Back(stabbed) In Brooklyn

by Lenox Parker

  “Nah, I don’t mean that—I mean, the life. Your life. You worked hard, you bought this house, you go on vacations, it’s—I can’t explain it. I don’t know—”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. I didn’t know what to say in response. Even with suspicion, I couldn’t figure out what his motivation was.

  “I’m at the end of my career, Frank. I’m not going to act anymore. I need something to do.”

  “Why don’t you just relax? Don’t you have a house in Italy and Hawaii or something? You don’t want to work anymore, just enjoy yourself.”

  I could have been talking to a stranger. I had no connection.

  “Nah, I just—I don’t know. Listen, it’s great to see you. It really is. I can’t believe how many years it’s been—”

  There was a few loud knocks at the door. It had to be cops. They never use the fucking doorbell. They always bang the shit out of your door.

  Howie and I looked at each other. We broke up laughing. He slapped my knee and we joked about how it’s like the old days again.

  ** *

  The cops left after they saw that it was Howard Kessler; it was nothing to be concerned about. I would have blown a gasket if I had an Escalade with a dent on it like he did, but it didn’t seem to concern him a bit. His phone kept ringing, buzzing, beeping for the afternoon. He didn’t flinch or pick it up once. I finally asked him about it.

  “Who the fuck keeps calling you? Should you answer one of these calls?”

  “The press, Hollywood, the world, everyone knows I’m here.”

  “HERE? Here?” I got a little nervous. I’m not exactly someone who wants too much attention, after my run-in years ago.

  “No, well by now probably, yes—” he motioned out the window where the crowd of people standing in the rain outside the gate at the end of my driveway seemed to be camped out, “They know I’m in New York.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “I wanted some time alone, with you guys, away from the crazies, you know. I want to write—” he hesitated, as if he let something slip that he shouldn’t have. I couldn’t pick up what it was.

  “That’s understandable. Why can’t celebrities just do what they want, sometimes?” I realized what I said was a little stupid, so I kept my mouth shut.

  Howard told me about the incident at the hotel in Soho the other night.

  “And the worst part of it is, my goddamned agent, Alan, was in town—you know, you met him, at the Duck House—”

  “Right, I remember the guy. Seems like a good guy—”

  “Yeah, he’s been protecting me my whole career. The one night I really needed someone, I fuck up. It’ll be out on the news soon enough.”

  “Why wasn’t he around?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. Probably my fault.”

  I could see Howie wasn’t talking to me at this point, he was talking to himself. I didn’t really care too much either way. Somehow, the conversation always went back to him. Not that there was much I wanted to talk about, but there are other things in the world besides him. Apparently he isn’t aware of that.

  We called it a day once my fat daughter came home from work and started jumping when she saw Howie on the couch. I told her not to call her friends, but these kids are addicted to their cellphones.

  We didn’t really discuss much. Howie asked me a few questions about my life, general stuff. I don’t have anything to hide. Things have been tough. The work, the indictments, the kids, going straight and narrow—tough for keeping this family business afloat.

  And that was it. Never saw Howie again.

  Chapter 21

  Jessica Meets Alan

  Alan felt a tap on his shoulder and was so startled he knocked a glass over on the table he was leaning on to eavesdrop on the others. It was the headwaiter returning with his bag. But the commotion caused the guys to look back at the bar. Alan tried to hide behind the curtain and motioned to the headwaiter not to say anything—they locked gazes for a moment until it appeared that the guys weren’t investigating the eavesdropping.

  Alan felt like the moment had passed and that he was safe. He thought it seemed legitimate enough that the headwaiter had dropped the glass. What he didn’t realize was the mirror behind the bar reflecting him in plain view to Mo, Punch and Art. Alan scrambled out of the restaurant with his suitcase. He checked his watch to see how many hours it would be before he could jump a flight back to L.A., but it was only 1am now and he couldn’t leave for several more hours. He hopped in a cab to his hotel in midtown. Holding his head in his hands, he tried to straighten out what he had witnessed during the whole evening.

  He stepped into his room, dropped his bag on the bed, closed the curtains and opened two tepid mini bottles of vodka, downing them in the hopes of falling asleep, aiming to sort out his thoughts in the morning. He lay back on the bed, he was tired. But too much had gone on this evening. He had a kid in college and twin two-year old grandkids. He wanted them all to have more than he ever did, so he had to keep working with a series of successful representations before he hung it up. He wasn’t prepared to end things on a sour note right now, after Howie’s burnout over the past few months. He could already sense that his Midas touch wasn’t as effective as it once was—waiting longer for tables, didn’t get his season tickets to the Lakers through the studio this year, having to leave messages. He never had to leave a message before—the studio execs always took his calls.

  He had been in Hollywood—on the insider’s inside circuit—and knew what happens to agents, and stars once the gloss starts to fade. He saw the telltale signs of it in his own career—facts that he was denying for months now. This trip to New York was probably the strongest wake-up call he could have had, before the shit really hit the fan.

  Alan faced his choices and realized that perhaps he should be distancing himself from Howard. He retraced the steps over the past two years and from a slightly different perspective, it appeared that Howard’s downfall truly began back then, and that Alan’s actions to keep Howard artificially afloat probably just prolonged the inevitable end of a Hollywood star’s career. Alan was hanging on for dear life.

  On the flight back to L.A. Alan was glad not to run into someone he knew. All too often on the cross-country flights there is someone he gets stuck talking to about the business. Why couldn’t someone talk baseball? Or politics, even? It’s always deals, deals, and gossip. Today was a clear day and no one was around. He was seated next to a young woman with a laptop who was typing furiously and otherwise quietly kept to herself. The last thing Alan needed was a wannabe writer bugging him for representation.

  When the drinks cart sped by, Alan thoughtfully tapped his neighbor on the shoulder since her headphones most likely filtered out the clinging and clattering of the cart.

  “You want, anything, honey?” he asked.

  “Oh, wow, thank you so much for poking me. I’m in my own world over here—isn’t that the stewardess’ job though?” and they both laughed.

  “What are you writing, if I may ask? You are so intense!”

  “It’s a piece about my dad’s friends and a celebrity—I’m just transcribing some interviews now so I’m not writing anything yet. It’s so frustrating. You just can’t find an affordable transcription service out there with quick turnaround so I usually just do it myself.”

  “I didn’t even know that was still a problem! Years ago we had dictation machines, and every office had a pool of secretaries who were experts in dictation. You don’t see that anymore.”

  “Oh my god, I couldn’t imagine. That’s a sight right out of Mad Men.”

  “Don’t get me started on that!”

  She looked at him quizzically. Most people Alan talks to already know who he is; he realized he hadn’t made an introduction yet.

  “I’m sorry, that made no sense. I represent the writers for the show—they’re nearly all women—”

  “Really? How interesting. I
suppose you can’t really get away with making a show like that with male writers. I don’t know much about the entertainment writing world. I’m a journalist—you know how we’re like oil and water!”

  “So what celebrity is your piece about?”

  “Um, I’m trying to keep it under wraps, at least until my contract comes through on it and I get more thoughts down on paper—I’m not trying to be—”

  “No of course—I totally understand. Listen, I’m in the business of telling people that I can’t tell them things, so that’s fine!”

  “So you are a lawyer?”

  “No, not at all. I’m an agent, a manager, for actors and few screenwriters.”

  “Like Ari Gold in Entourage?”

  “Yes, but 25 years older and with much less energy and a smaller office.”

  “What an interesting line of work—”

  I could see her mind connecting dots and I wanted to deflect.

  “So what other pieces have you written?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing you’ve heard of or seen. I contribute to NPR so I go out on reports and do painless exposes like woodcarving communes in Wyoming, girls’ education in Cambodia, the people who fix road sign overhangs on interstates, that kind of thing. I’ve had pieces published recently in the San Jose Mercury News and in the now-defunct New Jersey section of the New York Times. My big claims to fame.”

  “That’s great, very good publications. My wife listens to NPR.” Not really, but I thought that it would be nice to show some level of interest in her work. She was no slouch, obviously.

  A couple of hours later I woke from a short doze and she was asleep. Her hand was still on her keyboard so her screensaver hadn’t come on. I couldn’t help but glimpse at the transcription.

  I couldn’t believe what I saw. I had to get up and walk around, biting my fist, because I could not believe the odds of sitting next to the daughter of Howie’s oldest friend. She was the one writing the article that I overheard the guys talking about. I absolutely couldn’t get over the obscene coincidence.

  I read a little bit of the interview with Mo. I leaned over a bit to scroll down, hoping to god she didn’t wake up. I’m not a small man, so the leaning over part without nudging her was painfully difficult. My curiosity got the best of me and I had to read more. It was fascinating, what they were saying about Howie. My Howie.

  I decided not to push my luck any further and I cut it out. I got up once more and paced up and down the aisle a little. I noticed her stirring and so I rushed back to the seat. I plunked down hoping to rouse her a bit, and I was successful.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, did I wake you? I—”

  “No, not at all, I’m just a little hazy. I’m up.”

  She slugged from a bottle of water in her bag, squirted some Purell in her hands, ran her fingers through her hair and sat up straight and peeked out the window.

  “Still clouds,” she said.

  “Are you headed out to L.A. for business?” I asked, hoping to re-start our conversation about the article.

  “No, it’s a friend’s wedding this weekend and I’m in the bridal party so I had to go out a day before. There have been 700 fittings for this dress and it’s still awful.”

  “You should take some meetings, for your article, while you’re there.”

  “Yeah, I probably won’t have time. That’s not true. I will have time, I just don’t know anyone. I do have a proposal in at Hello magazine and they’ve expressed a lot of interest, and that’s probably my best shot for this piece. I’m supposed to meet with them on Monday first thing.”

  I couldn’t wait to see the information she had. She mentioned earlier that there was nearly 40 hours of interviews. Who the fuck was she interviewing? Did those four old guys have that much on Howie?

  My heart started pounding as she continued her response. I still don’t know where I stand with Howie, but after so many years, I want to protect him. I can’t stop her from writing the article—and I don’t; clearly she’s talented, connected, and has the information already. I want the tapes.

  “A friend suggested querying the editors at People, Us, and a couple others and Hello was the only one to get back to me. No one responded when I sent to GQ and Esquire, which I thought would be shoo-ins. Tough business. So I just have to get some more down on paper, like I was saying earlier, before they contract me for it.”

  “I see. Sounds like the right mix of publications. Do you have an agent?”

  “Me? No. I don’t—uh, never thought about it. I mean, freelance journalism is what it is. No agent would spend a second considering me! I don’t write fiction. I do pieces for PBS affiliates and NPR, and that’s my sweet spot.”

  “I don’t know anything about the piece you’re writing, but if it’s anything better than Access Hollywood, and it’s true—that’s the key, if it’s true and you can back it up—then you might want to option it. An agent could also get you into a publication like Vanity Fair, which holds, you know, a little more cache than Hello.”

  “I don’t know what option means.”

  “Optioning it means that you have an entertainment lawyer, agent, and manager shop it to studios to see if they’re interested in paying you for the story, and they develop it—or not—but you get paid either way, if your lawyer structures the agreement well!”

  “That’s just out of my league. I mean, I haven’t even thought about it—gosh, it’s another world. What do you mean—like develop—a movie?”

  “It could be. You wouldn’t believe where producers get their ideas for commercials, TV sitcoms, series, movies, shorts, comics, web series, there are tons of ways to get content out there. If it’s your idea, though, you have to claim it early on and shop it to the right places so they won’t sit on it just to lock out other competitors from developing it.”

  “Then what happens? I mean, why not take the money and run?”

  “There are syndication rights to be negotiated, spin offs, sequels, or scripts you may want to develop yourself, as a writer, so you want to keep your hand in the game.”

  I stopped for a moment realizing that her head was spinning. She was a smart kid, I could tell, and appeared to be weighing what I was saying literally and seriously. That, to me, meant she had something.

  “Here’s my card. I want you to call me the next couple of days, or whenever you go back home, to discuss what you want to do with this story.”

  I looked at the tapes; they were sitting right there in her unzipped bag. She got up to go to the restroom right before we landed. I could reach down into the laptop bag and grab the tapes. I could have made a terrible decision, but I didn’t. I left them there, like a civilized person.

  “I have stuff all weekend with the wedding and everything but I’ll call you when I have had some time to think about this. I have a verbal with Hello and they seemed really excited about it, but you’re right, I really do think there is a lot to this piece, once I’ve gotten everything down I have from the tapes and my notes.”

  I get a call on Sunday afternoon and I picked right up—I knew it was Jessica. I was relieved; but at the same time I was ambivalent. I didn’t know when to tell her I still represented Howard and I still wasn’t sure about the ethics of representing her or even in referring her to another agent. Nevertheless, I had to find out more about her project. We agreed to meet for coffee.

  “I think it’s worth looking around at other options ,to the extent there is any interest. I’ve killed myself over the past couple of months, and pretty much ditched the wedding in focusing on this piece this past weekend. I’d really like to do something with this.”

  “I’m happy to hear it – I really am. It’s a good choice looking out for yourself like this. Look—I am not promising anything. Let me have a look at the draft, the tapes, everything and I’ll give an assessment of what we can do.”

  All of a sudden she shut down. I admit, I was trying to get a glimpse at the project and had less interest
in helping her career. But it was a compelling story. I had to ease up.

  “Here’s how it works, standard procedure: I can sign a non-disclosure agreement with you and you retain all copyright, of course. You just have to trust me. If you don’t trust me, we just can’t do business together. I’ll look at your project and tell you what I think we can do. I’ll advise you. It’s about you. It’s all about you and your work.”

  I thought that might go over a little better.

  “I know this is your magnum opus, so far in your career. You’re holding it close, I can see that. I respect that. But if you hold things too close, you may lose opportunities.”

  And that was it for my sales pitch. I wouldn’t go any further than that.

  “Thanks, Alan, I appreciate it. I think it’s worth a try, then. Let’s do it. What do you need from me?”

  When do I tell her about my relationship about Howard…dammit.

  “We can walk up to my office, around the corner on Wilshire, or you can come by tomorrow?”

  “I’m headed out tonight on the red-eye. I have the meeting with Hello tomorrow morning. I don’t intend on cancelling that just yet.”

  “Good—don’t cancel. Hello are good people. But don’t sign anything that will bind you. Let’s take a walk.”

  There’s someone at the agency seven days since deals get done at every hour. The moment we exited the elevator, she was starstruck with the photographs along the walls. I gave a little tour and she was impressed. She printed out the draft and notes.

  “Do you have a minute? I mean, can I go through some of this right now? Why don’t I put the new Tom Hanks movie for you? It won’t be in theaters until next March. Come, it’s great. Private theater over here.”

  How could she say no to that?

  Halfway through the piece—which blew me away—I wanted the tapes.

  I walked over to her bag. Should I reach in and just take them? Should I ask her?

  “Jessica, dear, let me have a quick listen to the tapes—few minutes. Then we’ll talk.”

  Chapter 22

  Jessica

  Instead of spending my girls weekend together with friends and celebrating my old roommate’s wedding, I was holed up in the hotel room transcribing and writing and transcribing and writing. I just couldn’t hold out writing the piece until I was done transcribing all the interviews. There was still some missing pieces, but there was enough here to seek the contract I was promised from Hello.