Action!

by Robert Cort

He handed her a pizza and a bottle of Barolo. “I happened to be in the neighborhood and wondered if I might tempt you with sausage and anchovies.”

  “Consider me tempted.” While setting the table, Jess rattled on about the lousy quality of scripts. “If I read as many books or magazines, I’d be the most informed woman in the world. But reading screenplays lowers my I.Q.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Why?”

  AJ popped the cork on the wine. “Paramount will provide someone to read them for you.”

  Jess burst into tears. “Oh God! You heard about the offer.”

  “Honey, I was being a wise guy, it’s okay, really—”

  “I should have said something, but I felt so guilty!”

  “It’s okay,” he reassured her, gently prying her hands from her face. “I’m proud that the town’s learned what I’ve known for a long time.” She wanted so much to believe his words. “Jessica, you didn’t say anything because you’re afraid of being disloyal. But you’re not. Of course I wanted us to work together forever, but the most important thing is doing what makes you happy.”

  “Dad . . . I’m so confused.”

  “If you want, I’ll help you screw Paramount on the deal.”

  She laughed at his black humor. “You think I can make it out there?”

  “I think you’ll be one of the great producers in the history of Hollywood.” It was true, he knew it was. To have to watch her triumph from afar . . . to see her sail till she was out of sight . . .

  “If I leave, you’re absolutely sure you’ll be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Hold it together, AJ. “It’s not like you’re moving to Europe or joining the Army.”

  “I’ll learn to play golf so we can spend Sundays together.”

  They hugged. He wanted to hold her—for the moment and all time. Instead, he broke apart from her. “Can we eat before the pizza gets cold?”

  Maggie decoded her son’s cadence. Short and sharp sentences meant massive anxiety. Like that time . . . it was over forty years ago . . . Harry was away in the war and they were listening to Amos Ùn’ Andy on the radio. Out of the blue AJ asked how much a vase cost. That same faux-casual voice, a few octaves higher, as if the price of crystal was a normal curiosity for an eight-year-old. His eyes widened at her estimate, and she saw him calculate how many weeks of allowance it would take to replace the Lalique he’d broken throwing his Spaulding high bouncer against the wall. He admitted his mischief and all was forgiven. Another time, another place.

  Not a word had passed between them since Leon’s funeral. The pouches under his eyes, the creases by his mouth—as vain as he was, Maggie guessed plastic surgery was in her son’s immediate future. He was aging faster than she was—like his heart, his skin had less resilience. AJ made no move to hug or kiss her, and she felt no urge to embrace him. No love lost here—amend that, all love lost.

  “Mother, I find myself in a situation I tried desperately to avoid.”

  “A situation in which you need my help.”

  “Exactly.” He hesitated. “The last time we spoke was terrible. I’ve thought of it often . . . I still do . . . the craziness. . . . Our clashes always got out of hand.”

  “That’s why I don’t intend to participate in another.”

  “Mom, in the past whenever we disagreed, I felt frustrated if I did what you wanted, but if I did what I wanted, you cut me off. I always wished that you’d support me . . . that you would love me . . . regardless.”

  “What else did you wish for?” The question escaped from the dungeon where she had locked it after Harry’s death. In those dark days she’d known what her son wished. He didn’t need to say it—she read it in his eyes each time he ran to his room or passed her in the hallway. AJ wished that she had been the one to die.

  “What do you mean?”

  His concern was so smooth, so empathetic—so utterly false. “Nothing. ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’ ”

  “Let me explain—”

  “Your Japanese partner refused your request. You need a million dollars or you’ll lose your company.”

  “How did—”

  “It’s a small town and I’m one of the biggest people in it. I’m not sure what I would have done if you’d apologized for your sinful behavior to Ricky. But you did not.”

  “You don’t know what went on with him. You don’t know—”

  “About Thailand? He told me. Your son was a horny teenager. He wasn’t responsible for your stroke. It happened—like your father’s death happened—like all the good things in your life happened. But you have to blame someone, so when they repossess the furniture from your office, blame me.”

  His mother’s hatred left AJ numb. In another age, he had no doubt, she would have exiled him to a distant isle or placed him in a tower or, on an especially bad day, ordered him beheaded. But the reality of his dilemma made self-pity unaffordable. He flew to San Francisco to tell ILM to cut short its work because J2 couldn’t make its second payment, but after seeing their progress, he kept his mouth shut. The Coney Island Maniac played like a real movie. Why not one last college try at raising money?

  His mood was upbeat when he returned home, anticipating his reunion with Megan, who had just arrived after spending three weeks on the set of 8 Million Ways to Die. At first she’d found the experience heady and cool. Not only was she rewriting Oliver Stone but she was also collaborating with Hal Ashby, who’d directed Shampoo and Coming Home. Every morning a production assistant waited in the hall outside her hotel room to rush the pages she wrote to the set. Megan felt like a brain surgeon performing a lifesaving operation. But at dailies it was clear that the patient was dying.

  “Honey, I’m home!” Before taking off his coat, AJ turned on the oven to reheat the crab rolls he’d brought back from Fisherman’s Wharf. She entered looking as sexy as ever in her jeans, a wineglass in her hand. “Oh, did I miss you.”

  All she offered was a cool kiss and a stiff hug. “We have to talk.”

  That was never the best first line of a conversation. “Now?”

  “I slept with Hal Ashby.”

  It was a swift kick in the balls. “You did what?”

  “I made love to Hal . . . for a couple of weeks.”

  This was no overwrought apology but a bold declaration. “Can I ask why?”

  “Because he’s a great artist.”

  “He’s a druggie and a burnout.”

  “Okay. Because I wanted to!” Megan paced. “Because it made me feel sexy . . . and special. I don’t always know why I sleep with a guy.”

  “In our case I thought it was because we loved each other.”

  “AJ, don’t tell me you loved everyone you slept with. I’ll bet you see women every day you want to take to bed.”

  “But I don’t.” A cold fog crept over him—perhaps Ashby wasn’t her only fling. “How many . . . who . . . ?”

  Megan hurled her wineglass at the refrigerator. “Stick your third degree up your ass!” The dripping Merlot on the kitchen tiles suggested a murder scene.

  “Why are you yelling at me? And why are you admitting all of this?”

  “I couldn’t get into bed with you under false pretenses.”

  “You can screw around behind my back, but you won’t lie to my face?”

  Tears welled up. Maybe she had remorse. But as he moved toward her, Megan violently shoved him away and ran from the room. AJ was incredulous. The slam of the front door brought him to his senses, but by the time he gave chase Megan’s taillights were a red glow down the street. Her purse remained on the counter, so he figured that she would soon return—but then what? He found the answer in their bedroom. Propped on a pillow was her engagement ring.

  On May first, AJ sat in the corner of Alice’s Restaurant in Malibu, sipping Perrier. He needed his wits about him. A Maserati squealed to a halt in the parking lot and his lunch date hopped out like a Formula One driver.

  Koji orde
red a double Dewar’s. “Why the hell did we have to come out here? I got better things to do with my time than drive halfway back to Japan. And what’s so important that—”

  “I can’t let you guys off the hook. I need your million dollars.”

  He snorted. “Hey, man, read clause 5-12. You lost the money, and that means we don’t have to do shit. When J-Squared got started, you promised to teach me the business, but the minute you got my father’s money, you didn’t give me the time of day. I told you Maniac sucked, but I was an idiot. So you went around me. Now there’s only one place for you to go—go fuck yourself!”

  AJ pushed a plain manila envelope across the table. The young man apprehensively slit it open. Inside were a set of glossies of him passed out in the bathtub in Sam Kinison’s apartment. The heroin and needle were clearly visible. Included was a Xerox of the police report with a statement by a fourteen-year-old girl that Koji had forced her to perform fellatio. “This entire file will go to Tokyo Shimbun—along with an interview from me—if I don’t get your check for ILM. Call your dad, tell him I showed you footage and you now believe the film will be a hit.”

  Koji closed his eyes and imagined his name smeared across the headlines for millions of Shimbun readers in his hometown. “This is blackmail.”

  “I don’t see it that way. You and your father acted within the strict letter of our agreement, but you forgot its spirit. Consider this a reminder. And if you’re thinking of going to the cops, remember that in Hollywood I have cinematic immunity. It comes with twenty years of hefty contributions to the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association.”

  Despite the cool breeze off the ocean, Koji broke into a sweat. “You like to think of yourself as a good guy, AJ, but you’re a total scumbag.” Clutching the contents of the envelope to his chest, he exited the restaurant.

  AJ listened impassively to the stripping of gears, then paid the check. He had no memory of the drive back to the office, but upon his return, his assistant announced, “I have Seiji Keiku calling from Guam.”

  “Give me a second.” AJ was preternaturally calm. The distance in Seiji’s voice surpassed the ten thousand miles separating the two men. “Jastrow-san, I have just wired you one million dollars to finish the movie.” AJ nodded in quiet relief. “My attorneys have also sent formal notification of our intention to terminate our partnership. We no longer wish to be in business with you.”

  It was a fair trade—the last word for the chance to save his dream. “I will accommodate your desire.” He buzzed his daughter to announce the good news but was told she had left the office. No one knew where.

  Jessica had known Mike Ovitz for half her life. She had even baby-sat his kids. Familiarity helped her stay calm in a storm that would have swamped a normal young woman in the movie business. The CAA chief faced her on the sofa, while her boyfriend slumped in a chair by his boss’s side. The surroundings were comfy, but Mike wasn’t as he criticized her delay in accepting Paramount’s offer. His pitch was about power. All the creative talent in the world was useless if it lacked muscle behind it. In Hollywood, muscle was money. The studios had the resources to make things happen, while independents like J2 did not. “I admire your dad for what he tried to do, but it’s too difficult.”

  “We have a lot of great projects in development.” She sounded like the company cheerleader.

  Mike smiled tightly. “But if The Coney Island Monster—”

  “Maniac.”

  “If J-Squared folds, you wasted the past two years. Paramount will never fold.”

  Jessie shot an accusatory look at Sean, who was the only person with whom she’d discussed the movie’s shortcomings. He’d broken her confidence, and since CAA was the town crier, the world would soon know the news. Jess tried mightily to convince Mike that the movie would be wonderful.

  “We certainly hope it will be, because it’s good for us to have more buyers in the market—especially ones as important to us as AJ. And I understand your concern that Matt Margolin has an abrasive personality. But we’re going to make him a star. Opportunities like this one only come once. It’s hard for me to say, Jessica, but those of us who love you feel that you will be much better off where the action is.”

  Jessie watched his eyes trail over to the phone on the end table, as if willing her to dial Margolin. But something about Mike’s hard sell didn’t. “Those of us who love you”—that was the tip-off. Nobody in this room loved her. With mounting anxiety she discerned someone else’s fine hand at work behind the scenes.

  “Mike, I understand, but I worry about the effect that my leaving might have on Dad—you know, with his history of the stroke.”

  “I understand. But rest assured that your grandmother believes this is the right move for you.”

  Jess had to get out, so she promised Mike a positive answer to forestall more badgering. She hyperventilated in the elevator, frightening the other passengers, until Sean Connery offered to call a doctor. As she unlocked her Honda, her Sean appeared. “Get away from me!”

  “What’s wrong?” He knew.

  “Do you take me for a fool? What am I saying—I am a fool. This was Maggie’s idea, wasn’t it?” Sean remained silent. “Tell me the truth or so help me God I’ll never talk to you again.”

  “She called Mike—”

  “Of course. Grandma hates Dad for what happened with Ricky. What better way to punish him than getting me to leave the fold? Ovitz gave you the job of getting me to quit, didn’t he?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry about what? Having to sleep with me? That must have really made you sorry.”

  “Okay, I had ulterior motives when I started seeing you. I didn’t want to do it but—”

  “But you do whatever the Great God Ovitz says. It’s funny, actually. You’re like that guy in The Godfather, the one who tries to kill Michael, then tells him it wasn’t personal, only business. Except you . . . you made love to me.”

  “I was a jerk. But my feelings are real. Otherwise, do you think I would have fucked you for the last six months? And Margolin really wants to hire you. He thinks you’ll be great for Paramount.”

  Jess dodged his embrace, then struck him with an uppercut that left a welt below his eye and fulfilled the prophecy of her warrior soul. Or maybe not—since she cried all the way home. What she’d unearthed was too embarrassing and too revolting to repeat. And if Dad ever learned about it . . . she couldn’t allow that to happen. Jess would stay at J2. He would never suspect a thing.

  CHAPTER 45

  J2 spent the summer of 1986 on life support. Under the divorce arrangements the Keikus agreed to meet payroll until the end of the year but refused to fund new script development or production, leaving most of the company’s seventy employees with idle time and sinking spirits. Both trade papers reported that J2 teetered on the edge of bankruptcy. Agents ceased calling, while creditors fought to get their bills paid promptly.

  Under the circumstances, her father’s unflagging “Have a great day” attitude alarmed Jess. He was too young for dementia and too . . . AJ to believe.

  “What do I do?” Shelly asked her, following a staff meeting in which AJ had told Shelly to start preproduction on The Sky’s the Limit, an epic air-race movie set in the 1920s. “We don’t even have the money to do a budget, much less make it.”

  “Go through the paces,” Jess replied. “AJ’s so busy finishing Maniac he’ll forget he asked.”

  “Has he found us another investor?”

  “Not that I know of. But he’s got me brainstorming ideas for new movies.” Jess pressed Shelly’s hand. “They say that just before people die of asphyxiation they get giddy.”

  “That’s sick.”

  It was. She checked her bulging Filofax and penciled in a visit with her father over the weekend to make sure he was okay. But despite the deathwatch at J2, Jess suffered no pangs over Paramount. That was a bullet dodged. “Bullet Dodged.” Kind of an intriguing title for a film, she thought. Maybe a
thriller about a woman who knows she’s about to be murdered . . .

  Playing the delightful Dr. Jekyll at the office took its toll on AJ, but he refused to let the troops down until the bank closed the doors and threw them onto the street. So it was with perverse relief at night that he reverted to Mr. Hyde. He spent his hours at home boozing and blaming the people who’d betrayed him: the Japanese, his hack directors, Megan, his mother, Ricky, Ovitz, and those faux Hollywood friends who covertly rejoiced in his imminent failure. He wished for them to live long enough to see their dreams disappear. Regret and anger exploded into a rash that first appeared on his elbows, then spread over his arms. He entertained no illusion of martyrdom, however, feeling instead like the guy who had won the lottery, only to misplace his ticket.

  Today was his last chance. The frame-by-frame reconstruction of The Coney Island Maniac had required a month longer than Tony Adamo had predicted, so this was the first screening of the finished film. If it worked, maybe he could convince someone to back his play for one more year, a few more movies. AJ slipped on jeans, his old Weejuns, and an oxford shirt and drove to the screening room at Todd-AO. Hopefully, his old boss’s spirit still lived there. The only other attendee was Gordo Slaughter. AJ wished him luck, then sat back for the next ninety-three minutes—no longer in command of his own creation.

  In the yarn he’d recounted over the years, the Maniac’s mayhem was spooky but fanciful. Unfortunately, the original effects in the movie had completely defanged the character. When viewed in a darkened theater on a giant screen, however, the new visual effects had the opposite impact. When the Maniac murdered a girl and ripped out the eyes of her boyfriend, both director and producer winced. With ILM’s enhancements—smashed eyeballs, empty sockets, and severed optic nerves—the act seemed savage. And it was only the first atrocity.

  When the lights came up both men remained silent; Slaughter was too terrified to voice an opinion and AJ couldn’t make up his mind. As a responsible adult he felt guilty at delivering a movie too disgusting for the young people who were its target audience. If Ricky and Jess were still kids, he would have banned them from seeing it. As for reviews, The Coney Island Maniac would provoke anti-Hollywood sentiment among critics, parents, and educators wherever it played. So why did his groin twitch with excitement, not dread? It was because Maniac had the same shock value and gore that had made A Nightmare on Elm Street forbidden fruit for teenagers.