Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army

by Steven Paul Leiva

  Thad and Brett chuckled. Obviously they now thought of Sara as their alma mater.

  “Abbie!” Sara gestured towards the lanky man. “NYU. Film Department. He’s the VP, the only VP for producer-director Ira Vollenberg. Ira makes great movies. Serious movies. Cinema at its best. He blows me away with his technique. Now, Abbie, if we could just find a movie for him that will gross more than a thirty-three fucking cents at the box office, we would have a major player there.”

  “I’m working on it Sara, but—”

  “Abbie—we will find that project,” Sara said as she walked over to Abbie and kissed him on the cheek like a loving sister.

  “And Nick. Nick’s an entertainment lawyer with Hungadunga, Hungadunga, Hungadunga, and McCormick.”

  “That’s a Marx Brothers joke.” Lydia pointed out.

  “Yes, I never mention the name of his law firm because I hate the bastards, but Nick I love. Nick has potential. Because he’s an entertainment lawyer who really—don’t you, Nick?—wants to be a game show host.”

  “I love game shows,” Nick said with a real passion, dispelling any thought that Sara might be kidding.

  “I know you do, Nick, but the influence of a game show host is about on the level of the influence of good sportsmanship on the National Hockey League. So, in your dreams, Nick, only in your dreams.”

  She turned then walked over to Brooke, who looked almost shy at Sara’s approach. “Brooke, my love. Brooke runs the production company for Sara Hemmings. Not our greatest female star, but certainly programmable.”

  “Sara!” Brooke covered her ears as if to hear such a thing was sacrilegious.

  “But Brooke is primed to be stolen away by some very great diva. Aren’t you Brooke?”

  “I prefer working for women.”

  “That’s lovely.” They kissed. It was a long and fairly passionate kiss. The men really wanted to drop their mouths, but they knew they were just too damn sophisticated to do that—so they didn’t.

  When Sara was ready, she addressed Lydia again. “Every one of these five, Lydia, these are the kind of talented people in the industry I try to surround myself with. Truly, the up and coming.”

  “Up and coming? Sounds like premature ejaculation!”

  Most broke into unsure laughter, but stopped when they saw that Sara hadn’t.

  Sara was cold-eyed. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Suddenly there was a burst of laughter coming from the fireplace. Then from a hidden panel on the left side of the fireplace Maxwellton James appeared. “I heard what you said just as I was coming out of the elevator, and, to be honest with you, it took me a second to get it. Very witty, Lydia, very witty, indeed. Inappropriate, though, for these young people, I’m sure. Cream of the crop all, that’s what Sara tells me, you’re all cream-of-the-crop. I welcome you all to the home of William Randolph Hearst. Lately, for about thirty years or so, the property of the State of California. But, we won’t let that stop us from enjoying Mr. Hearst’s hospitality.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Spitting Flesh

  Maxwellton James was oddly elegant, standing in front of the French fireplace in a loose fitting black silk suit over a billowy white, collarless shirt. It was as if his big form had been draped to give it dignity. His high, wide, pink forehead reflected some of the light from the 128 naked bulbs in the ceiling above, as did, it seemed, his teeth, presented with the curtains drawn as he smiled upon us. His hair remained loose and flowing behind him, but now meticulously brushed smooth.

  It was strange, admiring a man for not putting his hair in a ponytail.

  Hatless rushed over to him with a large, chilled glass of some very dark beer, one-third of it a brilliant head of foam. Max took the glass and downed the beer in three large, silent gulps. Without the slightest smack of his lips or any hint at all that he had enjoyed the drink, he handed the glass back to Hatless, who handed Max a pressed, white cloth napkin in return. Max wiped the substantial foam mustache off his face and thoroughly dried his hands of moisture picked up from the chilled glass. Then he unfolded the napkin and blew his nose in it in a long, apparently successful fulmination. He neatly folded the soiled napkin and returned it to Hatless, then announced, “Dinner is being served in the Refectory. Would you follow me.”

  We did so, exiting the room through a door on the right side of the fireplace.

  If King Arthur had had a long, skinny table instead of a round one, this is where he and his knights would have sat. The Refectory was a vast hall with a ceiling at least three stories high, covered with panels of life-sized carved wood saints to watch over (and bless, one assumes) your meal. There was a fireplace you could walk into, inviting a couple of friends in to join you for the evening. There were more choir stalls along the walls. Hearst must have gotten a bulk deal. Colorful flags fluttered on high, by the tall, gothic windows, and there were tapestries—of course—there were tapestries on the wall featuring selected moments in the Prophet Daniel’s encounters with King Nebuchadnezzar, which Petey couldn’t help but tell us all about. The power of space denoting power, with the added benefit of religious artifacts denoting Truth—or so one might like to believe.

  The skinny dining table down the middle of the room was really a series of narrow monastic tables positioned end to end. It’s said that Hearst liked the up close and personal dining they afforded, or maybe he liked the tables for the small touch of humility they added to a rather grandiose room. Then again, maybe they had just come free with his rather large order of choir stalls.

  There were place settings for ten on the table, strangely laid out so that the last person on the right on both sides would have no one sitting directly across from them. Max crossed the room to the center chair of the far side of the table and began to hand out the seating assignments.

  “Sara will sit on my left, with Thad to the left of her. Brett, you’re on my right. Lydia, I have reserved you the seat across from me, with Brooke on your right and Nick on your left. Abbie, you’re to the right of Brooke.” Then, with a short pause to emphasize the afterthought: “The legal staff can take the end seats.”

  Henderson and Pinsker started to look for a place to set their briefcases, which they still carried. Max noticed this.

  “I know you’re attached to those cases, gentlemen, but surely you could have left them in your room. They would have been safe there.”

  “They brought them on my instructions,” Lydia stated. “I never know when I’ll want them to provide me with facts and figures and information, and I am not tolerant of delay.”

  “Nothing wrong with being demanding of your underlings, Lydia,” Max stated, underlining the underlings. “On the serving table behind you, then, would be the perfect spot, I believe, gentlemen. On either side of the model of the Titanic.”

  A bit of cat and mouse? We could not have picked better spots for full coverage. So, as instructed, we put our cases on the table on either side of a large glass display box that had inside of it a model of the Titanic, steaming through the North Atlantic waters, just moments before striking the iceberg, which was also modeled inside the box. Roee and I both quickly took keys out, ostensibly unlocking the cases so they could easily be opened at Lydia’s command, and surreptitiously positioned the snake nostrils. Mine I focused in on Max. Roee, I was sure, positioned his to take in a good angle on Sara.

  Max picked up a small silver bell and rang it. Rangers, including Sheila Barnes, all in tuxedos, brought out the dinner. It was seven courses of delicious food, well prepared, and excellently presented. It was the kind of transcendent meal that could make one believe in—and practice—evil.

  Max led all the dinner conversation in a completely charming manner, paying the proper amount of attention to each of his guests (sans Henderson and Pinsker, of course, lost on either end), but paying the most attention to Lydia. He led with his eyes, cooing at her, smiling at her wit, laughing at her jokes, and complimenting her very being for its existence. Lydia ga
ve back in like charm, meeting Max’s eyes often, flashing her best smile just for him. The subjects of the conversation were insubstantial, typical polite dinner chat, but the orchestration was magnificent. The general air of privilege the five had already been feeling must have intensified to something equating a really fine heroin high.

  “You know,” Max said as we were finishing dessert, “when Hearst gave dinners here it was always informal. Ketchup bottles and mustard jars on the table, instead of the condiments being served in fine, silver receptacles, as we have here for you tonight. He serviced Mr. and Mrs. America with his papers and magazines and movies, so I suppose he thought it was the least he could do to feel close to them. The penance he paid to excuse himself for having the power, money and good taste to be able to surround himself with the best and finest of art from Europe?”

  I’m afraid Henderson snorted as he tried to suppress a laugh. Max looked my way, displeased with the rowdy exile interrupting the beginning of what was obviously the reason we had all been gathered, but that was okay. It was time to get under his skin again.

  “Which one are you?” Max asked. “Frick or Frack? Muck or Meyer?”

  “My name is Henderson, Mr. James, and excuse me, but, Hearst may have bought a lot of stuff in Europe, but it was hardly all the best and finest.”

  “Is that a legal opinion?”

  “I was an art history major before I turned to the law.”

  “Specializing in what? The history of aviation art?”

  “No, that’s just a hobby that came later with my interest in flying.”

  “You are obviously a complex person, Mr. Henderson. Why the switch from art history to law?”

  “Not much money in art history.”

  “Oh, but there would have been so much more satisfaction. Especially for the soul.”

  “My soul is perfectly satisfied with money, thank you.”

  You could see Max make note of that, but you couldn’t perceive his judgment as to its veracity.

  “But it’s not satisfied with Mr. Hearst’s art collection,” Max said.

  “It has its merits, but much of the stuff is second rate. For example, we’ve been put in the Della Robbia bedroom suite, named obviously because most of the art work in there comes from the Della Robbia family. Well, Luca Della Robbia, the founder of the family, he was pretty good, close in talent to Donatello, but there’s nothing of his in there. It’s all this glazed terra-cotta stuff churned out by his family’s shop after his death. Made to order cheap church decorations. The kitsch of its time, but, you know, from Hearst’s perspective, I suppose, a four hundred year old Italian Madonna and Child is a four hundred year old Italian Madonna and Child. He must have been impressed. I think, though, quite frankly, he was taken for a ride more often than not.”

  It was very quiet when I had finished. Max stared impassively at me. Sara could not seem to hide her feelings; she looked angry, her ugly face growling silently. The five sat and watched and anticipated. Lydia broke the thick calm.

  “Well, it’s got to be better than collecting Lladró figurines!”

  Brooke tittered.

  “Yes, well,” Max said as he picked up the silver bell and rang it, “cigars and brandy?”

  Sheila Barnes came in rolling a silver and glass drinks cart on which sat a large decanter of brandy and ten crystal snifters.

  “I think you’ll enjoy this brandy,” Max said as Sheila began to serve us. “It once belonged to Charles de Gaulle. It would had brought a rather hefty price at Sotheby’s had it not been stolen the night before the scheduled auction. How it came into my hands is a great and rather amusing story—but not for tonight.”

  Ranger Blunt was in the Refectory now with a large humidor chest of inlaid woods, maple and mahogany among them, gleamed to a piano finish, which brilliantly pick up the light of the chandeliers overhead. He presented it to each one of us in turn, lifting the lid as if showing the wicked Queen her most fervent desire: The freshly retrieved heart of Snow White.

  “The cigars are not Cuban,” Max announced. “I happen to believe that Cuban cigars are highly overrated. Something to do with their being illegal.” It was a very knowing statement. “Plus, I’ve always refused to do business with Castro—who is a pig. These are Dominican, and as rare as Cuban as they come from a factory with a very exclusive clientele.”

  The five went wide-eyed and near dizzy at the sight of the cigars. Fat, brown, round, each one was selected with a trembling tenderness as if to hold it too roughly would be to bruise and spoil it. Once selected, the cigar was handed over to Ranger Blunt, who prepared each one for lighting by making a precise V-cut to the ends. Then he would hand them back to the anticipating recipients. All, including Brooke, placed the cigars between their lips with deep satisfaction and gratefully accepted a light from Blunt—dreams of them and their cigars pictured on glossy magazine covers rolling off the presses in their heads, no doubt.

  Henderson and Pinsker refused Ranger Blunt’s offer. Max showed exaggerated surprise.

  “Doctor’s orders,” Pinsker said. “Asthma runs in the family.”

  “My father died of mouth cancer,” I said by way of my explanation. “It wasn’t pretty, those last months, him spitting out flesh all the time.”

  We were instantly ignored.

  Sara and Brooke were the most childlike in the lighting up and appreciation of the smoke, and the most disappointed when Lydia also refused to join them, feeling the blow to women’s liberation.

  “Oh, come on, Lydia,” they urged, leaving the invite into the club unstated, but gilt-edged nonetheless.

  “No thanks,” Lydia said her radio-static voice puncturing the air. “The next time I feel compelled to wrap my lips around something long, cylindrical and brown— I’m going to want it to be Denzel Washington.”

  The five laughed, delighted, for some reason, to have their absurdities pointed out to them. Abbie raise his long, brown, burning cylinder into the air and cried, “Surrogate cock suckers of the world, unite!” There was more laughter. The five felt fine, pleased, deeply satisfied. It was a combination of setting—is this the power of Feng Shui?—sustenance, satiation and smoke.

  The preparation now fully completed, Max got back onto the track. He raised his snifter. “Please join me in a toast.” The tone of his voice indicated that things now were to be serious and not lighthearted. “To the Twenty-first Century!”

  “To the Twenty-first Century!” everybody quickly repeated as they raised their snifters.

  “It’s going to be a bitch!” Max declared very pointedly then took a sip of his brandy.

  The rest were not quite sure what to do. Some joined in sipping, some just sat and waited.

  Then Lydia downed her brandy like a shot and said, “Well, if it’s going to be a bitch, may that bitch be me!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The 21st Century Bitch

  No one laughed. The look on Max’s face did not allow for it. It was a stone. A stone with charm, if that can be imagined, but a stone nonetheless. Solidity, rock solid, something substantial, and very, very appealing because of that, because we all want the teacher to finally tell us what’s important and what’s not.

  A stone—with charm—and meaning.

  And just a slight hint—possibly too slight for the others to perceive, but I was predisposed to—just a slight hint of madness in the two muted green eyes set in the pink stone of his face.

  “They took the Future from me,” Max started to speak. “The bright and shining Future. Do you remember it? It was laid out and portrayed in popular science magazines. At World Fairs. By Walt Disney. Cities. Bright, colorful cities of tall gleaming buildings. Cities clean and well ordered. Interconnecting bridges between the buildings of moving sidewalks automatically covered during inclement weather by crystal-clear plastics; open to the sun on gorgeous days, of which there would be many. We would each have small flying cars to buzz around the city; or jet packs, or personal ornithopte
rs. Our clothes would never fade or soil. Robots would do the manufacturing in the factories, the paper work in the office, the childcare at home. They would tote that barge and lift that bale. Meals would be delicious, plentiful, prepared by automatic cookers. There would be acres of parkland in the city, lots of recreation, lots of fun. Always something to do. They never even considered that one could be bored in the Future. Everyone was to be happy in the Future, and the Future was always called the Twenty-first Century.”

  He had been speaking to no one in particular; his eyes had been slightly lifted, concentrating on that bright shining Future, but now he brought them back down, and focused on Brooke.

  “We’re almost there, Brooke. The Twenty-first Century. What do you think? Did we make it? Did we get that Future?”

  “Hardly,” Brooke said with a sweet and sour snort.

  “Hardly, indeed,” Max said. “The Twenty-first Century is not going to be that bright, shiny future of colorfully illustrated magazine covers. It’s going to be, I’m afraid, ‘…a series of jolts and jars and smashes in the social life of humanity…’ Not my words. Some writer in The Economist in 1930 wrote those words. He was sitting in London at the time. The depression had just started. Europe was rumbling with the festering forces that had been abated but not controlled at the end of World War I. So he knew that World War II was inevitable, so he wrote those words and he was right. There were jolts and there were jars and there were smashes to the social life of humanity, but nothing compared to what’s coming in the Twenty-first Century.”

  Max paused. The stone smiled.

  “But why am I talking to you guys about this?” He put a loving hand on Brett’s arm, turning to look past Sara to Thad, then crossing the table with his eyes to scan and acknowledge those of us on the other side, not so very far that his eyes could not achieve the same effect as a loving hand gently placed on a willing arm. “You makers of Franchise Entertainment, you makers of Tent-pole movies to hang your global media corporate wishes on, you—Show Biz folks. Except for our lonely lawyers, of course, but you happen to be on this train, Muck and Meyer,” Max made quick eye contact with Henderson and Pinsker, “so you’re just going to have to make the stops with everybody else.”