"I love you," he said again. His voice was low and, oddly, he felt like crying and rejoicing at the same time. "More than I ever thought I could love anyone, or need anyone. You taught me that. I love you, Allison, and I promise to take care of you. I'll always be with you, I'll never leave you, I promise you'll never have anything to be afraid of, ever."
He kissed her and held her hands while the pains surged
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through her, and he stayed there as the nurse returned and left] and returned again, and was replaced by a different nurse when the shifts changed. At eleven that night, Allison's contractions were so close she barely had time to catch her breath between them, and it seemed to the two of them that the whole world had narrowed to that white room and Allison's determination to breathe properly while everything inside her felt as if it was twisting and pulling apart. Ben talked and talked, trying to distract her. And then her doctor arrived, beaming at her because she was doing fine and the baby's heart was strong and it wouldn't be long now.
And less than an hour later, just after midnight, while Ben sat beside Allison in the delivery room, still holding her hand and telling her he loved her, his son, Judd Gardner, was bom.
Chapter 21
THE second theft was in Paris, where Britt Farley, returning from a concert tour in America, unlocked the door of his apartment and found an empty mantel over the fireplace where his three rare Remington sculptures had stood. Nothing else was touched; there were no signs of forced entry, nor were there any clues. Clay's copies of Farley's keys had worked smoothly, and he had had all the time he needed, since he had learned from Farley's pocket calendar how long he would be in America and when he would return to Paris. He left the apartment exactly as he had found it, except for the three very fine Remingtons; delivered the sculptures to his broker, who commissioned all his jobs for private collectors who could not acquire certain works of art any other way; and was on the Concorde and back in New York before the weekend was over. And there was no information Farley could give the Paris police and his insurance company. The case was filed away before an investigation even had begun.
Farley had been living in Paris for almost a year, trying to kick his alcohol and cocaine habits while his manager looked for a new television series for him. For twenty-five years Britt Farley had been a singer and actor who made audiences love him. He was the country boy in the city, the innocent young man looking wide-eyed at the big wonderful world; he was naive and not too smart, but a ruggedly handsome hero with a
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lopsided smile that made parents think of their children when they were young and lovable, and women remember what they had once dreamed their husbands would be like. But then his skid began, and soon a reputation for alcohol, drugs, and women hung over him like a miasma. 'They won't promise us anything," his manager told him on one of his visits to Lx)s Angeles. "Not a television series, not even a concert appearance, until you've proved you can stay clean for a while—say a year. Unless . . ." He cocked his head. "I did have an idea. How about this? The new Britt Farley does a concert tour to raise money for the poor and hungry of the world."
"It's been done," said Farley.
"So is the whole world fed and happy?" His manager's name was Louie, and he prided himself on knowing how to handle temperamental geniuses. "There's enough starvation around to keep a thousand singers in business for a thousand years. And where else do you think you'll get publicity like that? Prove you're back: the one and only Britt Farley— singer, actor, humanitarian. You got something better?"
Farley shrugged. And so the tour was organized, with a major band and three lesser-known groups as backup. It became the sensation of the year. FARLEY HGHTS FAMINE! read headlines around the country; television specials bloomed on refugee camps and slums where gaunt children stared into cameras; sponsors lined up to help pay for the tour; world distribution rights were negotiated for recordings of the torn-theme song and videotapes of the final concert, to be held on the mall in Washington, D.C.
Ticket sales set records. BRTTT'S BACK! shouted Newsweek, People and Time, but all of them also wondered how much money would actually get to the needy. "All of it," Farley declared on a radio call-in show. "Well, not all of it, a'course, there's expenses and such, but everything else goes to all those folks who need it. We're saving lives, not getting rich, you can count on that. But a'course we're getting"—he found his place in his script—^"genuine satisfaction from it. Believe you me, we're loving every minute of it!"
FARLEY FEVER! boomed the headline in the New York Daily News, and soon everyone believed Farley had done it: a short time ago it had seemed he was through—addicted, dis-
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credited, out of work, and broke—but now he was adored again and back in the spotlight. It was the enduring magnetism of those twenty-five years in front of audiences; ail it took was a reason to love him again.
Over two million dollars was raised from the first four concerts, through ticket sales and donations. Then the group took two weeks off before begiiming the next set of concerts. Farley went back to Paris—and found his apartment burglarized and his Remington sculptures stolen.
A few days later, a gossip columnist in Lx)s Angeles reported that Britt Farley was back on the party scene after months of being a model citizen, and had been in a scuffle in a Parisian nightclub. His agent had been discussing a new network series; its future now was uncertain.
"He fucked it," said Larry Gould, handing the newspaper to Paul. "He'll be lucky if the sponsors stay with the tour. Best thing in years he had going for him if he could have stayed clean; it's hard to believe anybody'11 do a fucking thing for him now."
Paul skimmed the column. "I'd like to do a film on him," he said thoughtfully. "The rise and fall of an American hero. If he'd cooperate."
Larry narrowed his eyes, thinking about it. "It's an idea." They looked at each other across Paul's cluttered desk, and slowly the idea took hold. "It's got everything," Paul said, excitement growing within him. "Everyone's fantasies of making it big and everyone's fear of failing."
"And a real star," Larry said, his voice rising with his own excitement. "People know him; they can identify with him." Then he put back his head and looked at the ceiling. "Unless it's too much of a downer, you might have audiences staying away m droves."
Paul shook his head. "Not if we do it right. It's one of the oldest ideas in the world, and it never stops fascinating people."
"What: failure?"
"Not just failure. Spectacular failure. The fallen idol. The king who's brought down. The biUionaire who loses it all. Do people stop reading the story of Agamemnon because it's a downer? Or Oedipus? Or Lear? All the way to guys like Stan Kenton and John Belushi, it's—^"
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"You convinced me. You're right. I never thought of Britt in tenns of kingly fate, but there is something there—a kind of tragedy—to climb so high, and then fall . . ." He reached for the newspaper and reread the gossip item. "What if I was wrong, though, and he doesn't fuck up? What if somebody gets to him and he makes a quick recovery?"
Paul grinned. "We do a film on the fall and rise of an American hero, and we have a very upbeat ending."
They laughed. "Either way," Larry said. "By God, I like this! It's not just one hero; it's every hero— "
"And it's all of us: the audiences who prop celebrities on a throne and then turn away and let them topple when they turn out to be human after all."
"Jt gets better and better." Larry sat back with his feet on the desk. "So you'd film the tour, follow him around, film him in his hotel rooms, dressing rooms, restaurants, waiting for him to fall apart—^"
"I wouldn't make it a hatchet job," Paul said absently. His thoughts were racing ahead, the film taking shape as they talked: he could see the scenes weaving together, the different voices, the images, the concert tour building to a climax. "If," he said, slowing down. "If he cooperates."
"Why wouldn't he? What else does he have going? Anyway, he's a little dim upstairs; he'll probably jump at the publicity. Do you know "him? I've met him, but I doubt he'll remember; I'll call his manager tomorrow. You might want to fly to Paris this week to talk to him. Would Emily mind?"
'They're shooting the next Fashions of the Times," Paul said absently. "She'll barely know I'm gone."
"Well, then, how about an outline? I can give you a little more of my exceedingly valuable time, though not much. Christ, I wish I was going to do this instead of the dramatic thirty-second story of how a marriage is saved by the right detergent. I get ecstatic moments of squeaky-clean collars, while you get the great myth of the American hero. Shit, you have all the fun. Okay, I have an hour. What do you know about Farley besides drinking, drugs, and baricing at the moon?"
"I didn't know he barked."
"He's done it for a couple of years, at odd times. I hear he
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does a respectable Irish setter. Or maybe it's a dalmatian. Somebody told somebody he made a scene in a hotel—^New York, Chicago, something like that—it was more than a year ago and it never really got talked about. I don't suppose he'd let you film that, though."
"Not a hatchet job," Paul reminded him. "I'd rather have the audience feel sorry for the guy. He got caught in something and doesn't know how to get out."
"Even if he knew how, one slip and he's back again. He'll never really Uve down his reputation."
"He mi^t, if enough people helped him."
"Probably not even then. Most people carry their past around like a load of luggage, and it just gets heavier the older they get." Paul was silent. "Well, where would you start? Paris, probably. Lonely guy in the city of lights. You suppose he has a girl with him?"
"No idea."
"Let's hope he doesn't. Lonely is better. And then this tour: trying to pull himself up, desperate for attention and love, power over the audience ..."
"Clips of his audiences," Paul said. "I've seen them: masses of adoring faces. Then back to him, in a taxi, going to his hotel room, all alone ... Or maybe he's never alone. Aren't there always girls?"
"Maybe he's different in Europe. If he's got a girl we could bribe her to go home and leave him by his lonesome. Why is it I like scripts better than real life?"
"You control the ending."
"And the beginning. And everything in between."
They chuckled together, then Paul said, "I'd like to call Farley's manager now; I can put together a rough outline today and talk to him about it tomorrow."
Larry grinned. "I like that enthusiasm. Go ahead. And I have another idea. There's a guy in public television who reads Greek tragedy in his spare time. Get me a copy of your outline, and I'll pitch it to him; if they help fund it, you'll have a hell of a budget." He stood. "I'll be in my office if you need me."
Farley's manager, Louie Glass, was hesitant. "I'm off for Paris tomorrow on the Concorde," he said. "You wanta come? No promises, but we can talk on the plane."
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He'll do it, Paul thought. In spite of himself, Louie had sounded eager. The news about his client was bad, and he needed something.
He sat back, going over in his mind the scenes he had imagined while talking to Larry. They were as vivid as if he had really seen them. Everything about film was vivid; that was the amazing thing to Paul. After a lifetime of using a still camera, he had discovered the exhilarating freedom of movement and sound and the ability to show simultaneous events. No matter how much emotion he had packed into the best of the photos he had made before becoming a society photographer, it couldn't compare with the drama of film. It was as if he had left a large house, and now had the vastness of the whole world in which to create.
The first film from Gould-Janssen Productions had been finished a year and a half after the company was formed. It sank with barely a ripple. A few theaters carried it, a few reviewers mentioned it, a few people saw it but left the theater talking not about its brilliance, or even its faults, but where they would go for a drink or whether it would be her bed or his afterwards.
A month later, Paul and Larry watched it again in the screening room in Larry's house. "The audience was right," Larry muttered. "I'd ratfier talk about whose bed I'm going to fiick in, too."
Paul did not smile. He was not used to failure and was angry with himself. "Why the hell did we release it?"
"Hypnotized by our own brilliance," Larry snorted. "It used to happen to me all the time when I was a smart-ass genius starting out in commercials. Shit, it still happens now and then. I'm surprised it did with two of us, though; you'd think one of us would have noticed we were coming up with a bomb." The film ended and the lights came on. They brooded in silence. "Look at it this way: it wasn't a total waste. You did your apprenticeship, learned a lot . . . what the hell, you learned to work. For a guy who never held a job in his Ufe, you did okay. I have no problem letting you do the next film while I go back to the shit that pays our bills. 'Course I'd hang out with you as much as I could. Beer?" He held out a bottle and an opener.
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'Thanks." Paul stretched out his legs. *'One thing Tve learned. I need to narrow things down a little. There's something to be said for still photography, after all.'*
"Meaning?"
"Meaning when I make a photograph of something, what Tm really doing is pulling it closer so I can see what makes it unique, and find a way to show that uniqueness to others. I want to do the same thing with film: pull something closer and show why it's unique. There's too much going on all around us; how can anybody make a film from chaos?"
*That's the world, my friend. Most of us learn to cope with it."
Paul smiled. "So do I. Most of the time."
"So what do you want to do?"
"Make profiles. Build each fihn around one person, and use his or her story to tell the story of a city or a profession or whatever we want, even an entire countiy. It would give me something to focus on. And it would give the audience a person to identify with—or hate."
Larry looked thoughtful. "Let's kick it around awhile."
He had liked it more the more they talked about it. They were talking about it the day they read ttte gossip item about Britt Farley, and it fueled their excitement: Farley's story could tell the larger story of celebrities in show business, and the still larger one of heroes who rise and fall and, perhaps, rise again.
The day after he talked to Louie Glass, Paul flew with him to New York and then, on the Concorde, to Paris. They used the time to get acquainted. Louie talked about Farley, especially how upset he'd been by the burglary of his apartment, though he'd recovered by now, and then they went over Paul's outline. By the time they were approaching Paris, Louie had approved die idea for a film and, in general, the outline.
When they reached Farley's apartment, he was waiting for them. Louie had talked to him the evening before, on the telephone, and told him about the film. "You're talking about a documentary, right?" he asked as he led them into his living room. His voice was deep and dark, like velvet. One of his wives had said Ustening to it was almost as good as going to bed with him. After the divorce, she said listening was better.
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In a comer a young girl with startled eyes was curled up in an armchair. Farley did not introduce her, and she sat in silence the whole time they were there.
"Documentaries," he said, drawing out the word. "Those friggin' things we had to sit through in school: labor unions and how to build a cathedral. And those cute things about polar bears fucking on the ice. You putting me in with polar bears?"
"We're putting you with celebrities," Paul said easily. "Audiences like to know the inside story of their favorite stars."
"Audiences are too stupid to know inside from outside," Farley said carelessly.
"You didn't hear him say that," said Louie Glass. Farley shot a look in his direction, but he stayed silent; he depended on his manager to ge
t him out of any mess he made with his loose tongue.
"Nice apartment," said Paul, looking at the long room crowded with tufted furniture. The tall windows were open to the soft June morning, and he caught glimpses, through the trees, of the Avenue Foch three floors below. "It's hard to believe it was broken into, this high off the street."
"It wasn't through a window." Farley's voice fell to a growl. "The son of a bitch came through the front door, like he belonged here. Nothing pried open, nothing scratched, nothing moved out of the way. He had to have a key, the fucking son of a bitch. Came right in as if he belonged here . . . my house, where I live! Invaded my house, where I—^" He stopped abruptly.
Hide, Paul thought. Your house, where you hide. And when he did that you felt vulnerable; no place to hide. So you started snorting coke and drinking again. It had been five days since the robbery, and Louie had said he'd recovered, but that wasn't exactly the truth.
He met Louie's eyes and thought they probably understood each other. Farley wasn't especially stable, but he'd been in good form for the first four concerts of his national tour, and Louie and his staff probably could keep him going for the rest of the tour and long enough for Paul to finish his film.
"Let's talk about our film," Paul said, his voice relaxed. "We want to show you in your daily life, get a feel for how
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you work and play and talk to your friends, other singers and actors, whomever you see socially. How you get your ideas and create, so to speak. What we want to do, if you don*t mind, is follow you around, sit in at your meetings and rehearsals, be with you in nightclubs"—at Farley's look of alarm, he changed it—^'^restaurants, and backstage at your performances. After a while you'll forget we're there. We'll use clips of your television shows for background, and we'll interview people who've known you over the years. Sound all right?"
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