Action!

by Robert Cort

  “Now I’m too old and married—happily married.”

  “I know. Don’t think I haven’t had spies check out your availability. We can never be together, I know that, but . . . God, this is . . . I feel ridiculous . . .”

  He could have resisted tears, but not the empty space. He moved to her side. “It’s okay.”

  “No, losing special people is not okay.”

  He comforted her in his arms. She fit like old times. But this wasn’t comfortable . . . it was strange—and arousing. She looked up, inclining her face until he kissed her lips. It was the same sensation he’d experienced the first time, back in his office. They couldn’t stop touching.

  “Fuck me.” Only a few women had ever said those words to AJ without sounding silly or vulgar or playacting. None spoke them more passionately than Megan.

  He tore at his clothes and hers, fearful that his excitement would overwhelm him.

  Driving home, he tried to make sense of what had happened to him—no, what he’d done. He had betrayed Steph, but not out of frustration, as in the past. Maybe he’d revenged a hurt suffered at Megan’s hands and reaffirmed his potency in the face of old age. His explanations were as dry as they were irrelevant. It had been a one-time-only sale on passion, and he was too avid a shopper to resist.

  “Can you try not to laugh?”

  Posing was tougher than Jessica had imagined. And her boyfriend wasn’t as fast with a brush as he was with a camera. But the idea that he wanted to paint her nude was her fantasy come to life. She spent an hour dressing, then fifteen minutes getting off on getting undressed. The best thing was that modeling for Patrick gave them extra time alone. Two weeks together wasn’t nearly enough, especially since she had returned to work and had only been able to spend nights with him.

  But what fantastic nights! The man had mastered the foot massage, to say nothing of its aftermath. And he cooked. Every night of the week he made an exotic three-course dinner from scratch. After sampling one of his meals, her mother, who was incredibly picky, said Patrick had the makings of a chef. He didn’t smoke, he always called when he said he would, and he enjoyed listening to her complain about work. . . . How in her mad world had she found a brilliant artist who was also a good guy?

  Maybe that was the doubt that rattled in her mind like a loose pebble. Suppose Patrick was an extraterrestrial? Suppose he received a message to phone home? She quivered, this time with anxiety rather than excitement.

  He adjusted her face. “Now you’re frowning. It’s not easy painting a schizophrenic.”

  Great—he knew exactly who she was.

  AJ was hefting his Biggest Bertha on the front lawn before heading to Riviera for his Saturday tee time when he spotted a guy in a uniform wandering the grounds of his Bel Air estate. “Can I help you?”

  “Whoa, dude, this is some spread.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What’s it go for—three point two mil an acre?”

  Only in L.A. could the FedEx messenger nail property values. “Something like that. Have you got a package for me?”

  “A letter—if you’re Albert Julius Jastrow.”

  “I am.” It was odd because the only people who used his given name were shills from Publishers Clearing House—and they used bulk mail.

  As he signed, the messenger tested his club. “How much is this—four hundred?”

  AJ’s dirty look sent him fleeing. As he slit open the cover, the sound of a horn startled him. “I’ll be back by five,” Steph shouted. She was on her way to meet a crew that would tape her preparing pancakes and lingonberry syrup with some Swedish grandmother in Sierra Madre. Taste Buds was more consuming than a fledgling restaurant, but she thrived on the buzz.

  Disbelief hit as soon as he saw the Powerline logo:

  Dear Albert,

  This letter serves as official notification of the intent of Powerline to acquire all the assets and to assume all existing obligations of J2. We are offering to purchase your stock at forty-five dollars per share. We would appreciate it if you would consider our proposal and reply by close of business October 17, 1997. A follow-up document from our investment counselors, Wahlberg & Sparrow, will provide details.

  Sincerely,

  Richard Jastrow

  Was this a practical joke—or a cosmic one? Ricky, who called himself an executive even though he’d inherited his power and every cent from his grandmother, had just announced—in seven fucking lines—that he intended to steal his father’s life’s work. Did the arrogant prick actually think he could succeed? Did he imagine that AJ would take him seriously? Or was this Maggie’s handiwork—a belated parental punishment for not being the dutiful son all these years? He tightened his grip on his driver as he realized he had to respond seriously. Christ, Powerline probably already owned 5 percent of J2. He hurled the Bertha. It flew forty yards before hitting the garage door.

  CHAPTER 50

  AJ took two days to corral J2’s board of directors for an emergency meeting, but only two minutes to inform them of his response. “Unless there are objections, I intend to send Richard Jastrow a letter rejecting his offer. Then the only way Powerline can win will be to wage a proxy fight, and that’s a long row to hoe.”

  Stan Hurley toyed with his Phi Beta Kappa key—the last man under eighty to wear one. “I can understand your anger.”

  “But . . . ?” AJ half-expected a defection from the chief operating officer of Wells Fargo, the bank that had lent him six hundred million dollars. Powerline’s promise to pay off J2’s shaky debts at one hundred cents on the dollar could save Hurley’s butt.

  “But I think we need to study this offer more closely. Martin . . . ?”

  “You make an excellent point, Stan.”

  Bye-bye, Martin Tessinger. The singular passion of the chairman of Union Life Insurance was making money, not movies. After AJ, his company owned the largest stake in J2, and he regarded Powerline’s fifteen-dollar-a-share premium as irresistible.

  “Perhaps we ought to negotiate, see if we can transform it into a merger rather than a takeover.” The speaker was General Mack McCall, deputy secretary of defense under Jimmy Carter and J2’s Washington lobbyist.

  “Your strategy didn’t work for the Iran hostages, did it, General?” Ray Stark asked facetiously.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means you don’t negotiate with the devil,” AJ interjected.

  “Come on, guys, get real.” Leo Dorman had the foresight to imagine the home entertainment center before anyone else, and now his company, First Run, ranked as the nation’s top distributor of videos. “Powerline doesn’t know a damn thing about film. Haven’t we seen too many train wrecks occur when companies barged into our world without the instincts or experience to manage the movie business? We owe our stockholders more than a quick buck.”

  “I agree. Movies are magic time. AJ and his team understand that.”

  “Thank you, Jack.” AJ had met Jack Lemmon making Save the Tiger and they competed together annually at the Pebble Beach Pro-Am. Although he was the least business-savvy board member, Lemmon’s face sold the annual report. By AJ’s count he now had seven votes: Dorman, Lemmon, Ray, Steph, Henry Borkin, Jessica, and himself. Powerline couldn’t touch J2, so he could afford to be magnanimous to his opponents. “I’m going to have Pete Leventhal, Henry, and our attorneys review the follow-up letter and we’ll talk again on Wednesday before I respond formally.”

  After the outside directors departed, Pete clapped AJ on the back. “It’s a good thing Dorman and Lemmon value management.”

  “You’re right.” He smiled for the first time since opening the letter. “Otherwise this battle would be uncomfortably close.” AJ longed to go home, open a bottle of Bordeaux, and watch Dr. No for the fiftieth time, but it wasn’t to be. There was only a half hour to dress for a dinner at Spago for Goldie Hawn and Meg Ryan, whom Jess had coaxed into playing sisters in a mystery comedy called Dead Certain. They might be wonderful
in the movie, but as dinner companions . . . maybe he should sell Ricky the company—the bullshit of running it would be his best revenge. As he grabbed his coat to leave, he noticed his daughter curled into the sofa, staring into space. AJ balanced on the arm. “Difficult to believe, isn’t it?”

  “I’d planned on sending Ricky a Christmas card as an olive branch,” she admitted.

  “Save the stamp. Anyway, I’m betting your grandmother’s behind this.”

  She slumped against him. “Why can’t we just stay distant enemies?”

  “We’re a family, we’re Jewish, we’re in the movie business. No matter how you add those up, they can never equal ‘distant.’ ”

  Jess stifled a burp. The damn smoked-salmon-and-goat-cheese pizza hadn’t agreed with her, but it was her boyfriend’s behavior that was giving her heartburn. While Patrick prattled on about how smart Meg was and how much he’d enjoyed Goldie’s stories, she worried about his nascent crush on Hollywood. Did he intend to find a job as an on-set photographer? Good-bye, art. She dropped her keys on the kitchen counter and rooted through her cabinets. The new housekeeper insisted on hiding things, and Jess had to make coffee to stay up long enough to prepare script notes for tomorrow’s meeting. The backlog at the office was impossible.

  “Need help?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Their idyll had screwed up her schedule. If she’d worked the town instead of posing for a portrait, maybe she could have found the company another movie.

  “I like your family.”

  “Part of my family. The other part are terrorists.”

  “I stand corrected. I like your father and mother. Talking about mothers, mine’s visiting San Francisco Tuesday for an exhibition of her photos. How about flying up with me to meet her?”

  “To see if she approves?” Jess knew she sounded churlish. But his timing was atrocious. No, worse than that: it was unconscious. Couldn’t he sense how pressured she was by the recent crisis? A partner who lived in his own world was no partner at all.

  The proof was how calm he remained. “I thought you might have a good time. She’s nuts but interesting.”

  “I know enough crazy people.” Jess poured beans into the grinder—and all over the counter.

  “Oh, come on. She got really excited when I mentioned the idea.”

  “You shouldn’t have. Now I’ll look like the villain.”

  “I only said you might come.”

  “With what’s going on, you know I don’t have the time now to go gallivanting.”

  “Twenty-four hours in San Francisco is hardly gallivanting.”

  “Oh, really? Have you looked at my schedule for that day? Work is my priority.” She left the “and you’re not” hanging.

  “You can tell me to back off without picking a fight.”

  Just as she’d predicted, she was the villain. “We’re too different. You enjoy the luxury of ‘observing’ the world. But I have to get involved and mix it up.”

  That hurt. “You’re right about one thing. I’m not going to ‘mix it up’ with you.” Patrick shouted over the whir of the Krups. When it shut down, the silence was sad.

  “You know the old saying, ‘If you can’t stand the heat . . .’ ” Her eyes trailed through the French doors to the guest house beyond the pool.

  He walked out.

  The drip of the coffeemaker hypnotized Jess, and it took all her energy to retrieve the script from the towering pile in the bedroom. A deranged teacher kidnapped a group of prep-school kids and held them for ransom in an old missile silo. By page 10 Jess knew who would live and die, who was the traitor and who was the hero.

  Her fight with Patrick had gone from zero to sixty in one second flat. A person who accelerates that fast pulls a lot of g force. And she knew the effects of that. When they’d shot City at Sea, Jess had taken off in a jet from an aircraft carrier. Her eyes and mouth sucked back, her body slammed forward against the harness, her mind blanked. Defying gravity had distorted her beyond recognition.

  She should apologize, but for what—for being honest? It was good that he saw who she really was. If they were meant to be together, he would get through it. If not, maybe she wasn’t meant to be with anybody. At least that would spare future generations another mad family. His car roared to life and drove off the property—not quite doing sixty, but damn fast. That was the answer she’d expected. Jess gulped her coffee but immediately spit it out. She’d forgotten her two Equals, and the Viennese roast was too bitter to swallow straight.

  Maggie couldn’t fathom why her grandson had bought a house in San Marino. Only her boring Republican friends lived this far to the east. And though the property enjoyed a magnificent view of the San Gabriel Mountains, the low-lying haze made them invisible half the year. In an earlier time she would have found a way to dissuade Richard, but now he was too sure of himself for her to interfere. Or maybe she could no longer muster her old certainty about where—or how—someone should live his life. All that mattered was that he and his wife loved the place.

  As she sat by the pool, Maggie watched Amber knitting ski caps for her children in preparation for a Christmas trip to Austria. Even in a bikini, which she wore beautifully despite two cesareans, the woman maintained the protective shell of those who’d grown up in military families, where discipline damped emotion and the dislocation of base moves discouraged intimate relationships. Still, Amber was a loyal partner and a dedicated mother. Nina and Molly swam in the shallow end. They were solemn girls, and Maggie considered it a victory to win one smile per visit. A laugh was a bonus.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to put up the umbrella?” Amber asked.

  “No, dear, I think I look sexier with a suntan.” The two women broke into girlish laughter. Maggie stopped abruptly when an ice pick stabbed her stomach. She forced a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. It’s the price of growing old, but the alternative is worse. You look a bit drawn yourself.”

  Amber nodded. “I’m not sleeping well. This business move Richard is planning . . . do you approve?”

  “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove. He controls our affairs these days.”

  “But he’s become so grim, even with the girls.” Her frustration was palpable. “Who cares about the movie business? I don’t like those people or the films they make.”

  “This isn’t about business, no matter what he says. You can’t imagine how deeply your husband suffered at the hands of his father. I want him to be free of that pain. This fight had to come.”

  Amber shivered. “I don’t like fighting. I don’t even like raising my voice.”

  “Sometimes you have to yell like hell. There are wars worth fighting.”

  “Worth it or not—I don’t want my family to be the casualty.”

  Maggie closed her eyes at the new wave of pain. But this time she retreated to the bathroom. It felt like she was losing her insides. When the stabbing nausea abated, Maggie looked into the toilet bowl and started to cry. Blood was everywhere. She knew that she was dying.

  AJ was mid-bite into a pastrami sandwich when he noticed that Ray hadn’t touched his corned beef. “I brought that from Nate ’n Al’s.”

  “I’m contemplating the fat,” Stark deadpanned.

  “We sound like characters from a Doc Simon play.”

  “I think The Goodbye Girl was the best movie Neil ever wrote.”

  It was a privilege of age to wander wherever the hell you wanted, so AJ gamely followed. “Whatever happened to the kid who played Marsha Mason’s daughter?”

  “Quinn Cummings? She’s washed up—like me.”

  “You’re not washed up. At least you’d better not be—I need you. You’ve always been the best consigliere in the movie business.”

  “Can you believe Begelman?”

  Another left turn. It was two years since the studio chief had checked into the Century Plaza Hotel and blown his brains out with a shotgun, but the event still disturbed Stark. “He couldn’t face h
is gambling debts,” AJ said sadly.

  “I would have lent him the money,” Ray replied.

  “He was beyond asking.”

  “Your mother’s dying.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “I’m serious,” Stark insisted. “We have the same urologist, and he said Maggie won’t make it to Christmas.”

  AJ chewed deliberately on a pickle, then took a sip of soda. All he could taste was . . . annoyance. Through the corporate grapevine AJ had learned that, counter to his presumption, Ricky had instigated the takeover in the face of his grandmother’s reservations. His son would soon possess even more power and money to pursue his plan.

  “Are you okay?” Ray asked tentatively.

  “It’s like hearing that Nixon died.”

  “Jesus, that’s cold.”

  AJ shrugged. “She died for me a long time ago.”

  “We have to talk!”

  Andy Faddiman vibrated like a tuning fork, while AJ tried conceiving a new marketing disaster. “The agency forgot to place our ads? They found Charlie Sheen in bed with—”

  “You won’t guess.”

  “But you’re going to tell me?”

  “This friend of mine, whose name I cannot divulge, asked me to have lunch with an investment counselor named Sparrow.”

  “Roy Sparrow?”

  “You know him?”

  “Of him.” AJ glowered. “Go on.”

  “I thought he was going to talk about rebalancing my portfolio—or what’s left of it, thank you very much—but this birdie had a different agenda. Sparrow explained that he’s working with the future owner of J-Squared—none other than your firstborn—and that Richard feels I’ve done an unbelievable job of getting some real dogs open. They think I should head production rather than the ‘bimbo’ who’s got the job because of nepotism.”

  In that moment AJ knew his fight was far from over. To end it, he would have to drive a stake through his vicious prick of a son.

  “Then Sparrow claimed Richard had empowered him to negotiate a three-year contract for me, as well as cash out my stock options at a premium. The one condition—wait till you hear this—was that I quit today.” Faddiman reached into his pocket . . .