by Robert Cort
“Et tu, Brute?”
“AJ, I’m sorry.”
“Feel like reconsidering my offer?”
Far away didn’t sound far enough.
The first image on screen was pure John Ford: a bald eagle soared above an endless Indiana cornfield bisected by train tracks. But it was an incongruous element that made the frame memorable—people, not crows and hawks, perched upon the trackside telegraph poles. A steam-belching locomotive with red, white, and blue bunting slowed long enough for a tall man in a stovepipe hat standing on the platform of the caboose to wave to his fellow citizens. They could tell their children they’d seen Abraham Lincoln traveling to Washington to swear the oath as the president of the United States. Hollywood’s makeup and effects geniuses had added years and inches to Michael Douglas, but it was his actor’s craft that enabled him to become the man. As he locked eyes with the eagle, the main titles rolled. The scene sent chills through AJ and the audience attending the premiere of Lincoln at the Motion Picture Academy.
Faddiman sidled over. “We’re home free, boss.”
Despite the staggering cost of the film and its release in the midst of the takeover, reviews were rapturous and the tracking positive. AJ kissed Andy on his bald pate. “I’ll always remember how you didn’t quit on me or the film.”
An hour later AJ took an unprecedented step—he sat down next to Steph rather than pacing. “Are you sick?” she asked.
“They say the legs go first. This is my favorite part. I wanted to share it.”
Secretary of the Treasury Salmon Chase came to the president to urge him not to run for reelection in 1864. Brian Dennehy played Chase as a self-important schemer, warning Lincoln that his unpopularity would doom the new Republican Party. “Who might take my place?” Lincoln inquired. Chase threw back his head as if posing for Matthew Brady. “If the bugle calls, I will answer.” “Well, Mr. Chase, I wouldn’t spend too much time listening. When I commenced this job, I tried to please everybody, but it soon became clear that no matter what I did, I couldn’t please anybody. So I’ve decided to please myself. Come next fall, I’ll be running.”
The audience erupted into applause. Lincoln had nailed it, AJ decided. Forget the fatuous advice or distraught pleas of pollsters and pundits, analysts and editorialists, stockholders and speculators. A true leader does what his gut tells him.
When the movie ended AJ felt like Lincoln’s agent. A hundred people rushed over to tell him how much they admired not just the movie but the man. Admiration. In Hollywood it was a word long ago displaced by its perverted half brother and sister, envy and jealousy. That was what made it so ironic when Pete Leventhal indicated he needed to talk.
“I spoke to Gary Hirsch,” Pete said hesitantly. They stood in the now deserted Academy theater. “He said your mother is failing and before she gets any worse, she’d like to see you.”
“Tell her to give me a call—if she remembers the number.”
“Do you think it’s appropriate to be so—”
“Abrupt? Cavalier? Tasteless?”
“Gary and I have been trying to strike a compromise. As your mom’s lawyer he has a lot of sway. To tell you the truth, I think her overture could be the opening we need.”
“Did you say the truth? You want to tell me the truth? Go ahead.”
“What’s eating you?”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, we’ll do it the hard way. Explain your fifteen calls to the offices of Wahlberg and Sparrow.”
Pete chuckled. “Is that it? I tried to get Terry Mangiarcina to support our stock.”
“Really? Did you also try to get Roy Sparrow’s support when you called him four times at home in Scarsdale? How about when you called a beach house in Kona rented by my son?” Pete’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right—Logan Clark got your phone records. The hits keep coming. Would you like to see the FedEx log of packages you sent to Ricky’s home? You slipped him every one of our forecasts—that’s how Mangiarcina knew to downgrade us. And while we’re at it, how about autographing a photo of you having dinner with Russ Matovich? Was that to negotiate your next job? When Powerline magically knew to approach Faddiman, I was sure we had a mole. When I realized it was you . . .”
Leventhal lowered his head—and his cover. “You’re going to lose.”
“Thanks for the inside scoop.” AJ turned to leave.
“Don’t you want to know why I did it?”
“Your wife counts everybody’s money. You’re worried about retirement. I don’t know—maybe you’ve got a mistress to support.”
“It wasn’t the money.”
“Bullshit.”
“It was the respect—the respect you’ve never shown me in fifteen years.”
“Concoct whatever rationale you want, you’re a goddamn weasel.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Pete jumped in AJ’s face. “I respected you from the start, and I didn’t mind being your number two. But I wasn’t even that. I was . . . nothing. Every piece of good advice I offered for twelve fucking years—the Japanese, Kinison, Ricky, the theaters—all went in one ear and out the other. You were the genius. It took me all my life to realize I’m as smart as you are. You never gave me the chance because you’re an arrogant prick.”
Leventhal had been pissed at somebody or something since AJ first met him. “And you believe Ricky and Russ see what I didn’t?”
“Yes. They respect me.”
“You poor bastard—they don’t even respect each other. Get your stuff out of the office tonight. I never want to see your sorry ass again.”
An early winter storm hit Los Angeles the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Pelting rain and fifty degrees—that was what it had been like back in Brooklyn on the first Turkey Day in AJ’s memory. He must have been only four and a half, but proud that he knew how to peel chestnuts and could help make the stuffing. He loved the smell in the kitchen—and seeing his mother in charge. After their move to California, oysters had replaced chestnuts, depriving AJ of his role. Maybe that was an omen, he mused as he arrived at the house that Leon Ginsberg had built for his queen. The paramedics had parked their truck in the circular driveway and were playing hearts on a gurney, waiting for their call to arms. AJ considered asking for a hit of oxygen. In agreeing to the meeting, he’d insisted that no one else be present, so as he approached the bedroom, the nurse took a seat on a chair in the hallway.
He hadn’t seen his mother in person for . . . he couldn’t remember. But the near skeleton propped up on a hospital bed shocked him into the present. He could count the strands of her once luxuriant hair. Her cheeks were hollow and her breath came in uneven gasps that made him fear each was her last. Despite a fan that blew lazily, the air smelled sour.
“That’s me—I’m the thing that stinks.”
She had seen his grimace. “Hi, Mom,” he murmured, dropping his resolve to maintain distance. “You’ve never had much patience for dumb questions, so I’ll skip asking how you’re doing.” He was by her side without the memory of a single step. “I’m not sure what scares me more—how much we have to say to one another . . . or that we have nothing to say.” She laughed—at least he thought she did, although her lungs barely produced a sound.
“I brought such a handsome boy into the world.”
Was that a compliment or self-congratulations? He fought the paranoia that would surely doom the reunion. “We were a great pair,” he said softly. “Remember sitting on the plaid sofa watching those Joan Crawford weepies?”
She drifted back to the afternoons of The Million Dollar Movie. “I liked you as a child.”
“But I grew up.”
She willed herself to the point. “You and Richard . . . it’s gone too far. You’ll have to settle this on your own. I root for him, but . . . the fight’s almost reason to stay alive.”
“The next time we meet, I’ll let you know how it turned out.”
“I have something I need to say.”
The doctors had warned him that she had sores the size of silver dollars in her throat. “You don’t have to speak.”
She spit up specks of blood, which AJ caught in a Kleenex. “I loved your father.”
Of all the admonishments, advice, and adieus AJ had anticipated, this deathbed revelation—was it a confession?—hadn’t made the list. “Mom—”
“Listen to me!” She spoke rapidly, her vocal cords distended. “Before he died . . . we had words . . . ugly words. Maybe he thought I didn’t care. You looked at me that way . . . as if you were the only one who cherished his memory. That hurt me . . .” She reached out to draw him closer. “I loved him . . . I swear I did.”
Fifty years of guilt—unburied, as they were poised to bury her. Was it release or regret that made her cry? AJ took her hand. “Dad knew. He loved you more than anything in the world.” His mom fell asleep before she heard. He couldn’t bear to wake her, so he slipped from the room.
Maggie Jastrow Ginsberg passed away on December 3, 1997. According to the press announcement, her grandson was by her side. In reality, the idiot doctor hadn’t given sufficient warning and she died alone. Having presented a brave face to the world, Richard retired to the solitude of his den, where he remained for the next twelve hours. His grandmother was the best friend he’d ever had. When he was a child, she was the only adult who’d believed he was more than dirt. And through all the years she’d never disappointed him.
In her waning days, as cancer sapped her will, Grandma had developed a wisp of sympathy for AJ, instigated by his manipulative visit. With her gone, Richard could now pursue the J2 takeover unfettered. Time was against him. Only yesterday Roy Sparrow had warned ominously that Powerline’s bid was losing momentum in the face of AJ’s intransigence. Richard needed to deliver a message.
When his parents and sister arrived for the funeral, they found their names excluded from the guest list. In astonishment people watched as one of Hollywood’s most respected leaders complained in vain to an off-duty cop. Once he’d had the pleasure of seeing AJ thoroughly humiliated, Richard signaled Maggie’s lawyer, who conveniently appeared, pleading ignorance at the oversight. He seated AJ in a row behind the minor dignitaries. As the congregation rose to recite the mourners’ Kaddish, Richard glanced back. The old man was too consumed with rage to chant.
CHAPTER 53
“You’ve got mail!”
AJ clicked, dreading his daily barrage of “Drop dead!” “Sell!” and “Don’t be an asshole!” from irate stockholders. But only fifteen messages appeared. Were his opponents losing hope? Just in case, he graciously replied to each with an explanation about why they would fare richer in the long run backing management than siding with Powerline. Next came a “wish you were here” from Roger Donaldson, who was freezing his ass off directing a J2 adventure movie in Alaska, then one from his Atlanta theater manager reporting steady repeat business for Lincoln among African-Americans. But when AJ scrolled down he noticed that his final correspondent’s address was [email protected]. His son’s glee rocketed through cyberspace:
Dear Albert,
Sorry we didn’t have a chance to speak at Grandma’s funeral. I know you think the Internet is overrated, but what a fantastic way for old buddies to communicate.
As you are aware I intend to enter the movie business, and it’s never too early to procure commercial material. Attached you’ll find an article I commissioned. It’s got a great hook. The writer received five million dollars.
I’m planning on selling it to a magazine before making it into a film. Given the notoriety of the principals and the current popularity of soul-bearing confessionals, I expect at least three publications to bid. My first move, however, will be e-mailing it to your wife and daughter for their comments. Of course, if a smart producer saw its potential and wished to preempt by purchasing the rights, I’d consider a deal.
As always,
Richard
P.S. I’ll agree to call you AJ if you’ll drop the Ricky.
Macabre curiosity enabled AJ to unfreeze his fingers long enough to download the file. The title read “Designing Dad,” the byline Megan O’Connor:
I am a woman whose chance of getting married, according to statisticians, is fractionally greater than dying in a plane crash. That doesn’t faze me—I enjoy my single life. But I wanted to give birth to a child, and after thirty-six the chances of a natural pregnancy fall off the shelf, so time crowded me. I also wanted to choose my child’s father, but I exhausted the files of every sperm bank I visited. Then I realized who the dad had to be. I’ve succeeded in my quest, but whether I have sinned or not you shall judge. . . .
What followed was a fantastic reinvention of his illicit night with Megan. In her version she asked him to be the father—with no strings attached—because she loved him and wanted her child to bear his spirit and genes. He agreed, willingly, enthusiastically. They required only one night together, she speculated, because of the depth of their connection.
AJ sat in awe. It was so monstrous a lie and Megan so compelling a liar that the article was sure to fascinate the prurient public. No doubt, it would sell. He longed to shout “Rape!” but why go hoarse? Despite his former fiancée’s crime, his consent was her defense. And Ricky had phrased his e-mail carefully. It would be difficult to prove extortion, and in any event, Steph would immediately learn the truth—and revile his horny self-delusion. It wasn’t the prospective disruption of his life or the community property or the public scandal that made that option loathsome. He simply loved his wife too much to contemplate losing her. The computer presented the new version of a rock and a hard place: “Reply” or “Delete”?
It was here somewhere, it had to be—buried in a walk-in closet under his bronzed golf clubs, his All-Around Camper trophy, a canoe paddle signed by his bunkmates, leather-bound copies of scripts from his fifty-plus movies, Todd’s suit of armor, menus from Steph’s restaurants, and her awards. Why the hell had he kept his ninth-grade book report on The Naked and the Dead? He knocked over a Bekins carton containing his Lionel model trains and one of Jessica’s Ken dolls whose head had been ripped off. God only knew what affront had earned it that fate.
After fighting through the fallout from his son’s coup de grâce, AJ had concluded that his first scenario—Ricky tracking Megan down and bribing her—was preposterous. A woman as independent as his ex wouldn’t agree to get pregnant, even for five million dollars, unless she wanted to. The only explanation was that Ricky must have known before he approached Megan that she was preparing to become a single parent. Theoretically that was possible if the two had an ongoing relationship, but they’d barely known each other in the old days . . .
A good producer assumes nothing.
At the company kitchen a week ago he’d overheard two of Jessica’s creative executives gossiping about the consolation prize if Powerline took control of J2: the prospective owner was a lot hotter than his father. Maybe they weren’t the only ones who saw it that way. He was either terminally paranoid or totally screwed. Then he found it, covered in dust, the jacket mislabeled “Palm Beach Vacation.” AJ retreated to his den, locked the door—though no one was home—and inserted the tape in the VCR.
He looked as if he’d aged twenty years—not twelve—since his fiftieth birthday. Shots of him shaking hands with Stan, kissing Julia, posing with his mom seemed like images from the silent movies. He fast-forwarded through the nostalgia, pausing every time the ubiquitous camera panned to his family. The scene was the same: Megan in kinetic conversation with Ricky. His son’s date was stoned and he was off socializing with guests at each table. By AJ’s thank-you speech, Megan was seated so close to Ricky that an observer would have identified them as a couple.
How far and fast had that relationship progressed? Where had she gone when she’d run from his house? Without her clothes or her purse, she couldn’t have rented a hotel room. He remembered his frantic
calls to friends, but no one knew her whereabouts. Now he flashed on an insane, grotesque possibility that . . . made complete sense.
The Powerline corporate jet banked sharply over a cornfield dusted with fresh snow. Alone in the passenger cabin Richard felt the plane level out for its final approach past the familiar brick control tower of the East Stroudsburg airport. His damp palms stuck to the cold metal of the seat belt. He had a case of the jitters worthy of a schoolboy. Own your fear, he told himself, embrace it.
The love of his life waited at the bottom of the ramp. Megan’s cheeks were apple red, and the swell in her belly promised a limitless future. They kissed, oblivious to the wash of the propeller of a Piper Cub taxiing to take off. Megan obliterated the speed limit, covering the fifty mountain miles to her home in under half an hour. Then it was into bed, off with their clothes, under the duvet, and out of their minds.
They had blazed hot from that night eleven years ago when she’d appeared on his porch after finally ripping free from the old man. For the first week they’d never left the house, the lovemaking beyond any pleasure he’d known or imagined. Then, even as they held each other, Megan vanished. He guessed she sought escape in her psyche from the damage she’d suffered in her relationship with AJ.
Years passed with only letters. How could he say “only”? They were literature—acute descriptions of her inner life, vivid tales of the magnificent experience of writing her novels and the mundane joys of planting tulips. Meanwhile, Ricky married to escape the tedium of women throwing themselves at his exotic combination of brooding ex–movie star and go-go tycoon. His relationship with Amber existed on a separate plane from his longing for Megan, and it had survived intact until last year. Then, in a note he still carried hidden in his wallet, Megan had invited him back into her life.
“Do you see his hands?”
Richard studied the sonogram. “He looks so . . . peaceful.”