As Evelyn and Wesley moved forward with the agent to deal with the hotel manager, Sidney motioned to A.D. to join him in the bedroom.
“He threw my video camera out the window,” Sidney said, closing the door and sitting down on the bed. “I can’t be in that room any more. I’m trying to keep it contained, but when the surf is up with Wes it’s hard to stay in the water. And it was very good what he was doing. He was actually weeping at one point, talking about his friends that had died, different films, that whole scandal with Jack Warner and Errol Flynn. And then he just says this is totally profane and that he hates video, the way it gets under the skin and promotes the wrong kind of information, how falsely seductive it is. He started to rant on and on and I said, hey, listen, you were the one that asked for video. Most of the stuff I shot is in sixteen. I don’t care about video. Let’s never mention the word again. And he says ‘right’ and throws the fucking thing out the window.”
He paused, realizing that A.D. didn’t know who he was.
“I was second unit with Wesley in Durango when he lost it. He asked me to shoot all this crazy stuff and I did and I’ve just kept going. I developed some footage in L.A. and came here to shoot more. You’re A.D., right? The doctor or shrink who’s taking care of Walker.”
“I’ve been working with Walker on a script, if that’s what you mean. I’m the producer.”
“Right. I knew someone was working with him. Wesley told me he was trying to promote this script as a catharsis for him or something.”
“It’s a good script,” A.D. said. “I think it’s hot.”
Sidney walked to the bed and then to the window and back to the bed again. Picking up an ashtray, he put it back on the dresser, then lit a cigarette and stabbed it out on a paperback book. Finally he came to rest full length on the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, he said:
“I looked at the script. Tell you the truth, I don’t know what kind of a pull it has. I mean, who cares about India? Indiana maybe, but not India. I’ll tell you another thing. No one wants to go there. I wouldn’t go. I have enough problems. Everyone will get sick and freak out, and it’ll be a producer’s nightmare. Wesley won’t last one week down there. Count on it. I was with him in Mexico. But rain or shine, the old bastard is still trying to get into gear, setting up meetings and leaking all kinds of malarkey to the press. He thinks that if he isn’t riding herd on a project, he’s going to cash in.”
“Is he?”
“I’m certainly banking on it.”
“Doesn’t he want to know about his daughter?”
“Not really. That’s wrap-up stuff. What you do when you have no time left. It’s automatic. Mostly the kids are a pain in the ass. I know this tale you and Walker are laying out has put him through changes.”
“I have more pages for him.”
“Then he’ll go through more changes.”
“What about his wife? Doesn’t she stroke him down?”
“She’s holding on, but it’s hard. He accuses her of waiting for him to die and they fight and she disappears for a day or two and he totally loses control.”
A.D. went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He checked the medicine cabinet. There was an impressive display of mood elevators and painkillers, and he put a few of each into his pocket.
“Are you making a film about Wesley?” A.D. asked, coming back into the room.
“I am, but not like the family soap you’re doing. I’m traveling the low road, catching what dribbles out of the mouth after the main meal is over. Final words and that kind of thing. I pile up moments, vicious little scenes, tearful, angry, guilty, they’re all the same to me as long as they add up to some kind of confession. That’s where the gold is.”
“What kind of a deal do you have with Wesley?”
Sidney sat up on the bed and looked straight at A.D. as if he wanted to impress him with his intentions.
“No deal.”
“You mean he’s not paying you?”
“I don’t want him to. That way I own the stock. I never cashed the checks he sent me.”
“Does he know that?”
“I don’t think so. I sent him a memo which he never looked at and which I Xeroxed, so I’m covered.”
“Can you afford to keep going?”
“Probably not.”
“And you think this can make money?”
“Are you kidding? There’s only one law in this business and that’s box office. I’m doing my best to obey that law. There’s nobody over me and no middle man and it doesn’t cost anything to shoot. I’ve got Evelyn stripped to the bone screaming how she loves and hates him and I show how she gets him up in the morning, convincing him that he has something to live for. I’ve got fights and harangues and secrets revealed. I have this one scene in Mazatlán where he throws a knife at some L.A. lawyer and it sticks in his arm. And Wesley’s in the news, you know. He’s all over the place. Everyone has an opinion on him.”
From that moment on, India was never a serious issue for A.D.
“There should be a way to put everything on the same plate,” he said to Sidney, who had gone over to the door and was trying to listen to what was being said in the other room. “I’ll give you a slice of India if you cut me into your action with Wesley.”
“I don’t need India,” Sidney said. “I need fifty grand. If not from you, then from somebody.”
“We’ll talk about it,” A.D. said, noticing that Sidney had lost most of his initial authority and that the mention of money made his body contract. “Where are you staying?”
“Downtown.”
“I’ll call you when I find a place to stay. I’m at the Hilton and I can’t stand it. The service is lousy and there are too many tourists.”
“I have an extra room. Wesley likes to come down to hide out. Maybe it would make it easier for you.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Sidney stepped away from the door and wrote his address on a piece of paper in large bold letters. “I’ll give you the bottom line,” he said wearily. “I can’t stand the abuse. Like this thing with the video camera. He’s got me so twisted. It’s not like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows exactly where the lens is. But he keeps pulling the rug out from under himself. Every time he quits he asks me back, and then he quits again.”
He opened the door and A.D. followed him into the other room.
Wesley was sitting with Evelyn on the couch. Everyone else had gone. Whatever had gone down with the agent and hotel manager, it had left them in a different mood and they seemed more relaxed, even somewhat animated. Wesley got up and spread his arms, including them in a sudden benediction.
“Every time I shake the goddamned tree and more rotten apples fall out, I think, that’s it, I’m free, and even though I know there are always more, I’m grateful these particular ones are on the ground.”
“Amen,” Evelyn said.
She had curled into the corner of the couch and was looking up at Wesley with great wariness as he put an arm around Sidney and kissed him on the cheek, talking loudly into his ear.
“Your video camera sliced straight through the awning and almost took a guy’s head off. Turns out that one of my pictures, Wishbone, is in his all-time top-five pantheon, and he refuses to make a complaint. All he wants is an autographed copy of the script. Funny, I can’t even remember who wrote it. But I don’t take anything back about the video machine. I hate it. Let’s never mention it again. I tell you what, though, you and me, Sidney, we have to keep shooting. That’s all we’re good for, peering through the lens. But now we’ll mix in some scenes from Walker’s script. What do you think, AD.?”
“You’re the boss,” A.D. said, trying to make whatever switch was called for.
A.D. had not fully recovered from the shock of seeing Wesley and Evelyn for the first time, having been blind, of course, back in New Mexico. He had imagined Wesley six inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier, not this frail and pre
carious old man who was so obviously on the drift. And he felt unnerved and totally unprepared for Evelyn, with her absence of show business persona, the almost lethal way she sat within her own silence, how physically strong and elastic her body seemed inside her black jeans and simple white T-shirt.
Wesley sat down on the couch and lifted one of Evelyn’s bare feet to kiss. “I want to get moving on India, bring all of that together. It might be time to pull the plug on this screwed-up country and sign up for a location trip. That’s always the best part, when you’re just looking and not trying to force it all into some mediocre story line.”
He paused, staring off across the room, then back again to A.D. “Where’s Walker?” he asked, with sudden alarm.
“He’s driving from Vegas to Albany. He said it was time to find out if Clementine was still alive. I guess there’s somebody there who knows.”
“She’s alive,” Wesley said flatly. “The script demands it.”
A.D. took the new pages out of his briefcase and handed them to Wesley.
“And how is Walker?” Wesley asked, uneasily flipping through the pages. “Has he managed to find any kind of reality for himself?”
“I don’t know about reality,” A.D. said. “But he’s nailed to the script, and that keeps him straight. He doesn’t say much and he hangs out by himself. Of course I’ve been watching out for him, seeing that he doesn’t graze off or get into trouble, and that’s been a full-time job. I’m here to tell you that. He’s more sideways than streetwise, you understand, so I’ve had to keep him on a short leash. I busted his ass a few times to make sure the pages got squeezed out and I fixed up a few scenes, gave them a wash and a rinse. I guess you know that he’s not a natural-born writer, but when the mood is on him he can burn. Other than that, my main problem is living with the one eye.”
A.D. paused and went over to the other couch and sat down next to Sidney, who had made himself a tall brandy and soda and wasn’t listening to any of it. “It hasn’t been easy,” A.D. said slowly. “Some actions won’t never be the same.”
“The patch works real well,” Wesley said, bragging on him. “I’d cast you as a heavy anytime.”
“You already did,” A.D. said. “Which reminds me, I’ll need some scratch for those new pages and for those times I helped Walker out in Vegas.”
“Was it roulette?” Wesley asked.
“Mostly blackjack. One bad run.”
“Drugs?”
“Just maintenance and travel aids.”
“Women?”
“I set him up a time or two.”
“I’m grateful,” Wesley said, with what looked like tears in his eyes. “Would a few grand do you?”
“For now. Of course the game has changed a little and I’m sure you’ll appreciate that. I’m one of the producers now. Walker and I signed a paper to that effect, and if you sign that’ll make it official.”
“I don’t care who the producer is,” Wesley said, signing the paper A.D. offered him. “We’ll need more than one producer before we’re through. But this is the core group. This is it. After all these years this is the gang I finish up with.”
Sidney drained his brandy and soda. “What about me? I don’t want to finish up with you but I wouldn’t mind making a deal.”
“You’re my trigger man,” Wesley said impatiently. “Without you I don’t see.”
Evelyn uncurled herself from the couch, looking bored and weary. “I’m going to get some air, if there is any out there.”
Wesley sprang to his feet. “We’ll go over to the Russian Tea Room for borscht and a few drinks.”
They took the elevator down to the lobby and entered into the dense August night. In his pale blue pajama pants and karate jacket Wesley looked like an old martial arts freak who had wandered in from the park.
Wesley had trouble breathing and they sat down on a bench, their backs to the park, watching the street and the soft parade of people floating in and out of the Plaza and the movie house next door.
“I can’t believe Clementine has really disappeared,” Wesley said abruptly, his lungs struggling for air. “I can’t grasp that. I was angry. Sure. She gives you no warning. But I certainly wasn’t totally rejecting.”
Evelyn looked at him with alarm and started to rub the back of his neck but he shook her off.
“Okay. I know,” he said. “I won’t get stuck back there. What’s important is that we all get into the same room again.”
He paused, staring back into the dark and silent park.
Sidney chose that moment to stand up and state his case to Wesley, something he had never done before. His pants and short-sleeved shirt were matted with sweat, and as he talked he pulled nervously at the tired flesh around his neck. “One minute you tell me I’m working for you and it’s good steady work and don’t worry, just pull the trigger. Then you don’t pay me and when I say, okay, it’s my film, you say, hey, we’ll find the form, don’t get attached. And now you pull me into an Indian project with your looney-tunes son and say, ‘Just stay in the moment, baby.’ I need form, Wesley. I’m an A to B man. Always have been, always will be. I don’t mind playing and picking up spontaneous stuff, but pay me and give me an overall plan. And don’t keep telling me it’s my film or our film or your film or it’s not a film but a ‘probe into the unknown.’ You’re messing with my mind. And then to top it all off, A.D. starts pitching me about joining forces with him and making an end run on you. It’s no good, Wesley. You’ve got to give me a real target and you’ve got to be straight with me.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Wesley said.
This agreement took Sidney by surprise, and he stepped into and out of the park before he spoke to Wesley again. “Call me when you know what you want,” he said. Then he crossed the street and walked across the square in front of the Plaza and disappeared down Fifth Avenue.
“Don’t worry about Sidney,” Wesley said. “He gets this way. Everyone does in this business. I’ll make a deal with him and he’ll quiet down. The truth is, he has a great pair of eyes and can enter into a space better than anyone I know. And it’s my pleasure to exploit myself right now. I need to do that.”
“Why?” Evelyn asked. “Why do you need to do that?”
Wesley looked at her a long time before he answered. “I have to hold on. If I don’t hold on, I’ll fall off. If I fall off, I’m lost forever.”
“Lost and gone forever,” Evelyn sang, leaning over and kissing him. “Dreadful sorry, Clementine.”
WESLEY stood up and, with Evelyn and A.D. flanking him, walked alongside the park to Seventh Avenue and then south to Fifty-seventh Street. The Russian Tea Room was crowded, and Wesley pushed his way past the bar to the dining room. The maître d’ failed to recognize him and bluntly refused him a table. As Wesley started to protest, his hand pulling vaguely at the maître d’s lapel, a youthful figure in starched jeans and custom-made white Jamaica leisure shirt bounded toward him from a rear table.
“Oh, Christ,” Evelyn muttered, unable to make an exit because of the steady crush of people pushing up behind her.
“Mr. Hardin. My God!” The youthful figure brushed past the maitre d’ and claimed Wesley’s arm. “How propitious. We were just talking about you. The way you’ve handled the press the past few weeks has been extraordinary.”
“Do I know you?”
“Of course. It’s just that all of us young moguls look alike these days. Bud Serkin.”
“Warners?”
“Universal.”
“On the way in or on the way out?”
“Hopefully sliding into the middle. Please, Mr. Hardin, you must join us. There’s an old admirer of yours back there who will absolutely kill me if I let you slip away.”
They followed Bud Serkin to his table, squeezing in around a handsome gray-haired woman and a delicately featured young man in lightly tinted dark glasses and a blue business suit whose thick blond hair was swept back from his forehead in a Rod Stewart brush.
“Long time no see,” the woman said to Wesley.
“Hello, Sheila,” Wesley said. “I thought you were dead.”
“Just buried alive.”
“It was always hard to tell with you.”
“Indeed.” She turned her hard gray eyes on Evelyn. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new wife? Or is this your daughter?”
“Evelyn,” Wesley said. “Sheila someone or other. An old associate of mine.”
“You’ll never forgive me for that lawsuit, will you?” Sheila asked.
“I never mind lawsuits,” Wesley said. “Even between friends. It’s who you have been revealed to be that’s unforgivable.”
“That’s true,” A.D. interjected, trying to get into the flow. “I’m suing him myself.”
“There you go,” Wesley said. “And this man is my producer.”
“I heard you had another project launched,” Bud Serkin said. “I must congratulate you on that. India or someplace, isn’t it?”
“India. My son is scripting it.”
“We have about twenty million in frozen rupees over there. I wish we could arrange for you to spend some of it for the studio, but with all the litigation surrounding you these days that’s clearly impossible.”
“We’ll set up a meeting anyway,” Sheila said. “You never know when one meeting might mutate into another, thus a project is born. Henry will see to it, won’t you, dear?”
She patted the blond young man on the cheek. He nodded and made a note on a slip of paper with a gold-tipped pen.
“No meeting,” Bud Serkin said. “But a dinner would be lovely. It’s time for some sort of retrospective for Wesley. A testimonial. Hawks and Hitchcock had one. I even think old Sam Fuller must have had one.”
Sheila finished patting the young man’s cheek and smiled at Wesley. “Then you, too, will be buried alive.”
Wesley nodded, not bothering to reply. He felt himself being pulled away as if he were floating above them, looking down on himself as well. From a distance he became aware of their words but was unable to distinguish any separate meanings so that the language flowed together into one sound, joining the larger sound of the room. He had the thought that he was wheeling above them for a crane shot, and he found it funny that the actors should be so out of control beneath him. He tried to form the words “who’s directing?” but the words wouldn’t form or they weren’t hearing him. “Wesley, Wesley,” it was Evelyn’s voice, reaching out to him. But it was too late.
Slow Fade Page 12