I had gotten quite close to his face for the emphasis it provided, which was unfortunate. He started to sputter, splattering the surroundings.
“Pl—pl—please just go. I—I—I can’t, I won’t. Hey—hey —just tell
Paul that—that I’m going to show “V” to Andy Rand, and—and fuck him!”
“If you could get to him, that would be nice—but useless. He’s resigning from NewVue tomorrow. ”
No shock, no surprise, not a second of thought. “Fuck NewVue! I’m going to be a partner with Andy Rand. What we’re going to do—man—fuck!”
That was a quick comeback, even for a fantasist. Something was wrong.
I am not one to believe that money answers all concerns, but Finch should have accepted the money. The amount, the intimidation, good sense, or any combination thereof, should have dictated that response. But something else was at play here. Before going further, I decided it was well worth finding out what.
“All right,” I said. “Can’t argue with artistic purity. I’ll inform Mr. Hinckley of your decision. ”
“O—o—okay. ”
I walked to the door. “One last thing. Which apartment building did Mae West live in? The El Royale or the Ravenswood?”
He started to answer, then stopped. “Shit! I—just—it was just on the tip of—shit! I’ll look it up!” He leaped for a pile of books.
“Never mind,” I said as I left.
After leaving Finch’s place I made a quick stop somewhere where I thought they might know him. The Hollywood Book and Poster Company has long serviced the needs of people who can’t just go to movies, eat some popcorn, and leave it at that. These people have to have pieces, slices, and hunks of the films themselves to adorn household shrines to various seen and unseen gods. Some celebrated the sleaze in movies, the cheap, the B, the camp, the inept. Others celebrated the “masterworks,” as they called them, of various directors that got under their skin. For others it was genre decorations—Sci-Fi, Film Noir. And for some, like Dave Finch, their worship was all encompassing.
The posters and lobby cards and 8x10 publicity shots had to come from somewhere. Logically, this Mecca, a short walk from his apartment, would be it.
I walked up to George who owned the place and whose services I had called upon before.
“Oh, hi. ” He said greeting me somewhat nervously. Certain people in town always greet me that way. It’s the money.
“Do you know a Dave Finch?”
The name quelled the nervousness and replaced it with attitude. “Yeah, Unfortunately. ”
“You don’t think much of him?”
“I try not to think of him at all. But, you know what he’s like? He’s like one of those—uh—you know, like when you get a song, some stupid song stuck in your mind and it keeps popping up. That’s Dave Finch. He just keeps popping up. ”
“Has he been a good customer?”
“Oh, yeah. He gets spurts of money from his Dad. Dad’s a car dealer in
Hawaiian Gardens. Basically he’s been supporting Dave while he’s been trying to be a film critic, or something. Been going on a long time because I don’t know of anybody who’s actually paid Dave to write. ”
“What do you think of his reviews?”
“Oh, he has insights on occasion. But, you know, his writing is sort of, uh, pedantic and too aware of itself. Lot of these guys write about film that way, they take it too damn seriously. And he thinks, uh, he thinks his opinion is the only opinion, you know. He’s convinced that films are quantifiable, and only he can place them on the scale of good to bad. I remember, once, we went to a screening together. It was this silly Sci-Fi film made by NewVue before Rand got there. It was a fun film. I mean, it was a stupid, dumb, cheap Sci-Fi film that had some inadvertent laughs in it, but, you know, it was an okay eighty-eight minutes in the theater. Well, the movie’s over, he asks me what I think of it, and I said just that, stupid but enjoyable. And he blew his top. He went crazy.
He started screaming at me right there in the middle of the theater. He told me that if I thought this film was any good I had no right to own this store, I had no right to be involved in the film business in any way, shape or form. And that, basically, I was, you know, dog shit that had been pissed on. I mean it was amazing! The fire in the guy’s eyes was incredible. ”
“Maybe that was the spark of divine madness. ”
“Maybe it was the fucking fires of hell. ”
“So you wouldn’t guess he’s the kind of film freak that could actually come up with a good concept for a film and build a story around it?”
“Shit, I wouldn’t think so. I mean he’s like a sponge that has soaked up everything that’s been done in films, so he can kind of throw it back out, but, no, I mean, he’s never had a life, he’s—he’s not that clever. ”
“Okay. Thanks for the info. ”
I started to walk out when he stopped me.
“Say—uh—can—can I ask you a question?” He was nervous again. I smiled. I understood what it was taking to get beyond that and ask. I nodded my head. “Have you ever heard of a script called Malice Towards None?”
`“The one you sell bootleg copies of?”
“Uh—yeah. ”
“The script considered the best un-produced script ever written in Hollywood?”
“Yeah. ”
“Obviously, I have. Why?”
“They say…”
“‘They?’”
“It is said that you wrote that script. ”
I smiled. I walked back to him. I put my hand on his shoulder and allowed it to move to the back of his neck. I squeezed—just enough pressure to make a painful point. “Do I look like a man who would write something called ‘Malice Towards None’?”
“Uh—actually—no. ” There was sweat. But then the place was not well ventilated.
“Do you have an original poster of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis?” I asked.
“Uh—yeah. Mint condition. ”
“German?”
“Yeah, of course. ”
I gave him Norton Macbeth’s card. “Send it there with the invoice. ”
“You—you know, it’s…”
“I know the price. Send it. ”
Then I left, with the whispered word, Fixxer, trailing after me.
*
I called Paul Hinckley, greeting him with: “I don’t think he’s a songbird. ”
“What are you talking about?”
“Finch. ”
“What?”
“I don’t think he wrote ‘V. ’”
“You’re kidding. What makes you think that?”
“Intuition. ”
“Well fuck intuition. The kid gave it to me, his name is on it. ”
“So do you want to give him a quarter of a million dollars and have someone else throw a plagiarism suit at you?”
“Sure! Yeah! Then we just call it a nuisance suit. Spielberg gets them all the time. As long as whoever it is never had contact with me, then its just one of those ideas-as-pollen-in-the-air kind of thing—just get Finch to take the deal and I’m covered. ”
“How well do you know Finch?”
“What do you mean? I told you—”
“Yeah, I know. The AFI Seminar. You knew him before that, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah, okay. He wrote a really nice appreciation of my films about a year ago in LA Week By Week. So I called him up. He then just sort of pushed himself on me, hoping to get a contract to write a book length study. ”
“So you saw him on several occasions. A relationship would be easily proved. I now see the value you have put on this deal. ”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll try to lose sleep over it. Just get Finch to sign and take the money. ”
“He refuses. ”
“What? He wouldn’t take the money?”
“No. He was quite offended by it. ”
“That’s why he’ll never make it in Hollywood. So what do I do now?”
&n
bsp; “Double my fee and I’ll find out who really wrote it. ”
“Double your fee!”
“This is assuming, of course, that when I find out who really wrote it, I can get them to accept the deal. ”
“Shit! This is starting to cost me. ”
“Hey, what do you think? You can get anointed on the cheap?”
“Okay, deal. Do it. How long do you think it will take?”
“I can’t give you that estimate. ”
“Well, try to make it quick. I really want to start pitching this to the studios. ”
“I thought you had a first look with Warner Bros. ”
“Oh, fuck’em! They haven’t the brains to appreciate this one. Hey, did you hear that Rand is resigning from NewVue?”
“I heard. ”
“You heard! You probably made it happen. ”
“Now why would you say that? How long you going to be at the ranch. ”
“I don’t know. Two, three days. ”
“I’ll be in touch. ”
I drove home, pulling into the underground garage and up to the Valet. A young kid in a green outfit opened my door. An Iranian Beverly Hills High senior nicknamed, “Joe,” new on the job and eager to please.
“Good evening, sir. ”
“Good evening, Joe. ”
“Should—should I have the car washed, sir?”
“Joe, it’s a ten year old, brown Corolla. It lives for dirt. It’s the only thing that gives it character. Wash it and, ‘you’ll keep your Christmas by losing your situation. ’” I enjoy quoting Dickens.
“Oh—okay. Sorry. ”
He got in the car and drove it to its stall far more carefully than the car deserved.
Once home, I settled down in the library with a vodka tonic, lemon twist—never use lime it insults the grain—and the sounds of the Fletcher Henderson Orchestra featuring Louis Armstrong. Yeah, antiquated 1920’s jazz. But combined with the lift from the vodka, the comfort of my chair, the soothing lack of light provided by closed eyelids, I find it bracing. I love waves of nostalgia for times before my birth. If I opened my eyes and suddenly found that this was a contemporary recording I was listening to, where would I be? New York, maybe Chicago, in a penthouse suite with much higher ceilings than this one, where the power was, where power’s not always happy sister, money, was—great towns—New York, Chicago, vital, aware, interesting from low life to high life. But if I open my eyes, it will be the 90’s. And if it is the 90’s, then this must be Los Angeles.
Play on Fletcher. Play on Pops.
“Penne with Moroccan lamb and mint. ”
I opened my eyes. It was Roee announcing the “simple” pasta dish he had prepared for dinner. “Did the lamb really come from Morocco?”
“It’s not the lamb that’s Moroccan, it’s the sauce. Which should include
Zucchini, but as I know how much you hate Zucchini… ”
“Your indulgence of my dislikes is appreciated. ”
“And I know you are not a wine lover, but I have found a rather nice Chenin Blanc that I would deem it a tragedy for you to pass up. ”
“Well, if you can indulge my dislikes I can certainly indulge your likes. I will have a glass. And after dinner I would like you to join me for a little job. ”
“Oh. ” Disappointment expelled with the word.
“You had plans?”
“I was going to watch a video tape of Waiting for Godot. ”
“Can it wait?”
“I have borrowed it from a friend. ”
“Can he wait?”
“It is Beckett directing Beckett!”
“Well, he’s dead. I suppose waiting is not a problem for him. ”
“Fine. I will wait. ”
Roee began to leave as a commentary on my request.
“I met Beckett once. ”
Roee turned back to face me, as I knew he would. “You did not!”
“In the bar of the Hyde Park Hotel in London. He autographed a book for me. ”
“Which you have conveniently lost. ”
“No. You’ll find it in the Bs. ”
Roee went over to a bookcase. “Which one?”
“Small blue book. Ends and Odds, I believe. ”
Roee pulled the book out and opened it up. His eyes widened slightly. “With your background, this could be a forgery. ”
“Yes, but for what reason? The only person it has ever impressed is you. ”
Roee looked at me, raised his eyebrows, nodded his head, and closed the book. “Let’s have dinner. ”
“Good idea. I’m starving. ”
Chapter 4
Buck’em
The lamb was excellent. I firmly believe that one should eat a cute fluffy or furry animal at least once a week. It’s essential for good health—mental if not physical.
I filled Roee in on the Paul Hinckley situation over dinner.
“So you don’t believe this kid could write a film script?” Roee asked.
“Oh, sure. Anybody can write a film script. And just about anybody does. It’s writing one the excites even a mediocre talent like Hinckley that I don’t think he could do. ”
“So he ripped it off from somebody. ”
“That’s the only answer. And where is that somebody? These drippy-ear want-a-bees all hang out together and possibly show each other their work for comments. But why would Finch think he could get away with it? If it were the work of another aspiring screenwriter, wouldn’t he expect that writer to be trying to submit the piece? And if Finch were to sell it, did he think the other guy wouldn’t challenge him? No, it’s got to be some other situation. Something more than just casual. ”
“So tonight?”
“Tonight I think we’re going to have to visit his apartment and look for clues. ”
“How mundane. ”
“I know you hate grunt work, but I could use your help. Be sure to bring the bag. ” I was referring to our Bag o’ Tricks, various goodies of a helpful nature amazingly packed into a case just slightly larger than the standard attaché.
“Are we just going to break in?”
“Yes. But we’ll go as cops. A parked black & white and two cops nosing around are not unusual sights in that neighborhood. ”
“And Finch?”
“I’m betting he will be out at a movie. ”
*
In preparation for our night’s errand, I called the Captain.
“Good to hear your voice, Fixxer. How’s things in the upperworld?” he asked.
“Fine. You ought to try it. ”
“No thanks. I’m happy as a dedicated public servant. ”
“There should be more like you. ”
“What? Taking my glory? Forget it. What’s up?”
“I’ll be out in the b&w tonight. ”
“Oh. Anything I should know about?”
“No. Pure Hollywood ego scenario. ”
“Where will you be?”
“Argyle. 2000 block. ”
“Okay. Officers Saunders and Hough?”
“Yeah. ”
“Okay. I’ll let the locals know that a special unit is in the area on a hush-hush assignment. ”
“Thanks. ”
“Don’t mention it. Just pay the invoice. ”
We drove the 911 to a garage I have just off Wilshire by Sixth and St. Andrews Place. We changed into uniforms and left in the LAPD black and white, got on to Rossmore and headed up to Hollywood. After making a slow trip up and down Argyle for show, I parked just across from Finch’s building. Sure enough, at about 7:30, we saw him come out, go up the street, get into a late model Chrysler—probably what his father sells—and take off.
“Okay Officer Hough,” I said. “Let’s go. ”
We walked around poking our flashlights into dark areas finally making our way to Finch’s building. If anyone saw us, no one was willing to bother us. We went up the stairs. Roee expertly picked the lock. We entered. Roee quietly opened the Bag o’ T
ricks and pulled out and set up a powerful, battery operated small red light, much like those used in darkrooms. This allowed us to see where to step in Finch’s maze of piled books, magazines, and haphazardly left dirty plates and glasses without sending noticeable illumination to the outside world.
“What a dump!” Roee said, very Bette Davis.
“Not bad. Can you do Katherine Hepburn?”
“The Calla Lilies are in bloom. ”
“Work on it. ”
“Yes’um, boss. ”
“Now cut that out!”
“What are we looking for?” Roee asked in so normal a voice I almost didn’t recognize him. “And how in the hell can we ever find it?”
“Well, this is where the beauty of the information age comes in. You can’t leave your dirty socks laying around in your computer. ” I turned the Mac on. It dinged and showed it’s friendly face. “Let’s open her up and see what wonders are contained. ”
Roee sat at the keyboard and looked at the files in the hard disk. “Son-of-a-bitch. He has Internet access. High tech in low places. ”
“Daddy buys the toys. Do you think you can log on?”
“What’s his name again?”
“David Finch. ”
“And it notes here that his screen name is birdman. ”
“Make’s sense. ”
“So what would be his password?”
“Burt?”
“Too short. ”
“Lancaster?”
“Too obvious. ”
“Frankenheimer?”
“Too long. Plus, although not as obvious as the actor, the director is obvious enough. ”
“I’m out of suggestions. ”
“Why don’t we try —“ Roee typed as he spelled it out “— t - r - o - s - p - e - r. ”
“Trosper?”
“The screenwriter. ”
“Ah. ”
“Beautifully obscure. Perfect for a password. ” Roee clicked the mouse and we were very nicely welcomed into Finch’s Internet portal.
Blood is Pretty Page 4