When he got over his false astonishment (we knew Sasha had already told him our plan), he asked how much we'd want to do this. Nothing; we were doing it for Phil. Then what kind of line in the credits did we want? None.
The meeting took as long as it did because it ended up with the producer threatening that if we didn't let him put both of our names high on the credits, he wouldn't let us do it. "You know how many more ticket and video sales I can make with your two names up there on the screen? The triumphant return together of Finky Linky and Oscar-winner Weber Gregston, writing the latest installment of Midnight! Jesus Christ, are you kidding? The press'll go crazy with this!"
Neither Wyatt nor I cared about a "triumphant return" to Hollywood, but if using our names was the condition under which things would be done our way, all right. We tentatively agreed and made a date to sign papers and see what was left of the film at the end of the week.
Our other meeting that day was with Dominic Scanlan and a friend of his on the police force. I knew of this other man only through Dominic's stories. His name was Charles something, but no one ever called him that. They called him "Blow Dry." Apparently even his children called him that.
As we were getting out of the car in the garage of the Beverly Center, Finky Linky asked, "Why are we having lunch at this dump with a man named Blow Dry?"
"Because Dominic says he's the most terrifying man he knows."
"Why do we want to meet him?"
"Because I have an idea. Actually, I have two ideas and he's going to help us on both."
"Don't you know enough horrible people?"
"Listen, Scanlan was a SEAL in Vietnam. You know about them? They made Special Forces look like sissies. He's also gotten four commendations for bravery from the police. When he says this guy is something, I want to meet him."
"Why here?"
"Because Blow Dry likes to come here on his lunch hour and shop."
"Please register my dissenting vote."
"I will. Let's go."
We rode the escalators up the side of the building with what seemed like everyone else in Los Angeles. Coincidentally, the first store we saw on entering the place was the pet shop where Phil had bought Flea.
"Where are we meeting Mr. Dry and Company?"
"At a computer store on the second floor."
"Changing the subject, have you thought about how you want to film the scene?"
"Yes. That's why I want to meet this guy."
Wyatt looked at me with his head cocked to one side. "Are you telling me something?"
"Not yet. I want to meet him first. Then I'll let you know what I'm thinking."
Clothes, food, intelligent toys, cutlery . . . you could probably buy everything you needed for the rest of your life at a big shopping mall. All the things for the different stages you'd go through would be included too. Want to be a hippie at fifteen and wear bell-bottom pants, eat whole grains, and listen to Vanilla Fudge? Third floor. Cut your hair at twenty-two, wear only black with rolled-up sleeves, and carry a black aluminum briefcase from Germany, don't forget the Ray Ban glasses? Fourth floor. Et cetera.
"Hey, guys!" We turned and there was Dominic with a big chocolate-chip cookie in his hand. "Don't mind this. I know we're going to eat lunch, but I can't resist these things."
"Where's Blow Dry?"
"Playing a computer game. Come on, I'll introduce you. I brought my T-shirt with me this time, Finky Linky. Will you sign it?"
"No."
"No?" Both Dominic and I looked at him.
"No, because I brought you something better." He handed over a bag he'd been carrying. Inside was a turquoise sweatshirt with a picture of Finky and his whole crew across the front.
"Hey, wow, that's wonderful! Thank you very much! I don't know what to say."
"You already said thank you once, Dom."
"Hey, B.D., there you are. We were just coming for you."
He was plain-looking, nothing more. A little bit over middle size, black hair, very round slightly pockmarked face framed by steel glasses over nothing eyes. He shook hands hard but not a crusher. Suit, white shirt, tie. If I saw him on the street I'd've guessed real estate salesman or insurance. Definitely not a policeman. Definitely not scary.
"What do you like to eat? They have everything here: Chinese, deli, whatever you want."
"I'd love a corned beef sandwich."
"You got it."
Wyatt and Dominic trailed behind us as we walked toward the restaurant.
"Should I call you –"
"Call me B.D., Weber. That's all right."
His voice was calm, uninteresting. I kept wanting to look straight at him but didn't.
"How come you wanted to meet me?"
"Dominic says you're the man I'm looking for."
"Looking for how?"
"I asked him to introduce me to the scariest guy he knew."
Dominic came up from behind. "What he really said was, 'Who's the scariest motherfucker you know?' B.D., I couldn't tell a lie."
Lunch was corned beef and talk about the LA Lakers. The scariest man Dominic knew dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin after every few bites and seemed bored by us.
"B.D., what was the most frightening thing that ever happened to you?"
"I saw some stuff in Vietnam that gave me something to think about. And you work for the police long enough. . . . No, wait a minute! I can tell you exactly what. The most frightening thing that ever happened to me was when I was a little kid. This is going to sound crazy, but I think you'll get what I mean.
"When I was six or seven, my mother took me for the first time to spend the night at my grandma's house over on Wilcox. Nice old woman. Anyway, I was all excited because I'd never slept anywhere but my own bed. This was a big thing, you know? Well, after Mom went away, Grandma and I stayed up late watching The Untouchables and eating these big caramel sundaes she made for us. I was in heaven: watching Untouchables, staying up past nine, ice cream. . . . Finally it was time to hit the sack. I was sleeping in the same bed with her, and about as soon as I got under the covers I was out like a light.
"Now, maybe half an hour later I woke up hearing this giant fucking monster right next to me! You know? I mean, it was right there! Going rrraaawww . . . glllllkkkk . . . rrraaawww. . . . I came out of sleep like a shot, but what could I do, run away or something?"
I started smiling, which turned into chuckling, which I tried to hold back by putting a hand over my mouth. Impossible. The – of them looked at me. Blow Dry smiled.
"You know, huh?"
"I know, and I understand! How old were you?"
"Six. You remember how it was then."
Dominic looked at us. "So what the fuck happened? What's with the monster?"
B.D. looked at me and winked. "The monster was my grandma snoring! That's what the growling was. I'd never heard anyone do that before. Can you imagine what a loud snorer sounds like in the dark to a six-year-old kid?"
"Aw, come on, B.D., get the fuck out of here! You're telling me you were more scared in that bed hearing your grandmother snore than –"
"I was never more scared in my life, Dominic." The way Blow Dry said the sentence was like a guillotine blade coming down. Whatever charm and sweetness the story had had died right there and left us looking at the man who'd told it.
I was with him often after that day but never saw any of the malevolence Dominic attributed to him in story after ghastly story. The only part of his menace I experienced was hearing the feral tone of that one short sentence. It was enough. I'd found our Bloodstone.
8
Sasha couldn't believe I was leaving. Both Wyatt and I had to repeatedly reassure her I'd be back in less than a week. What was I going to do in New York? Some business that had to be taken care of before I could start work on Midnight Kills. Why couldn't it wait till later? Because some of it had to do with filming; I needed to talk to some actors there because we wanted them in the film.
Th
e day before I left, Wyatt and I made a list of the people in the cancer group who would fit what we were going to try and do with our scenes. I say scenes, because after seeing the rushes of the film we knew it needed at least two more to make any sense.
Midnight Kills was by no stretch of the imagination good. The idea was half interesting: Bloodstone comes to life this time as an evangelist who starts convincing crowds that his "philosophy" is not only valid but correct. Halfway through, we discover it isn't really Bloodstone, but. . . .
The plot had more twists and turns than a snake on fire. What Phil had done was substitute surprise and tricks for real story. Although you were constantly being electrified with new shocks or jolts or severed body parts, there wasn't no story. It was that simple. The first thing Wyatt said after we'd sat through the thing was, "It doesn't need a scene, it needs a proctologist!" I agreed, so we spent a hell of a long time working out what needed to be done.
Another problem was what to tell Sasha. We took the easiest and most dishonest way, which was to say we were simply fulfilling Phil's contract for him. Too much time and money had already been invested. Since there was so little left to film, why not do it right ourselves instead of letting some jerk at the studio ruin it?
Phil hadn't liked Sasha to look at his work until it was finished, so luckily she hadn't seen any of M.K. yet. What would she have said if she had? Agreed with our opinion that it would have been best for the film to be destroyed and forgotten?
"Is it any good, Weber?"
"No. But I think we can make it better."
"I'm not surprised. When he liked something he was doing, Phil never worked on anything else. After he wrote 'A Quarter Past You' and showed it to me, I knew everything was going down the tubes: our relationship, the movie, everything. Why would he want to write a story about that, Weber? Wasn't he ashamed, or at least embarrassed?"
Chewing a fingernail, Finky Linky said, "The last time I saw him in New York, he was way beyond being embarrassed. He didn't have both oars in the water, Sasha. Really pretty crazy. That's what Weber and I were saying about the movie – it's so scattered and confusing –"
"A crazy man's film?" She wanted us to say yes, Midnight Kills was a crazy man's film, and the Strayhorn who wrote it and a short story about their sex life and ended up with a gun in his mouth wasn't the same man we'd known and loved.
Wyatt said, "Before my father died a couple of years ago, he was so mean and impossible to be around that he made everyone's life miserable, especially Mother's. Whenever I'd call and ask how she was, she'd say, 'Weary, dear, I'm pretty weary,' because she was giving him every last bit of love she had left, like blood. Whatever she'd kept stored up for maybe her grandchildren, or us, whoever, she was giving him. It was like a transfusion: If love could keep someone alive, he could have all of hers. I've never stopped thinking about that.
"But the sad thing was, it didn't do anything for my father. He only got sicker and more demanding.
"You did what you could, Sasha. It's egotistical to think we can always save the person we love. Even if you were the perfect mate, after what happened to Phil you end up with all kinds of unlocatable guilt. My mother did, and she behaved like a saint with her man.
"Push it away; you made Phil happy. By being with him, you increased the odds in his favor and built something winning and good."
"But what if I drove him crazy?" She looked from Wyatt to me.
"Making Midnight drove him crazy, Sasha. Let's finish this damned film and get on with the rest of our lives."
As the blue airport shuttle waited in Sasha's driveway, I put my arm around Wyatt and walked with him to the van. "You'll call Blow Dry and explain what we want?"
"The only reason you're going to New York is so you don't have to ask him. Yes, I'll call. What else?"
"You have an idea of how this has to go. What I really want from you, Wyatt, is humor. The whole thing is so much fucking dreck and blood now, we're drowning in it. I want the first scene to lift us completely off the earth and put us somewhere else."
"Where, Disneyland?"
"No, not that far, but somewhere we can . . . rest from Bloodstone awhile. Somewhere we can get a little fresh air."
He nodded and we shook hands.
Sasha was at the door to the van, standing over my suitcase. "I still wish you weren't going."
I stepped up and hugged her. "I won't be gone long, and when I'm back it'll be for a while."
"That's then; this is now. Oh, Weber, I hate missing everyone. It takes up so much energy and makes you so sad. . . . Go ahead. Wyatt and I are going to Larchmont for lunch. Have a good trip and come back soon. Sooner than you said!"
Driving away, I turned around and saw the two of them standing on the sidewalk, arms at their sides, neither of them moving an inch. Both had cancer. At least one of them would be dead soon.
The trip east was uneventful. I made notes for an hour and then fell fast asleep for the rest of the flight. There are so few times or places where you're forced to turn your energy down and simply sit still for a few hours. That's why I enjoy flying, where you can only think or read or sleep. Watching a film or eating a meal on a plane is torture and not even to be discussed.
Since Phil's death I'd been on the run, so thinking long and hard about any one thing was impossible. Boarding the plane, I vowed in the next hours to try and put some of the events together in understandable order. But being away from the Strayhorn hurricane for the first time, my body shut right down and said, "Later. Now take a nap."
I awoke over upstate New York, feeling both refreshed and guilty. I'd be flying back to California in a few days, but in the meantime it felt good to be on my way home.
There were so many things that had to be done. Close up my apartment, talk to the actors, see if I could reach my old cameraman and then convince him that making a couple of scenes for a horror film would be an interesting challenge. . . .
One of the most important qualities a person needs in order to direct for a living is to be a great coaxer: money from producers, performances from actors, special angles from cameramen. . . . When I was directing movies I'd usually be exhausted by the time we began filming because of the days already spent coaxing and wheedling, stroking and reassuring so many people that what they wanted I wanted, and vice versa.
The same was true for stage directing, but in New York I was working with intense, eager people who weren't in unions or up for Oscars or scared they'd lose their shirts if we produced a bomb.
But I'd be flat-out lying if I didn't say I was also intrigued and excited about what we were doing.
The night before, Wyatt and I sat up and talked about it.
"What are we supposed to do, Weber? Fix the film so it's moral or immoral?"
"I don't know. You were there when I asked Pinsleepe the same question."
"Then what are we going to do?"
"All I know now is Blow Dry will play Bloodstone and we're going to use – from our group. Maybe we'll just put everyone together and let them talk."
His look said that wasn't the answer he wanted to hear. "Weber, I've seen all of your films many times and I think they're superb, but this isn't the same thing."
"Hold on a minute. Do you think this is real; that once we film whatever is necessary, and do it right, it will save Sasha?"
"Yes, I think it's real! But most of the craziness has been happening to you. Don't you think it's real?"
"Anything's real, Wyatt, so long as it's happening to you at the moment. Dreaming Cullen's dreams was real once, the tattoo flying off my back was real. Videotapes from the dead that are there now but weren't a minute ago are real." I stood up and threw my hands in the air. "But then tell me what the fuck is 'real'? Weren't we brought up recognizing boundaries . . . definitions of what was reality and what wasn't? We were, goddammit! That's where we got our sanity!
"So what do we do when everything goes beyond those bounds, like right now? Does it mean the old rules w
ere bullshit and we have to make up new ones, new definitions for reality?
"And if that's so, if all boundary lines are down and we've got to start redefining everything, what's 'good' and what's 'evil' now?
"I'll give you a stupid example. When I was in Munich a couple of years ago, a baron I met invited me to an auction of some of the possessions of Princess Elisabeth of Austria. You know, Sissy? It was a ritzy affair, invitation only, and the crowd was mostly royalty with lots of money.
"One of the things for sale was Sissy's bathrobe. Just that: a white bathrobe with plain red stitching up the side. Know how much it went for? Two thousand dollars. If it had been a painting, something unusual and valuable, I'd've understood, but it was a white bathrobe that sold for two thousand bucks! What was it, Finky, a bathrobe some fool paid too much for or a valuable piece of memorabilia?"
"Obviously it sold for that much because of who wore it."
"That doesn't answer the question! We're not talking context here. We're talking bathrobes! What was sold for two thousand dollars? Do you get my point?"
I was so loud he put a finger to his lips. "Shush! No, I don't."
"A robe looks like this; you use it to dry off; it costs about this much. Okay, that looks like one! But the guy just paid two bills for it and then put it in a safe or in a frame. So what is it?
"Midnight Kills is a film about evil. But that was evil by the old rules and definitions. The old bathrobe. That was before little pregnant angels, home movies of my mother dying. . . .
"Pinsleepe isn't going to tell us what to do. We have to figure that out ourselves. I think that's the point. But first we have to figure out what –
"You know what I think, Finky? We've looked at that film and the other – now, and none of them are very good. Parts are, but even the first one is overrated. It's not nice to say, but I think Phil did something new with Midnight but then just coasted through the other -, particularly this one.
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