by Claire McNab
Alf said warningly, "Chicka, mate. Tami knows what she's talking about. She's the expert here, and don't you forget it."
"I still don't think we need all these bloody rewrites."
Tami appeared to make a real attempt to appear patient, but the challenge was too much for her. "For an amateur it may seem strange, but it's the process we use here in the industry, Chicka," she said in an icy tone. "Many writers contribute, each adding his or her own take on the project. Then, if necessary—and it is necessary here—a script doctor comes in to smooth any rough edges before the final rewrite. And, of course, the director will be making ongoing changes during the shoot."
"Shit!" said Chicka inelegantly. "You lot will rewrite the bloody thing to death." I couldn't remember ever hearing Chicka swear.
"Thank you for your contribution, Chicka. Now, if we can move on, there seems to be a general agreement the story arc is sagging a little in the second act."
"What do you mean?" Alf asked. "There's lots happening between Penny Platypus and Kelvin Kookaburra."
"There's no real emotional connection between these characters," said Tami. "We need something to fully engage the children in our primary audience." Her yes-men murmured agreement.
"Kids like little things," I said. "How about baby animals?"
"Baby animals are good," said Tami, beaming at me approvingly.
"Let's see," I said. "If a wombat and a bandicoot had a child, that'd be a womcoot, or a bandiwom. And how about a kangaroo and a platypus falling in love? They'd have little platkangs, or maybe kangaplats." I was just warming up. "And there could be kookawallas—"
"Aaagh!" Tami's face was contorted with horror. "No Lamb White movie has interspecies relationships!"
"What? They can't be friends?" Alf protested. "That's the whole point of the Oz Mob."
"They can be friends," snapped Tami, "but no sex. Absolutely no hint of mating. The whole topic is absolutely forbidden."
Disgust contorted her face. "The very thought of a kangaroo and platypus falling in love..." She gagged.
"You're right," I said, "the size differential's too great, plus Penny Platypus would be spending most of her life in water. I'm afraid the relationship's doomed before it begins."
Tami's face now reflected suspicion. Could she actually have the rudiments of a sense of humor and realize I was having fun with her?
"This subject is closed," she said. Her yes-men nodded. "Now, to move to the next item, I have a problem with Kelvin Kookaburra. His dialogue seems a little...how shall I put it? Homosexual." Deep disgust had returned to her face.
"Oh?" said Quip, frowning. "Could you point out an example of this, Tami?"
Tami picked up her copy of the script and flipped pages noisily. "Page twenty has Kelvin speaking with Penny Platypus." Her mouth twisted with distaste. Tami was certainly asking a lot of her facial muscles this afternoon.
Everyone obediently flipped pages to find the place. Tami put on red-framed reading glasses. "Quoting Kelvin's words, the script has him saying to Penny Platypus the following: 'Omigod, Pennicles, where did you get that divine outfit? Isn't it just darling!'"
She put down the script and looked accusingly around the table. "Is it just me, or is that a gay kookaburra talking?"
"I think it's just you," said Quip cheerfully.
"Sounds gay to me," said one of the yes-men. The other one nodded emphatically.
"Maybe Kelvin is just a touch effeminate," I said.
Tami frowned heavily. "Lamb White movies always portray genders as very distinct. We see it as our God-given duty to present malleable little minds with role models of real men and real women. Effeminacy is out."
"So," said Quip, busily scribbling notes. "You're asking for an ultrabutch kookaburra." He gave her a sly smile. "Have I got that straight?"
I repressed a grin.
Any impulse to smile rapidly disappeared when I realized Tami's knee was pressing against mine. I moved fractionally. Tami's knee followed. I glanced at her. She sent me a meaningful little smile.
Hell's bells! I was a victim of sexual harassment. Sexual harassment from a sheila who specialized in unarmed combat. Wouldn't it rot your socks!
Sixteen
The script meeting was coming to an end, which was fine by me. I'd managed to move my chair so I was out of reach of Tami's questing knee, but every now and then she unnerved me with a flirtatious glance.
While everyone argued over plot points in the script, I rehearsed several imaginary conversations with Tami. In each I explained kindly but firmly why I wasn't available for hanky-panky. A polite thanks-but-no-thanks approach. Unfortunately, the fact that I was supposedly Alf's girlfriend hadn't dissuaded her, which was a worry. Maybe I'd have to get tough.
Getting tough reminded me of Tami's devotion to unarmed combat. Sure, I'd done a course in self-defense at the Wollegudgerie Police Club, but I had to be realistic. It was doubtful I'd be able to handle a Tami Eckholdt frontal assault. I shuddered at the disturbing vision of Tami pinning me down with some mysterious unarmed-combat hold, and—
"You OK, love?"
"Thanks, Alf. I'm fine."
To banish such horrible images, I forced myself to concentrate on the meeting. Tami was declaring forcefully there was no way Kelvin Kookaburra, as portrayed in this script, would have the moxie to challenge the evil Gordon Goanna in the climactic scene.
"What's this moxie you're talking about?" Alf asked. "Is it something to do with Kelvin's muscles? Kookas are heavy-duty birds, not pushovers like sparrows."
I was also keen to hear what moxie might be, but Tami had no opportunity to answer, as the focal point of the conference room shifted dramatically. Brother Owen swept through the door, closely followed by a bloke in a pinstripe suit.
The yes-men scrambled to their feet. Tami's expression switched from peeved to welcoming yet deferential. "Brother Owen! This is an honor."
Brother Owen had a faint, smug smile on his smooth, fleshy face. He put up his right hand in benediction. "Blessings upon this meeting, and upon each child of God present with us here."
I was puzzling over this, wondering if Brother Owen meant that one or more of us was not a child of God, so it was a selective blessing, when Alf said to the other bloke, "G'day, Marty-O. Long time no see."
So this was the Hartnidges' famous Hollywood agent, Marty O. Ziema. He was average height and very nattily dressed in a blue, double-breasted pinstripe suit, white shirt, and blood-red bow tie. He had gold cuff links, two heavy gold rings, and I caught a flash of gold in one front tooth. I couldn't see it, but I'd take bets his watch would be a heavy gold number.
I recalled Quip describing Marty O. Ziema as ruthless, egotistical, and dishonest—qualities that had made him very successful. "When you've got influence, you have power," Quip had said. "And when you have power in this town, you can do what you damn well please."
I'd imagined a shifty-eyed creature with rat-like features, probably chewing a cigar. Marty-O, however, had no cigar and appeared quite boringly normal, except for the bow tie. Mum always said to watch out for blokes wearing bow ties. "They're a bit off," she'd say. "Not quite your ordinary bloke." Now that I looked at him closely, his eyes were rather beady and close together.
Alf got up to shake Marty-O's hand. "I was just saying to Chicka—when was it, Chicka, yesterday morning?—where the hell's Marty-O got to? Didn't you get our messages?"
"Messages?" said Marty-O. "You left messages?"
A line from my Complete Handbook popped into my head: Liars often repeat questions; it's a stalling mechanism, while the person fabricates an answer.
"We did," said Chicka. "You were always in a meeting, or out of town."
Marty-O's face suddenly transformed from bland to twisted rage. "My fucking assistant's fucked up for the last time. I'll fire the bitch."
Alf looked horrified. "Holy cow, I don't want to get anyone fired."
"Alf," said Marty-O, abruptly becoming calm and very serious,
"when one of my clients, one of my major clients, has anything less than the absolute ultimate in unsurpassed service, someone has to pay. Pay dearly." He shook his head ruefully. "I mean, Alf, ask yourself, where would Marty-O be in this town if he didn't promptly return every call?"
One of the yes-men sniggered. A burning glare from Tami sobered him quick smart.
"My friends!" boomed Brother Owen in his deep, resonant voice. Apparently the attention had been off him for long enough. When he had everyone looking his way, he went on, "I am here with a purpose." He flicked a glance at Tami. "Your meeting has concluded?"
"Yes. Yes, it has, Brother Owen."
"Excellent." He indicated Tami's yes-men and Quip. "You may leave us." Then his gaze stopped at me. "Kylie, how delightful to see you again."
I was impressed he'd remembered my name. "Bonzer to see you too."
"I've been wanting to speak with you about something. Something important."
"You have?" I said, astonished. To him I was just Alf's Aussie girlfriend, so what could he want with me?
Quip, who'd gathered up his things and was following the yes-men out of the room, raised an eyebrow in my direction, and mouthed, "Lucky girl."
When the three men had left, closing the door behind them, Brother Owen said to the agent, "Marty-O, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like a glass of mango juice with ice." He gestured toward the refrigerated glass-fronted cabinet.
Marty-O stared at him. "You want me to get you a drink?" He indicated Tami, and then me. "Surely..." His expression made it clear he considered this was women's work.
Brother Owen appeared surprised to have any discussion on the matter. "And while you're there, Marty-O, I'm sure others would like some refreshments too."
Marty-O hesitated, then, face red and lips compressed, he went over to the mini kitchen. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from grinning. Brother Owen was quite an operator. In the clash of titanic egos, it was Brother Owen one, Marty-O nil.
I wandered over to get my own orange juice. Marty-O glanced my way but didn't speak. "G'day," I said. "I'm Kylie." He ignored me.
Brother Owen indicated we should take our seats around the table. "Before we begin, I have an invitation for you all. This Saturday evening the Church of Possibilities will be holding our famed annual fund-raising gala for children stricken with cancer. This exclusive, star-studded event will be attended by the cream of Los Angeles society. As you might imagine, although very expensive, tickets are snapped up months before the gala, leaving many disappointed socialites and other, lesser people."
"One of the events of the year," said Tami.
"Not one of the events, Tami. The premier event of the Los Angeles charity social calendar." He spread his arms wide. "And I'm extending to each of you an invitation to be my guest at the central table of honor."
"We'll be there," said Alf.
Chicka nodded enthusiastically. "Anything to help the sick kiddies."
"Excellent." Brother Owen turned to me. "And you, my dear? I hope you're free?"
Thank heavens I had the perfect excuse to dip out. "It's a blow, but I'm not free, I'm afraid. My aunt has just flown in from Australia."
"Your aunt? Bring her along." Brother Owen smiled expansively. "I imagine she'll be thrilled to rub shoulders with the many celebrities attending the gala."
"I'll ask Aunt Millie, but I can't promise anything."
Brother Owen switched his attention to Alf. "I'm counting on you to bring Kylie and her Aunt Millie to the gala."
Dismay clouded Alf's features. I knew he'd do almost anything to avoid seeing Millie. "I dunno..."
"Thank you, Alf. I knew I could rely on you. Everyone, Tami will be advising you later regarding tickets, parking, and security procedures at the gala. Now, before we continue further, let us pray for guidance."
Clasping his hands on the table in front of him, he bowed his head and waited until the coughs and foot-shufflings had ceased.
"Guiding Spirit," Brother Owen began, using that singsong addressing-the-heavens tone I'd noticed preachers often favored, "in the darkness of the night you spoke to me, enlightened me. You revealed a revelation. 'Brother Owen,' you said, 'your vision of your role in the Church of Possibilities is too small, too limited, even though, according to the latest available figures, it is one of the most successful ministries in the world.'"
During the pause that followed, I opened my eyes. I reckoned the Guiding Spirit would know everything as a matter of course, but I had to admit I was surprised it seemed necessary to put in a mini-ad for COP while in the middle of a revelation.
Sneaking a quick look at the others, I found everyone but me had their eyes shut, except for Marty-O. He was glaring at a point on the table top so fiercely I found myself checking to see if he'd melted a hole.
"Guiding Spirit!" We were off again. I shut my eyes. "I am the leader of an immense and ever-growing flock, each person yearning to reach their God-given potential. Even as leader, it is humbling to find I, too, can be shaken with negative thoughts of uncertainty and indecision."
Another pause. "Yet at that murky moment—the dark night of my soul, if you will—your voice spoke to me, yet again. 'Brother Owen,' you said. 'Hark.' And I harked. Then came those inspiring, transcendental words: 'If Mel can do it, so can you, Brother Owen.'"
"Who's Mel?" I heard Chicka whisper.
"Not now!" Alf hissed.
Brother Owen was building to a crescendo. "Guiding Spirit! I accept this great task you have entrusted to me, and will bring it to full, glorious fruition. Amen!"
Sitting back with a satisfied sigh, he said, "So? What do you think?"
No one spoke. Chicka looked mystified. Alf was bewildered. Marty-O examined his fingernails.
"Could we have more details of the great task?" I said.
"Of course you may. The moment I had this revelation, and realized the Oz Mob characters were involved, I contacted Marty O. Ziema to discuss the concept in depth. Tell them, Marty-O."
Marty-O didn't look too happy. I reckoned he wasn't used to being treated like the hired help. He cleared his throat. "Brother Owen believes his life story is—"
"Not believes. Knows."
"Brother Owen knows his life story is the stuff of legend." Marty-O's voice had an irritating mosquito whine to it. "Religion is big at the box office. Religious books are at the top of best-seller lists. In these trying times, audiences are craving the spiritual, and to reach them effectively you need—"
"The multigenerational approach!" interrupted Brother Owen. "That was my revelation—to simultaneously reach out to the whole spectrum of humanity. To run the gamut from the very young to the very old, and everyone in between."
"Where's the Oz Mob come in?" asked Chicka, his face suspicious. "You're not trying to dump us, are you?"
Brother Owen appeared deeply offended. "Absolutely not. Let me explain my vision in its entirety, and your unreasonable fears will be laid to rest."
Brother Owen held up on finger. "First, the Brother Owen autobiography. My ghostwriter has almost finished the first draft. I'm calling it The Radiance of Brother Owen."
"Catchy title," I said.
He nodded. "I think so." He held up finger number two. "Second, the movie of my life. Tami?"
"It's a wonderful screenplay," said Tami. "Lamb White is throwing every resource into developing this project."
“I wrote the screenplay," announced Brother Owen with a proud smile. "The movie will also be called The Radiance of Brother Owen."
"Good tie-in," said Marty-O. "And you could have copies of your autobiography for sale at every cinema."
"Excellent idea. Tami, jot that thought down."
"If you wrote the screenplay, why didn't you write your autobiography too?" I wanted to know.
"If only I could have, my dear." He shook his head regretfully. "Every moment to me is so valuable. The screenplay I dashed off in a week or so, but books have so many more words, and I have so little
time. A ghostwriter was imperative. Of course, I'll be overseeing every word, every phrase."
"Mate, this is all very interesting," said Alf, "but what about the Oz Mob?"
Brother Owen held up a third finger. "The Oz Mob movie is the third prong in my spiritual assault on the material world."
"We're well along with the Oz Mob screenplay, Brother Owen," said Tami, eager to please. "Our meeting today was particularly productive."
He waved a dismissive hand. "It'll have to be completely rewritten, and the title changed too."
"Rewritten?" said Tami faintly.
"Totally."
"But the concept's the same?"
"Haven't you been listening? The concept's entirely different."
"What's the new title?" demanded Alf.
"The Oz Mob in Eden."
"Evocative title," said Marty-O. "I see a tie-in with picture books. Pop-up ones, with the apple tree and serpent."
"Tami, jot that down."
"I don't get it," said Chicka, sounding really pissed-off.
"Visualize this!" Brother Owen commanded. "Picture the eager faces of children, as, accompanied by their loving parents, they flock to the cinemas. There they sit in the darkness, their enchanted eyes fixed on the images of those wonderfully cute Oz Mob creatures. Consider the impressionable young brains ready to be subtly imprinted with ways of thinking that will gently lead them, inevitably, to the Church of Possibilities."
Alf and Chicka looked each other, then at Brother Owen. "Look here," snapped Chicka, clearly very upset. "Five minutes ago Alf and I had a movie, and we had a script—even though it'd been buggered about with something awful. Now you're saying what? It's going to be something else altogether? We've got a signed contract, remember."
With a silky smile, Brother Owen said, "And I would advise you to read the fine print of that contract. You'll find you've given Lamb White the future movie rights to the animal characters. I want to work with you boys, but if you force my hand..."
"Standard practice," said Marty-O quickly. "Good for the Hartnidges. Good for Lamb White."
Obviously unhappy, Alf said, "So what's this new film about?"