by Tim Dorsey
Everything would be right in the Vistamax garden if it wasnt for that one film.
While the Glicks ground out chum the rest of the year, the publicity side of the business necessitated they belly up to the high-roller table and produce at least one flagship picture a year. The movie didnt have to make much money. It could even lose a little money a little. Just as long as it received half-decent reviews that kept Vistamax from slipping into the B-studio swamp militantly ignored by the entertainment press. It was a gray distinction, and one that was worth eight or nine figures.
This years outing had looked better than ever when Vistamax landed the services of Werner B. Potemkin, the directors director, darling of the critics. It couldnt miss, guaranteed to vault Vistamax into unfamiliar realms of respectability. While the other studios threw gobs of cash at Potemkin, Vistamax was able to snare the legendary filmmaker with something much more valuable. Total creative control. Just think of all the money theyd save!
That was twenty rewrites and even more missed deadlines ago. The Glicks wondered what theyd been thinking. So did the Vistamax board, when red ink began washing ashore on the other side of the Pacific. So did the Asian crime bosses, who were using the former electronics manufacturer as their leap into legitimacy.
When news of the deal first broke, Hollywood was atwitter. Marquee director. Epic film. And the star would be their town! Then shooting began, and Potemkins temperament turned the production into nothing less than kryptonite. Withered everything in range. Firings, resignations, rehab. The Japanese pressured the Glicks, who pressured Potemkin, who responded with tantrums in French and lawyers in Lamborghinis.
For a rare moment in their lives, the Glicks were helpless, forced to sit on their hands while an asshole flew their studio into the side of a mountain. All they could do was torture themselves with daily updates from the set, which meant Murray.
Eight fifty-seven. Central Casting midgets arrive
Ian got up and poured a stiff drink at the office wet bar.
Nine-sixteen. Delay from tiger escape causes stage lights to melt deadly iceberg
Nine thirty-six. Voice coaches arrive. The midgets are now singing midgets
Mel joined his brother at the bar.
Ten-eighteen. Water from iceberg shorts out all power
Ten thirty-nine. Search begins for missing midget.
The Glicks brought bottles and glasses back to their desks.
Eleven twenty-one, emergency generators and standby ice sculptors arrive
Twelve twenty-eight, midgets written out of script
Mel began banging his forehead on his desk.
Twelve forty-five. Filming indefinitely suspended again when tiger and missing midget are found. Murray lowered his clipboard. Ive already taken care of flowers.
Murray, said Ian. Just kill me.
Youre welcome. Murray left.
The brothers pulled out coke drawers. Two extra-long lines in stereo. Then two more
Knock-knock. Betty. Ford Oelman to see you.
A young man took a bashful step into the office. You called for me?
Two drawers closed.
You must be Ford! said Ian.
Mel made a big waving motion with his arm. Come on in, kid!
Have a seat!
Weve been dying to meet you, said Mel.
W-why?
Your screenplay, thats why!
Hes so modest, said Ian.
Youre too modest, said Mel. Take credit when credits due!
We take credit, said Ian. Even when its not ours.
Never seen such writing!
So fresh! So now!
Reminded me of The Grifters, said Mel. Except youve done that whole new thing with it.
Ford was stunned. You read it?
Not a word, said Mel.
But weve heard great things.
Thats why were going to make an exception this time and not be mad at you.
Mad? said Ford.
Personal work on company time.
Its a firing offense.
But weve grown to like you.
We just met, said Ford.
Thats right, said Ian. You dont have any baggage.
Its your most likable quality.
Why dont you have a seat? said Ian.
Hes already sitting, said Mel.
Or you can stand, said Ian. Youre the writer.
Love how hes dressed, said Mel, downplaying the writer look.
Got that whole props thing happening, said Ian.
Fords eyes went back and forth.
Writers can dress any way they want, explained Mel.
So they usually dress weird, said Ian.
The worst-dressed people in this town are directors.
Especially a female director if shes attractive.
Wears baggy shit to show crew shes not stuck-up.
But youre the writer! You can dress any way you want.
And the fact that you didnt says something.
Ill bet my studio you have a lot to say.
Dont know if youve heard, said Mel. But the writer can do no wrong here at Vistamax.
Thats why we wanted to lay down some rules so you dont fuck up again.
We wont fire you this time.
Nobody told you the rules.
What are you, a mind reader?
Of course not! said Mel. Youre the writer!
Ford became dizzy.
We understand the artistic process, said Ian.
Actually, we dont, or wed be artists, said Mel.
Thats why were going to cut you some slack this time.
Mel opened a drawer and produced scraps of paper with handwritten notes.
Whered you get those? said Ford.
Your personal locker in props.
You worked on this during company time.
Which makes it our intellectual property.
Ford jumped up from his chair. But Ive been working on that for years. Long before I got here. I only made a few notes at work.
Only a few notes? said Mel. You cant pee in a pool and say, I just went in this one spot. Fucks up the whole pool.
Children swim in pools! said Ian. Did you ever stop to consider them?
Besides, were not going to use the script anyway.
It isnt that good.
Ford looked at one brother, then the other. You said you loved it.
We were trying to be encouraging, said Ian.
Youve got initiative, kid.
Just leave it at home.
Hey! said Mel. We got a surprise for you! Tell him, Ian. Hes going to be tickled.
On the way out, see Betty. Weve told her to hook you up with gift certificates for the studio store.
Just got in some great sweatshirts.
Probably do all your Christmas shopping.
Mel stood and walked over to the door.
But
said Ford.
He doesnt know how to thank us, Mel told his brother.
Just keep doing that Ford magic, said Ian.
Mel opened the door. Thatll be thanks enough.
FORT LAUDERDALE
Serge burst through the hospital entrance and ran past the front desk.
Sir! yelled a nurse, jumping up from her chair. You have to sign in!
Serge kept running, checking room numbers on the way. The hall had speckled green floor tiles, bright ceiling lights and a background odor medley of disi
nfectant and unwellness.
The nurse was coming out from behind the front desk when Coleman ran by.
Sir!
By the time she caught up with them, Serge was frozen in the doorway of room 23. Two visitors were already inside.
Serge! said Chi-Chi. Thank God you made it. We tried to reach you but didnt know where
Saw it in the paper. Serge took an anxious step forward. Is he
?
Just sleeping.
Sir
said the nurse in the hallway, holding a pen tethered to a clipboard with an ad hoc chain of rubber bands.
Chi-Chi stepped outside. Can it wait a minute?
Serge slowly entered the room and sat down on the front edge of a chair next to the bed. An old man was hooked up to a matrix of monitors and IV tubes. Serge nervously rocked back and forth.
The old man opened his eyes. You never could sit still.
Granddad!
Hi, Little Serge.
You had a heart attack!
Thanks. I almost forgot.
Are you okay?
The old man looked around at all the wires and tubes. No.
Serge grabbed his granddads hand and leaned close. You need anything? Name it.
The old man eased his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. I need to rest.
Serge rejoined the group in the doorway.
Sorry about your granddad, said Coltrane.
Got here as fast as I could. I was afraid
Serges voice trailed off as he signed his name on the visitors list, dispatching the nurse.
Coltrane and I followed the ambulance from the cafeteria. We were worried we wouldnt be able to get hold of you.
Serge looked around. Does Lou know? Is she coming?
Coltrane grabbed him by the hand. Serge
Not Louisiana.
Nobody knows where youve been, said Chi-Chi. A lots happened. Lou went in her sleep four months ago. Her family plot is up in Orlando
They were together forty-two years, said Serge. He must have been devastated.
He was, said Chi-Chi. After the funeral, he just stayed up there, going by her grave every day with flowers. We finally convinced him it wasnt healthy and drove him back down. Great for a while. Even started working again. We thought it was going to be a whole new beginning.
Thought?
Been talking to the doctors. Minor heart attack, but it seriously weakened him, on top of all the emotional strain with Lou. You know what they say: Once one goes
Hes only alive because theyre keeping his blood pressure up with the medicine.
I
dont
This is it, said Chi-Chi. Hes not leaving the hospital.
Serge stumbled back into the doorframe. How long?
Nothing critical now, but the vitals will fade. A week or two.
Serges face resolved. Im not leaving this room.
Coltrane got out car keys. Youll change your mind.
You have to rest sometime, said Chi-Chi, handing Serge a magnetic card. We found a motel up the road to be close.
Weve been staying here in shifts, said Coltrane. Sleep there whenever you want.
Theres something else, said Chi-Chi. Dont be thrown if he starts talking nonsense. Alzheimers. The doctors said it probably started a few years ago, but who could tell with all the crazy shit that came out of him?
Sergio opened his eyes again. I can hear every word youre saying.
Sorry, said Chi-Chi.
Just pretend Im not here, said Sergio. Why dont you tell him I have to wear diapers while youre at it?
Hes had some accidents, said Coltrane.
That was sarcasm, said Sergio. Whos got the dementia around here?
Chi-Chi pulled up a chair. Ill take the next shift.
** Chapter 10
Two men in dark suits and thin, dark ties sat in a dim office with the blinds closed.
Zanesville turned out to be a dead end. They only beat us by a couple of days, but it might as well have been a year. Trail went cold as death.
They were outranked by the older man on the other side of the desk. He folded his hands in thought. No idea at all?
A head shook. They could be anywhere.
What about known associates?
Back to the airport?
The older man nodded.
HOLLYWOOD
A gritty coral sun turned reddish-brown as it dipped into the horizon and fought its way through the Los Angeles atmosphere. The view was down Ivar Street, sloping toward the skyline.
On the corner sat a four-story Mediterranean apartment house with a vintage green-and-yellow sign out front. ALTO NIDO.
A third-floor window was open. Sheer white curtains fluttered out. Inside, a young man sat in a bathrobe and tapped on a typewriter. A pencil was clutched sideways in his teeth.
His four roommates from the Vistamax props department were moving in all directions.
Mark had one foot on a chair, lacing a shoe. Ford, arent you coming?
Just give me a minute.
Pedro came out of the bathroom, rubbing wet hair with a towel. You better get moving. We have to leave soon.
Ford took the pencil out of his mouth. Do we even know where this party is yet?
No.
Then why the rush? Tap, tap, tap
Because Dallas is going to call any second with the location and well have to leave immediately.
I dont understand how were getting into these parties, said Ford, standing up from his typewriter. Theyre the most exclusive in town. Some actors cant get in.
Dallas likes us, said Ray.
Dallas Reel? said Ford. I still havent figured out what that guy does.
Hes important is what he does, said Mark.
But he just seems to be hanging around props like he doesnt have a job.
Dont let that fool you, said Pedro. Hes huge. One of the biggest third executive producers in this town.
Been in the credits of at least sixty films, added Mark.
What for?
Gets the Glicks their coke.
Rrrrrrrrriiiiiinnnnngggggggg!
Thats Dallas
Hello?
Right
I know the way
See you in ten
Where is it? asked Mark.
Melrose and La Brea, said Pedro. Launch party for a new fragrance by that chick who sings. They used cyclone fence to seal the alley behind an Afghan restaurant. We enter through the head shop next door. The password is mellifluous.
Two husky men with thick, folded arms stood in front of a head shop on Melrose. Limos and luxury cars cycled up the curb. Skinny models and older men with ponytails got out. The bouncers parted.
A group of young men walked down the sidewalk. The bouncers closed ranks. Pedro stepped up.
Mellifluous.
The guards remained stone.
I said, mellifluous.
Nothing.
Pedro looked back at the rest of the gang. I dont know whats going on.
A cell phone rang. Hello?
Oh, hi, Dallas
Yeah, were out front. Thats the problem. We cant
I see, thanks
He closed the phone and turned to the gang. They changed the password. The first one was to throw off uninvited riffraff.
Pedro stepped up to the bouncers again.
Pandemic.
They parted. The guys went inside and walked down a long aisle of floor-standing hookahs, hand-blown bongs, and the new enviro-friendly Ca
lifornia hybrids that plugged into the wall and vaporized instead of burned. The service corridor in the back of the shop connected to the Kebab-A-Go-Go. An usher in a bow tie opened a door. The alley behind the restaurant was filled with laser beams, flavored oxygen dispensers and a curry funk. Models smoked green-and-purple cigarettes. The gang spotted Dallas and waved. Dallas waved back. He was wearing a cranberry silk jogging suit, and he slowly worked his way through the crowd, pulling tiny glassine envelopes from his fanny pack and pressing them into the palms of his many friends.
Hey, Dallas, said Pedro. Great party. Thanks!
Its over. We have to get out of here.
But theyre barely getting started.
Dallas shook his head. Peaked a half hour before it opened. The In Crowds heading straight to the second address.
They piled back in the Malibu and followed Dallass Ferrari on a treacherous, winding road up Laurel Canyon. Magnificent valley glimpses between the houses.
Whose place are we going to? asked Ford.
Professional voice, said Pedro.
That deep, gravely narrator who does previews in the theaters for scary movies, said Mark. You know: From the master of horror, a supernatural tale thatll freak your shit!
The Voice of God? asked Ford.
No. The number two guy who gets his leftovers, said Pedro. Television, too.
They parked in a swarm of valets and went inside. Ford moved room to room on tentative legs. Strange music, stranger people. Caterers circulated with trays. Ford turned down a flute of champagne, but accepted the ostrich-meat canapé with water chestnut surprise. The postmodern living room had brushed steel surfaces and metal guy-wires.
Pedro was on a sofa, talking to an old man with a ponytail.
But the carpenter is sympathetic. The actor mowed down his family gangland-style.
Im married to it! Dont change a comma!
Ford needed air. He strolled onto the spacious balcony. Mark was at the railing talking to an aspiring actress whose unsymmetric mouth reminded him of Ellen Barkin. His cell phone was open. Go ahead.
Uh, 555-1234.
Ill call.
She fled as Ford arrived at the railing and stared out over the luminous L.A. basin. Feel like Ive been here before.
This same views in practically every movie set here, said Mark. To flag location.
Ford leaned over the rail and looked down. He straightened fast and took a queasy step back. Whoa!