“Is it over?”
“Not unless you want it to be.”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you doing Sunday morning?”
“What are you doing Saturday night?” she asked, but there wasn’t any seduction in the voice; she was puzzled and threatened.
“That’s what I meant.”
“In that case, Griffin, call me Saturday afternoon.” Now she sounded impatient, and annoyed with him. “I don’t want to make a date.”
“You just have.”
“Call me, we’ll take it from there.”
It was time for a funeral.
He parked a block away from the funeral home and walked toward it on the other side of the street. A stocky, gray-haired man in a blue blazer and gray pants stood in front. Griffin guessed he worked for the mortuary, something about his eyebrows, brought tightly together, and the way he looked up and down the street like a shirt salesman outside his failing store, waiting for a customer. The man studied Griffin for a moment, and Griffin expected him to call out, “Are you here for the funeral?” but the man just looked at his watch and went inside. Griffin looked at his own watch. Two-fifteen. He told himself he didn’t have to go in. Then he told himself he did.
The parking lot beside the mortuary was almost empty. He counted fourteen cars. He was surprised to see David Kahane’s new Saab; had June Mercator driven to her lover’s funeral alone? A few white limousines were parked in the lot, next to the black hearse. And all because of me, he thought. Now he crossed the street.
Griffin slowly opened the door to the chapel, a long beige room. The heavy carpet in the mortuary brought back an old boredom to him, the dull confusion of following his mother through department stores when he was seven. What do they say boredom is, nothing but frustration? Why am I frustrated in here? he asked himself.
The first two rows were full; behind them a few people sat on the aisle. A Japanese family sat in the back. So Kahane’s death had brought thirty mourners. Griffin felt himself hating Kahane for wasting June Mercator’s time; she deserved a bigger crowd. How could Kahane have expected to make massively successful movies if he had such little charisma? No wonder he’d never had a movie made. No wonder he died so easily.
The door opened behind him and a man in a suit excused himself as he brushed against Griffin’s shoulder. He walked slowly down the aisle to the front row and quietly offered his condolences. Two women who might have been June Mercator, mid- to late-twenties, sat next to each other, with an older man, possibly Kahane’s father, beside them on the aisle. One of the women had the same thin nose and blond hair as a college-age boy in the row. Griffin figured them for brother and sister and doubted that all of June Mercator’s family would be here, making her the single, but then why wouldn’t they? If her parents were alive and they lived in Los Angeles and their daughter’s mate died, they’d go to the funeral. Would they cross the country for the funeral if Kahane and June Mercator hadn’t been married? Probably only one of them would come. The sister could just as easily be June Mercator as the single. Which would he prefer, the sister or the single? Tonight he would have to make the same kind of choice, looking around the Polo Lounge and guessing who was Joe Gillis. He supposed that would be simple; the Writer would be whoever was alone and most self-conscious.
The sister turned and looked back to see the small crowd. She had the bright, functional good looks of a woman who worked in something technical at a studio, a film editor or special-effects artist, with an athlete’s haircut, center-parted and longer in back than on the sides, and clear, pale skin. The single glanced back, automatically, to see what caught the sister’s attention. Her hair was longer and loose. She had bags under her eyes and she was fleshy. Like me, thought Griffin. She looked tired. From mourning? From her job? He couldn’t tell the difference between grief and worry. He pegged her for a lawyer, which made the other woman June Mercator, and that made sense, didn’t she do pasteup for a bank’s brochures? That’s technical. Besides, she was crying.
He let their eyes meet, and he wondered who she thought he was; with so few people there, she was sure to know everyone. His picture had been published a few dozen times, on the front pages of Variety and The Hollywood Reporter, there had a been a profile in the Times, articles in Newsweek and Time, a picture of him in Rolling Stone. Maybe she didn’t read those pages. He waited for the small shock when she realized who he was, but it didn’t come; she looked past him, then turned back to face the lectern, when a man in a blue suit—Griffin supposed he was the rabbi—stood up to speak.
He talked first about the city, about the horror of daily life, about fear. He referred to physics, to Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, and to Einstein, who’d said that God doesn’t play dice. Then he said he didn’t mean that we should console ourselves that in God’s plan David Kahane’s death was necessary for the universe to unfold its majestic design, because he knew that David Kahane would laugh at such mindless faith. He said we all had to find meaning in each moment; otherwise, we’d fall into despair. Then he sat down and the college-age boy took his place. He had a sheet of typed notes. He was skinny and clean-shaven, and he looked smart, like a musician, like a bass player, the one who stands to the side.
“My brother,” he began, “died after seeing a movie, which I guess is sort of fitting. I hope you don’t take this wrong, but I’m glad that he didn’t die on his way in, you know, before he saw it. I guess that would hurt me more than this does, and this hurts a lot.”
A cascade of disappointment. Kahane’s brother looked just like the film editor, so the lawyer with the bags under her eyes was June Mercator. He didn’t want to hear any more.
Griffin turned away from the brother and left the chapel. He closed the door as softly as he could. What would the brother think was the reason he left? A surplus of emotion? Or that this stranger had wandered into the wrong memorial service? Maybe he wouldn’t notice. Maybe he would think that Griffin worked for the mortuary. You’re delivering a eulogy and someone you don’t know leaves the room. Disrespect or business? Business. Yes, that was the logical conclusion. And June? What would she think? Now he was sorry he had not stayed in the chapel, and heard the eulogies, learned more about Kahane. He thought of the woman with the bags under her eyes. Could he apologize to her? He would have to be her friend. Was that possible?
He wished he hadn’t sent Jan to Beverly Hills. If he called in for messages, Celia would answer and she would tell Levison that he was away for the afternoon. She probably would, anyway. He called Mary Netter, who took the call, and told her that if she and Drew were free, he could see them at five. She muffled the phone with her hand and then came back and said, yes, they were free at five, for half an hour.
When he got back to the studio, he called Celia, and she gave him a message from Mary and Drew that they would not be able to see him. There was no explanation.
He reminded himself that he had a goal: to stop the postcard Writer, to make peace with him. Maybe I should make a deal with one of the other writers I’ve forgotten. Finish the idea I started with Kahane. Call one of them in, hear what he has to say, and then commit to a first draft. Whatever the story. A small deal, fifty thousand for a first with a set of revisions. He opened last year’s date book and found a few names. Danny Ross; the name meant nothing but gave him a thrill. He went to Jan’s desk and found Ross’s number. He left a message on Ross’s machine. What have I set in motion? he wondered. Will Ross sleep tonight? He’ll call before Jan arrives, before nine-thirty in the morning.
There were hours before the Polo Lounge meeting. He tried to read a few scripts, gave up, returned some calls, and went home.
Seven
Griffin drove to the Beverly Hills Hotel. He wanted to tell the Writer, “This is probably the most creative thing you’ve ever done, and I applaud the effort.” Had the Writer left his car with the valet, under the pink-and-green roof, or had he taken the cheap way out and parked on the street? W
ouldn’t the Writer want to avoid a grand entrance? Griffin left the car with the valet, passed a knot of men in dark suits, and recognized a few television executives whose names he’d forgotten. He walked up the long path to the lobby and felt like a millionaire, felt beyond the touch of anxiety.
In the lobby he heard his name called, and turned quickly, in fear, to greet Andy Civella, a rock-and-roll manager, heavy, with a beard, thick hair, and sunglasses. Griffin liked Civella. The manager was a pirate, and after an hour with him Griffin always felt like he did when he’d seen a James Bond film. He was contagiously bold. Civella made Griffin feel invincible and rich. Standing a little behind Civella was Tom Oakley, an English director who had been famous three years ago, that year’s boy genius, but two fifteen-million-dollar movies had died, and now he looked tired, a little whipped. Still, he hadn’t lost the odor of success. He had the shamelessness Griffin respected; he was in the club. Admire the Writer’s strategy, he must have known that Griffin’s solitary appearance at the Beverly Hills Hotel at ten o’clock would draw attention. Griffin started an introduction, but they were old friends. He wished they weren’t, he was jealous of them, they made each other laugh.
“Join us for a drink?” asked the director.
“I have to meet someone, sorry.”
“Another time.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Three twenty,” said Oakley.
“What?” said Griffin.
“Room three twenty,” he said. “I’ll be here for another week.”
“Paramount is paying the bill,” said Civella with a delivery meant to bring on a laugh and gracefully finish the lobby conference. It worked. Hands were shaken, and Griffin followed the hall to the Polo Lounge.
The maître d’ nodded. “Mr. Mill,” he said, “how many?”
“There’ll be two of us, but I’m a little early.”
“Would you like a booth in the back and I’ll bring your guest?”
“Give me one in front.” And he pointed to a booth against the far wall. The waiter came immediately. Griffin ordered a shrimp cocktail and a Pimm’s Cup, a teenager’s idea of sophistication, he knew, but he needed something sweet. Why was he apologizing to himself? Two women at the bar returned his smile. The waiter brought his order.
If he lost the job, what would he miss? He had a lot of his own money, but he wasn’t used to spending it, except for clothing, furniture, a few toys. Even his stereo was paid for, a gift of the studio’s record company. His expense account was almost unlimited. Every flight was first-class. Limousines brought him to airports and limousines met him. If he didn’t know the drivers, there was always a chauffeur with MR. MILL scrawled on a little cardboard sign. In New York he took over the studio’s suite at the Sherry Netherland, with his jackets in the closet, shirts in a dresser. He’d flown the Concorde ten times. The forty-thousand-dollar car was a gift from the studio. Half his mortgage was paid by the company. An interest-free loan had covered the down payment. When he paid for a meal himself, there was a feeling of novelty, almost of petty theft. But who was he stealing from? How much of the food he’d eaten in five years had he paid for himself? Fifty dinners altogether? Lunches on Sunday? How many plane tickets had he paid for? A few. Cabo San Lucas with Bonnie Sherow. Then he had been a little in love and wanted the hours to be nonreimbursible, non-deductible. So purity had come to this, paying your own way? No. He admitted to himself that this need to pay for his own time went beyond not wanting to turn love into a write-off. It was about privacy. He’d taken no vacations for the first five years he worked at the studio, a record that was even mentioned in Time magazine. Well, it wasn’t strictly true, on a trip to visit a location in Morocco he stopped in Agadir for three days. He went skiing when a shoot in Colorado was closed by a storm for a week. Two intermissions. In those days he’d thought of vacations as a sign of weakness, a way to recuperate from hatred of the job, from a frustration that came with failure, a compensation. He didn’t need compensation. He didn’t need weekends.
He watched the maître d’ tell a man in a sweater that the Polo Lounge required jackets. The man wore glasses with a piece of adhesive tape holding the temple to the frame. Was this the Writer? The man said he’d go back to his room. No.
The day he lost the job, Griffin knew it would be harder to get the best table, or he’d get it, but he’d have to hang around the bar for a few minutes. Is that it? he asked himself. Is that what it’s all about, the best table? All of history, all of power, to have the headwaiter’s respect?
The waiter asked him if he wanted another drink. Griffin looked at the empty glass with suspicion, as though someone else had finished it. Whoever it was hadn’t touched the shrimp. He said yes, he’d like another drink, and lifted one pink thing from the bed of crushed ice and dunked it into the red sauce.
One of the women at the bar watched him squirt a lemon wedge over the cocktail sauce. He tried not to let her know he could feel her stare, and eating the shrimp became a performance; he was now pretending to be Griffin Mill eating in the Polo Lounge. He wanted to stay in this mode forever, always at a short distance from himself, where he could admire the craftmanship of his being, every gesture, every word, each shift of energy a calculation.
The woman at the bar was not the Writer. She and her friends were great looking and faceless at the same time, like ten thousand women in town who were great looking and faceless. Maybe they’d come to Los Angeles to act, encouraged by a small-town photographer, but the movie camera did not love their faces, they were good to the eye, sort of, but in close-up the movie camera detected a numbing symmetry, something ordinary, the fear of revealing—what?—something small, something cheap, an overweening avarice and a fear of the poverty for which they were destined. The women at the bar vibrated with a feeling of complicity for a crime whose silence they were dying to protect in exchange for a big house, a German convertible, facials three times a week. They were all too thin from too much exercise, they needed five pounds more to look human, their creeping anorexia long ago sucked away what might have been most appealing, something to hold on to, something to pinch. The women at the bar used to end up typing scripts in little apartments in East Hollywood, but writers had computers now; no one sent out for typing. What would happen to the women at the bar? Would they ever get married, or married again; they looked divorced, abandoned more likely, by men driven to hysteria after six months cooped up with the lunacy of these fuck baubles. Rich losers. He wanted to leave his booth and join the women at the bar, buy them drinks, and then compel them to the suicides they owed the world. One of them smiled at Griffin. She must have recognized him. If his Writer was a woman, and Griffin accepted the possibility without chiding himself for not having considered it before, she wouldn’t have been one of the women at the bar. She would be dark haired and short, with old sunglasses and no makeup, with the face of a 1925 Berlin Socialist, a serious nose and a mouth that loved talking. She’d wear black, she’d wear flat-heeled shoes, or else she’d be blond and tall and depressed, a brilliant and panicked aristocrat, someone made miserable by interesting men. Women screenwriters did not hang out in the Polo Lounge, they weren’t frightened cows. Griffin’s private rant subsided and now he felt awful. Maybe these women really were screenwriters pretending to be sluts, out for a night of research. Or not even research, for fun. And what if they weren’t writers, only two lonely women. And why lonely? Griffin wanted to apologize for all of his disgraceful thoughts. He wanted to say to these women, “I don’t know anything anymore.”
No one in the room was the Writer. Maybe the Writer will call me here, he thought, the waiter will bring me a phone, and when I pick up the receiver, I’ll hear breathing. Maybe he’ll talk to me.
Civella and Oakley rolled into the room, pushing their way past the maître d’ and dropping into Griffin’s booth.
“So you’ve been stood up, huh, Griffin?” asked the manager.
“Looks like it.”
“
She was no good for you,” said Oakley. He smelled of marijuana. They both did.
“You guys got stoned,” said Griffin, trying to be amiable.
“We want to pitch a story,” said the manager.
“The doctor isn’t in,” said Griffin.
“We’ll take it to another studio,” said the director.
Griffin laughed. “With my blessings. Let somebody else have the headache.”
“No, really,” said Civella, “I want to tell you the story now.”
“And I don’t want to hear it right now,” said Griffin, enjoying the tension. The game was starting. He was in the deal flow.
“Back off, Griffin,” said Civella. “This is supposed to be fun. It’s only rock and roll.”
“Wrong. It’s the movies. We don’t release a hundred albums a year, we make nine movies. There’s no margin.”
“You’ve got to relax,” said Civella.
Griffin didn’t want to fight anymore. “Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, you know.” He tried to smile. “What are you drinking?” he asked, and raised a hand to call the waiter. He ordered mineral water for himself and let them tell the story.
“There’s this district attorney who’s feeling confused,” said Oakley.
“That’s not how to begin,” said Civella. Griffin saw Oakley curse himself. This was important to him, a rare chance to pitch outside of the studio, catch the executive away from the phone, and he was already messing up and he hadn’t really started.
“Okay, try it this way. You’re outside the biggest fucking penitentiary in California, the tallest walls—”
Griffin interrupted just to play with Oakley; it wasn’t fair and he knew it. “Why California?”
“Because California has the gas chamber. It can be any state with a gas chamber, as long as there’s the death penalty, and they don’t use a firing squad, lethal injection, or the electric chair. You’re outside the penitentiary, with a line of cars going in, and it’s night, and it’s raining. There’s a small demonstration near the entrance, maybe a hundred people, a candlelight vigil.”
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