Al Mackey finished up his sixth double whiskey and vowed to check out the light tomorrow.
“And why did she withdraw from your film? And will you finish it?” Yet a third bearded young director, with a Bronx accent, suddenly changed the subject. They all apparently knew who she was.
“Artistic differences,” the French director said, smiling. They all nodded knowingly.
“I think she has a certain metaphysical quality,” another director said. He sounded a little different to Al Mackey. Brooklyn?
“Of course she has a metaphysical quality,” the testy Frenchman said. “This role calls for an artist with an earth quality!”
“There are times in our medium when the color of earth transcends metaphysics,” a fifth director announced, and Al Mackey was surprised. No beard? What is this shit?
“It’s not the earth tones,” the novelist screamed. “It’s the light! It’s the light!”
Al Mackey wasn’t the only one to spot someone familiar. Martin Welborn noticed a woman in a cluster of perhaps a dozen moguls around the bar at the far end of the tented garden. Occasionally someone with a more famous face would approach the moguls but would quickly disappear after only desultory conversation. It was a matter of paying respects, Martin Welborn decided. A few of these men were no doubt tremendously powerful in The Business, but the older ones, the moguls of yore, were the ones he recognized. Producers and directors with famous names and faces did not mingle with the actors and writers when they got involved in serious conversation.
At first the ash blonde who was chatting with a silver-maned mogul struck Martin Welborn’s eye because of her dress. It was a very simple India cotton gauze with a mauve and blue pleated front skirt and long sleeves. It looked as though it cost less than one hundred dollars and wasn’t really suitable for evening wear. But she didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious and unflinchingly stood eye to eye with her mogul, until he seemed to dismiss her when a legendary producer came in and kissed him on the cheek. The woman in the India cotton waited a discreet moment after being ignored, and drifted toward the bar, where she got a champagne refill.
He wondered if she had capped teeth. He wouldn’t have thought such things if it hadn’t been called to his attention by Al Mackey, who was frantically jumping from group to group noting that there were enough face-lifts, dental caps, transplants, and tummy tucks in this place to convince him that the plastic surgeons and dermatologists and dentists constituted the power behind the throne.
“Just think how many the doctors could get if they banded together in a show of strength!”
“How many what?” Martin Welborn asked.
“Blow jobs! Whadda ya think, dummy! Blow jobs!” Al Mackey giggled. He was more than half bagged, and all excited from having spotted a World Famous Singer and Songwriter who usually sang and wrote of angst and despair in Los Angeles, but also included the rest of the world.
Finally, Martin Welborn had had enough vodka to walk up to the woman in the cotton gauze dress and say, “This is the second time I’ve seen you.”
“Pardon?”
“I saw you last week at the skating rink. You’re a lovely skater.”
“Oh, do you skate?”
He’d expected her to thank him and walk away. “No, I was just there on business.”
“And what business are you in?” Her eyes were lilac!
“I’m afraid I’m not in show business.” He smiled.
“And what business are you in?” She looked him directly in the eye and required an answer. She seemed genuinely interested.
“I’m a policeman,” he said.
“I’ve never met a policeman. Are you here on business?”
“We’re investigating the Nigel St. Claire murder and his nephew invited us to pop in tonight.”
“The movie line would be: ‘It’s not official then?’”
“No.” He smiled.
“Herman St. Claire doesn’t invite just anyone to a party like this. He must be impressed by you.” She looked at him over the rim of the champagne glass. He had never stood face to face with a woman this beautiful in his entire life. He was starting to get the feeling he’d seen this in a movie somewhere. Several times, in fact. But the vodka mist was warm and reassuring.
“Perhaps you can point out some likely suspects for me?” He smiled, edging just an inch closer. This near, he was sure she was at least forty. It made her all the more attractive. Unlike Al Mackey, he preferred picking on women his own size.
“Suspects? I could point out a hundred or so. Let’s do!” He could see that she wasn’t entirely sober either. Looking for suspects with a beauty on his arm? He had seen this movie before.
“I’m Deedra Briggs.”
“I’m Martin Welborn,” he said, shaking hands as they strolled.
“Are you a captain or what?”
“Sergeant.”
“Well, Sergeant, do you see that group over there?”
“The ones you were talking with? I recognize some of them.”
“That’s the royalty. The contract-player days are over, but there’s still a lot of power around and a lot of it is in that group. Power at least as far as actors are concerned.”
“Are you an actress?”
He thought she flinched for a split second, but he could have been wrong. She said, “I work at it. And I model a bit.”
“I probably should have known you’re an actress. I don’t go to movies often.”
“I don’t play in movies often,” she said. “Mostly television commercials. It’s a living.”
She had a trained voice. She sounded like the prep school headmistress he saw in a television film one night. A headstrong member of the Eastern Establishment who had come to Hollywood to defy her father. Something like that. The television heroine had ridden to hounds.
“You’re not what I would have expected from a policeman. An elbow-patches kind of mellow fellow. How long have you been a policeman?”
“In a few more weeks I’ll have my twentieth anniversary.”
“Is that retirement time?”
“It could be. I’ll be eligible for my pension.”
“Are you married?”
“Not exactly. Are you?”
“Not anymore.”
The music started and a few couples began taking to the floor. The music this early in the evening was obviously tailored to the tastes of the older moguls at the rear of the tent.
“Do you dance?”
“Well, I’ve seen you skate,” he said. “I’m a little intimidated.”
“Good. I’m a lousy dancer. Let’s go find a suspect.”
They walked to the fringe of the mogul group and listened.
“They don’t invite actors to intimate parties,” she explained. “Unless they need a court jester or two to amuse the frau of somebody important. Actually, they despise actors. We’re unstable, immature, hysterical. Those are deal makers. Some of them have never read a book. But they read all about the book. Ditto with a script. They have people read the books and people read the scripts and then they use their unerring instincts and spend corporate millions on the tripe you see on the screen these days.”
“I don’t see much on the screen these days.”
“Lucky,” she said, glaring toward the mogul group. “To me they’re the most despicable of the lot.” She finished her champagne and staggered a bit. “Sorry.” She took his arm in both of hers and leaned against him.
“I saw you talking to one of them. The tall fellow with all the silver hair.”
“I was in one of his hit movies ten years ago. He’s riding a string of losers. I believe he’s on his way out. I can hardly bear to talk to him, but at least he knows he’s a deal maker. Some of the others think they’re artists.”
“Tell me,” Martin Welborn said suddenly, “under any circumstances would anyone in … this world,” and he waved at the big top to encompass the whole circus, “ever under certain circumstances be inv
olved in making any kind of … porn films?”
“Making porn shows? Lord, no. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, we have a suspect who might have some connection and … well, it’s remote.”
“Pornography’s legal these days.”
“Yes, but I was thinking of kiddy porn, that sort of thing.”
“Sergeant, have you been to the movies lately? Don’t you know that naked teenagers are hot commodities this year?”
“I mean real kiddy porn. The illegal kind.”
“See that man talking to Herman the Third?”
His name and even his face were instantly recognizable. He was a distinguished producer of some of the most enlightening and uplifting documentaries of our time.
“I recognize him all right,” Martin Welborn said.
“He owns the largest collection of porn, including kiddy porn, of anyone in the world, they say.”
“He does?”
“Despicable isn’t it?” She laughed wryly. “Talk about lying down with the beasts. Everyone in The Business knows that little tidbit.”
“Really?”
“It’s very common knowledge. I suspect even your policemen who work that specialty must know about his collection. I imagine his tastes encompass just about anything macabre that could be put to film. Probably has the original sixteen-millimeter prints of Hitler’s strangulation of the Rommel conspirators. I heard him discussing that at another party one time. His eyes lit up.”
“Unbelievable.”
“But he wouldn’t make kiddy porn, though he loves it dearly In fact, little Herman is probably trying to persuade him right this minute to make and distribute his forthcoming feature at Herman’s studio. He somehow cadged the rights to a South African epic they’re all interested in. I don’t even know the name of it, but these boys know. They have paid informants at the New York publishing houses to steal and Xerox the potential blockbuster manuscripts.”
“Fascinating,” he said, noting that Herman III’s eyes shone like mica.
“You’ve been a cop twenty years. I’ve been in this business as long.”
She wasn’t ashamed to hint at her age. He liked that.
“But I do believe that those gentlemen aren’t interested in any cinematic genre unless it’s safe and profitable. They’re screaming cowbirds. Do you know that species?”
“No.”
“The screaming cowbird waits for another bird to build a nest and then appropriates it. They’re parasite birds.”
Meanwhile Al Mackey was nearly on his ear from his tenth double whiskey, without having stopped for a bite to eat. He was reeling from one group to another, waiting for sultry girls to strip down and dance on the piano. He’d seen a few films too. So far, nothing much had happened, although he thought he’d stumbled on an orgy in the making. He saw a very intense group of men and women who turned out to be producers or something, making deals. It was the euphemism that threw him.
“Listen, do you think you could get in bed with us?” a man with a suntan like Herman III asked a woman who was dressed like a nineteenth-century German lampshade.
The lewd proposal stopped Al Mackey dead in his tracks.
She said, “Well I could get in bed with your group, but not until the deal was sweetened.”
Jesus Christ! They have to pay for their orgies? Here on this freaking yellow brick road? But then when she quickly turned to talk to another man, the one with a silver mane said to a sweaty little guy, “Miriam says she could get in bed with us if we sweeten it. I frankly think that it’s as sweet as it’s gonna get. Remember, Mort, we could get in bed with Merv. He’s only asking half a mill and five points after two and a half times negative.”
As bagged as he was, Al Mackey wasn’t drunk enough to think anybody would pay half a million for a blow job from a dozen Mervs and Miriams. He figured out that all this lewd and dirty talk that had him all excited simply involved business. The Business. What a letdown. They mixed their metaphors of sex and money like a horde of hookers.
And another thing: Nobody said good-bye. It was as though a sign of farewell would split these tenuous relationships forever. Upon parting, everyone touched cheeks, bussed the air, and said, “Let’s have lunch.”
But there were acres of tits! Tits around here must grow bigger and faster, like mushrooms in a cave. It must be the climate around Beverly Hills. He spotted Herman III talking to another mogul. Al Mackey staggered over and interrupted.
“Hi, Herman.”
“Hi, Marty. Having a good time?”
“Al.”
“Al, how’s it going? Having fun?”
“Oh, yeah, Herman.” Then he took the baby mogul by the arm and dragged him aside. Herman III, who didn’t drink, had to turn away. Al Mackey was blowing 100 proof.
“What can I do for you, Al?”
“Herman, can you introduce me to someone?”
“Who?”
“Anyone. You know what I mean?”
“A bimbo?”
“Yeah. A bimbo.”
“Look, Al,” Herman III said apologetically. “I can make an introduction, but, uh, you gotta do your own moving. I mean, I’m not a pimp.”
“Of course not, Herman! The very idea!” Al Mackey cried. “But can’t you just point me in the right direction?”
“Okay, Al.” Herman III smiled, and Al Mackey vowed to get a suntan and have his teeth capped. Jesus, around here he felt like his old man must have felt as a bogtrotter at Ellis Island.
“Thanks, Herman, I’ll be over there with that bunch. I like to listen to the actors.” At least they really talked dirty.
“Anything for L.A.’s finest. But remember, I’ll just introduce you to a girl I think is gonna like you. I’m not a …”
“Whore. I know you’re not.”
“Pimp.”
“That neither. Thanks, Herman.”
By this time, Martin Welborn had discovered that Deedra Briggs had lied to him. She was a wonderful dancer and made him look good. They were in each other’s arms now, and he felt the thrust of breast and drumming of blood, and Martin Welborn was saddened to learn that this kind of party broke up earlier than police parties in Sherman Oaks. People in The Business went to bed early and did not abuse their bodies in the same way that police detectives did.
She had long since begun dancing with both arms around Martin Welborn’s neck. “A mellow fellow in elbow patches. You’re what I’ve been looking for …”
“… all your life,” he said.
“Right.” She giggled.
“Deedra, could I … Would you like to see me again? Sometime? Not necessarily …”
“Will you take me home?”
He couldn’t believe it. “I should say so!”
“I don’t have a car here. Jags just don’t function well in California heat. I was warned.”
“Sure I’ll take you home!” Martin Welborn said, and she buried her face in his neck as they swayed.
So, while Herman III was off being neither a whore nor a pimp, Al Mackey decided to make some small talk with the mogul crowd. He introduced himself to the tall mogul with the silver mane, who had been talking to the girl Marty was scoring with.
Making conversation wasn’t easy with these people, since they all seemed to be intent on digits and numbers. Al Mackey quickly ran out of things to say. Then he thought about a novel he’d read lately.
“Have any of you read the novel about black fishermen in Bermuda who get caught in the typhoon and end up in Cuba? I just read it last week and I think it’d make an interesting movie, I mean, film.”
The three moguls looked at him suspiciously, but finally a fat mogul said, “Blacks aren’t in anymore. I wouldn’t think you could cast it. Any white parts?”
“I wouldn’t touch another hurricane picture,” a tall mogul warned.
“You wouldn’t stand a chance with an all-male picture,” a thin mogul advised.
Al Mackey was delighted that they were talking at h
im and he turned to the one with the silver mane and said, “How about you? Think it could make a good movie? I mean, film?”
And the tall mogul with the silver mane responded instinctively. A layer of egg white seemed to flow across his eyeballs from the upper regions. He seemed to be looking at Al Mackey through the wrong end of a telescope. He stared at Al Mackey with those oysterish unseeing eyes, and the words slithered out, all caked with mildew: “All right, because you’re a friend of Herman’s. Messenger the script over to my office. I’ll take a look and call you.”
Al Mackey, who was caught up in all of it cried, “That’s swell! Thanks!” And only while he was walking away did it occur to him: What fucking script?
There was only one way to straighten out his head: Have another drink. He found some actors at the bar. They were of course the most recognizable, and although the Famous Male Actors mingled among all groups, the Famous Female Actors seemed to withdraw into entourages.
Al Mackey preferred the younger up-and-comers. They had only three things to talk about: movies, drugs, and sex. Movies they almost got, exotic drugs that prolonged orgasm for days and days, and sex which was almost as good as the drugs that prolonged the sex. It was the conversation Al Mackey found most educational. He wished he’d brought his pencil.
He was all agog over a young actress he’d seen several times on television. She was talking about a private club where you could play backgammon and do dope, and Al Mackey learned that acid was back and the latest fad was sniffing Persian heroin. And in the private club’s disco they had slide projectors synchronized by computers, and two motion picture systems, and an all-enveloping sound system, not to mention a multitude of lights and effects, and two machines, one for fog, one for multicolored bubbles.
A blond young actor, built like a running back, one they said was sure to be the next television superstar, jumped up with eyes like fiery hibiscus and yelled, “Focus, focus, you asshole!”
Nobody but Al Mackey paid any attention to him so he sat back down. Somebody stuffed something under his nose and he shook his head, the bleached blond locks flying all over his face. He smiled. Apparently he was satisfied that they’d focused.
Then another actress, who Al Mackey was almost sure was the co-star of a series, said, “That putz wanted me … get this! to play a part in his feature where I’m fucking my fourteen-year-old son and his estranged father is on the phone telling him how to make his mommy happy!”
The Glitter Dome Page 25