nightly lovemaking soon had the bed and room engulfed in warmth. They were the happiest men on the planet.
Truth is said to be stranger than fiction, especially in Hollywood. However, aside from a sprinkling of legendary names, the people and events portrayed in this novel are merely facsimiles. They exist only in the author’s imagination—and nightmares.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2001 by Richard Tyler Jordan
“Do You Know The Way To San Jose?” Lyrics by Hal David. Music by Burt Bacharach. Copyright © 1967 (Renewed) Casa David and New Hidden Valley Music. International Copyright Secured.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 00–110392
ISBN: 0-7582-4327-8
Table of Contents
Half Title Page
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Epigraph
Contents
Part One
PROLOGUE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Part Two
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Copyright