by Davis Bunn
Their reaction to his announcement—that they had won the right to handle promotion and marketing for his new film project, and that a genuine star would be stopping by later to see their work—brought to mind igniting a dump truck full of plastic explosives.
He was still grinning when he got off the elevator on the top floor. Fiona asked, “What’s got you so happy?”
“Ain’t nothing finer in this whole world than giving young people exactly what they want.”
“Oh. I thought maybe you were just excited over today’s guest.” She rang his office phone. “Brent Stark on line two.”
Bobby switched the little gizmo by his office phone over, so his headset now responded to both machines. When they’d started, the phone company had said it wasn’t possible, he’d just have to switch headsets when he came into the office, to which Bobby said, obviously they’d designed their phone systems for folks who were in love with chairs. He’d brought in his own wizards, who’d fashioned him something that did the trick but looked like his desk had grown a tumor, until Darlene found a Chinese lacquered box at an antique store and had the same technicians hollow it out. The phone system had cost him more than a new Lexus, but it meant he could move from office to car to basement to roof and never be out of range. “Brent, what’s the haps?”
“You don’t ever need to eat coon, Bobby.”
Bobby did not try to hide his laugh. Every time he spoke to this guy, he liked him more. “Explain to me why it is my company has paid for you to go play in the forest for a week and a half.”
“I told you before. I need to fit myself into this role. I’ve got to tell you, making it in frontier times was harder than anything I could ever have imagined.”
“I have trouble remembering how I survived before Starbucks. That wilderness fellow knew his stuff?”
“He didn’t say much, and what he did say I’m not sure I understood. His accent was pure twang. But he wore me plumb out. Where did you find him?”
“You know how it is. I made a couple of calls, is all.”
“I’d like to bring him up to our first location, have him do a weekend training for the whole team. He says his wife will do the same for the womenfolk.”
“It’s your band, Brent. You call the tunes.” Bobby gave it a moment, then said, “Tell me about Jerry.”
“He did good work. Accomplished more than I would have thought possible. We’re actually ahead of schedule, thanks to him.”
“That’s real good. Now tell me about Jerry.”
Brent sighed. “We won’t know for certain until he gets into trouble. If he can admit it and ask for help, then we’re good to go.”
“You still want to make him your, what did you call it?”
“AD. Assistant director. And yes. I do.”
Bobby liked the absence of hesitation enough to say, “Go for it.”
“Thanks, Bobby.”
“Got the word back from them folks I hired out Hollywood way. Galaxy is into principal shooting of their Iron Feather project.”
“Yeah, Jerry gave me the news soon as I got back. We’ve decided to drop a week of rehearsal time and push hard.”
“I’m fretting about the films being too similar.”
“Don’t worry, theirs won’t be the same.”
“But they’re doing our story.”
“No, Bobby. Sam Menzes is doing his story. And it won’t be ours. Not by a mile.” Brent was silent a moment, then said, “We need to find out what their wrap date is. And the planned release date. If we can, we need to beat them. They’ll throw a ton of money at their marketing. If they come out first they’ll capture all the PR thunder.”
“I’m with you.”
When he hung up the phone, Bobby’s secretary was in the doorway, grinning like a Christmas elf. “They’re five minutes out.”
Bobby was used to the things only big money could bring. He’d been invited to the White House. He’d had lunch with six governors of four different states. He’d sat on stages and even given a speech or two.
But nothing, not even shaking the president’s hand, had prepared him for the rush of knowing a star was on her way up to his office. “What am I supposed to do? Meet her at the elevator?”
Fiona shared his wife’s pleasure in watching him dance. “I doubt there’s ever been a rule book written for this one.”
Fiona’s console was always lit up like a Christmas tree. No matter how early Bobby got in, at least one light was blinking. But there was a separate line, one that had a special alarm chime. Bobby’s wife had that number. His mother and brother. A very few close friends. Two people with sick kin he and Darlene were praying for daily.
Both of them tensed when the chime went off. Fiona stepped to her desk, then called over, “Jim Evans.”
“Shut my door. Show the folks into my conference room.” Jim was the man who had brought him into the prayer group and remained his principal contact. Bobby hit the button. “Jim? How are you, brother?”
“Bobby, I’ve got Stan Saucer on the line. You remember Stan.”
“You kidding?” Saucer ran Global Oil out of Houston. He was also one of the hold-out investors in Bobby’s film project. “What’s up, gentlemen?”
“Go ahead, Stan.”
“Bobby, we’ve been hosting a couple of new folks at our Thursday meetings. I believe you know them. Liz Courtney and Stanley Allcott.”
“I’ve met Liz. I’m sure they’re both fine folk.”
“That they are. I know you’re a busy man, so I won’t go into details. But they’ve impacted me in a major way. I mean, moved me like few things ever do. As much by how they are as anything they’ve said.”
“You don’t need to try and explain that, brother. I felt the exact same way.”
“Back when you first told me about God pushing you into the film business, I was interested, but worried.” He had an oilman’s voice, equal parts gravel and raw-boned muscle. “Real worried. I figured you had a good chance of pouring your money down an armadillo hole.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“I can’t tell you what I felt back then. Whether God spoke to me or not. It’s easy to walk away from that silent voice. You understand what I’m saying?”
“All too well.”
“But these people, they’ve struck me hard. And every time we meet, they ask that we pray for you and for that director fellow, Brent Stark. Did it again this week. And this time, I heard God in a different way. Like He was standing next to me. And I’m calling to tell you, I’m in. Where do I send my check?”
They talked for a while longer, in the manner of men feeling their way into a new relationship. Then they prayed. When they were done, Bobby set down the phone and sat there. Hands folded on the desk. Eyes shut. Not saying much. Just dwelling in the moment. So intent on giving quiet thanks he wasn’t even aware Fiona was in the doorway until he lifted his gaze.
“You all right?” his secretary asked.
“Fine.” He headed for the side door. “You hear about God’s timing so much, you don’t give it any thought until the next miracle sneaks over and smacks you upside the head.”
17
Chateau Marmont’s ground floor was one huge open space, which was how members of Led Zeppelin had turned the hotel lobby into their own personal motorcycle drag circuit. Shari stood by a cart of soiled laundry as Emily and Billie, accompanied by an utterly unfazed front-desk manager, slipped into the servants’ elevator. Shari stopped by the ladies’ room to freshen up, then entered the main hall.
Shari had been on her share of sets. She loved the flavor, the compressed electric frisson, the clock that ticked in all the behind-the-camera voices. And this was what the Marmont’s front rooms reminded her of, a set waiting for the stars to appear.
A young pianist who had recently graced the front cover of Teen People played a variety of hits from Galaxy films. She and the band were almost lost behind the potted fronds that formed a mock wall between th
e bar and the restaurant. Several hundred people milled about, pretending not to watch as a half-dozen lollipops, Hollywood’s name for cable TV reporters, did their startup pieces for the cameras. To an outsider, it might look like the party was in full swing. But Shari knew better.
Leo Patillo, the former cop, appeared at her elbow. For such a huge man, he moved with surprising stealth. “You think the cable networks include brain dead in their lollipop job descriptions?”
Shari was not sure about this guy. He reminded her of a loyal bulldog, one that at the snap of a single command would go from calm to vicious. Even so, she recalled her grandmother’s edict and said, “Any idea when they start the main act?”
“Not long now.” He touched his finger to a miniature earpiece. “Menzes’ limo is two minutes out.”
“You were really a cop?”
“Protect and serve, baby.” He had eyes like a bulldog as well, and they stared at her now with the moral blankness of colored glass. “They’re laying odds as to what Menzes has in mind for you. As in how long it takes you to move from the snake pit to the chairman’s bedroom.”
She gave a Hollywood smile, all lips and neither teeth nor humor. “I assume we’re speaking about the PR cluster holding up the bar.”
“Them and the assistant director types who can’t decide if you’re a threat or a temporary hassle.”
“Let them guess,” Shari said. “Why spoil their fun?”
Leo’s reply was halted by a shrill scream one octave above frantic. Two waitresses tossed their silver platters of crab claws and pâté toward the ceiling and fled. Behind them came a roaring Colin Chapman. The heartthrob to a hundred million teenagers managed to both wear a tuxedo and be scarcely dressed. He raced a wheelchair.
“The wheelchair is how they got him into the hotel,” Leo told her. “Guess the shower woke him up some.”
The television lights swung in remarkable unison. The cable lollipops smiled like a chorus line and hopped around, struggling to keep in view of the cameras without blocking the star. Chapman did a wheelie, spun through a three-sixty, did another wheelie, then spied the bar. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.
“He’s actually not bad with that thing,” Leo observed. “Probably been practicing for that final trip to the OD corral.”
A roar from high overhead was the only warning the crowd had before Raul Solish, the director, came flying down the polished curved banister. Over his tux Solish wore a bed sheet as a cape. He launched himself off the end and did a full gainer into the shrieking PR cluster.
Leo’s teeth were small and chopped at the ends like he had ground them down to miniature dominoes. “Just another day in Hollywoodland.”
The star and director slid onto the bench to either side of the pianist, who at their insistence launched into a rendition of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” between swigs from the director’s bottle of champagne. Juiced as they were, the pair actually made a not-bad duet.
“This is unbelievable.”
“Hey, they’re just letting off a little steam. After being trapped in Albania for a couple of months, who’s to wonder?”
“Actually, they’re filming in Hungary, and it’s only been three weeks.”
“I’m sure I don’t care. They’re here and they’ve still got most of their clothes on. This will play for months. PR couldn’t buy this much publicity with a dump truck of dollars.” Leo pointed up the stairs. “Wait. Here comes our leading lady.”
Billie Rondelle did not descend the stairway. She floated, held to the mundane earth by Sam Menzes, who kept a dead solid lock on her elbow. Billie was dressed in a sequined gown the color of pearl smoke, high necked and gathered at three points—right shoulder, right waist and high up her right thigh. Each folding of the fabric was fastened with a diamond brooch. It was a knockout dress, something from a thirties black-and-white drama where the ladies dressed like queens. Billie’s smile and poise were equally regal.
Menzes’ capped teeth were the only portion of him that captured any attention, for they possessed an otherworldly gleam. All lights, all eyes, all attention were held by Billie Rondelle. Menzes hit the bottom stair and slipped away with the grace of Fred Astaire, leaving Billie to face the flashing camera strobes and the sudden cluster of cable lollipops. Emily Arsene appeared as by magic. Somehow, in a forest of crystal stemware and caviar, Emily held an insulated coffee mug. With ironclad politeness, Emily kept the interviewers from clawing at Billie and each other.
Menzes came to stand by Shari. Leo instantly vanished. Menzes glanced over to where his male lead and director were still singing and swigging at the piano. His smile remained firmly in place, but his eyes glinted scalpel sharp.
Shari felt an icy quiver in her gut, in anticipation of the chairman’s verbal blade. Instead Menzes said, “I’ve got to congratulate you, Ms. Khan. For your first time at bat, you’ve done solid work here.”
One of the network anchors overheard the studio chief. Instantly the woman circled one finger in the air, which was all her cameraman needed to shift his focus from Rondelle to Menzes. There was a world of difference between network and cable entertainment coverage. Network anchors shifted between news and morning shows and entertainment prime time, developing a general method of punching all of America’s viewing buttons.
“Mr. Menzes, I’m Carey McGraw with NBC’s Evening Entertainment. Would you have a word for us?”
“You know I don’t give interviews, Ms. McGraw.”
The anchor flashed a coquettish smile. “Can’t shoot a girl for trying.”
For the first time that evening, the chief’s smile was genuine. “Why don’t you talk to my chief aide on this film, Ms. Khan.”
The anchor’s antennae were up and sniffing. “Can I keep you in the picture as well, Mr. Menzes?”
“Long as you focus on Ms. Khan here, most certainly.”
It was only at this point that Shari realized her jaw was still hanging loose. Her teeth clipped inside her head as she snapped her mouth shut. And just in time, for the cameraman swung his focus and said, “Ready.”
“What is your first name, Ms. Khan?”
“Shari.”
“On me, three, two, one. I am here at the infamous Chateau Marmont, haven to stars and star-size scandals. Only tonight we’re celebrating the newest megahit from Galaxy Studios, Iron Feather, starring Colin Chapman and Billie Rondelle, directed by Raul Solish, whose voice I believe you can hear in the background, singing ‘Let’s Face the Music and Dance.’ With me now is Shari Khan, one of Sam Menzes’ growing stable of young producers. Thank you for taking a moment to speak with us.”
Shari took a firm grip on her quivering frame and tried to match the anchor’s smile. “A pleasure to be here, Carey.”
“This is quite a shift, a period piece coming from the studio whose latest releases were Bloodwork and StarShip Warrior.”
“America has been waiting a long time for this story.” Shari took enormous lift from the steadiness of her voice and how the words were there waiting for her. “There has not been a successful frontier drama since Last of the Mohicans. It’s time, and we have the story.”
There was a glimmer of something else in the anchor’s gaze, a sharp probing, a cutting edge. “You’re forgetting The Patriot.”
“I’m not forgetting a thing,” Shari lied, and wrested her voice free from the sudden quiver of fear. “That was Mel Gibson at the height of his popularity. He could have danced the lead in Sugarplum Fairies wearing a leotard and a pink tutu and still topped the weekend charts.”
The anchor’s glint turned to respect. “Of course there have been several megadisasters that dealt with America’s early days.”
“They don’t apply here. The audience is ready for the right story. And we have it in spades. Iron Feather is the story of Daniel Boone, but told from the Indians’ perspective. Boone the invader. Boone the point man for the European’s rape of the continent. This film is directed at the young audience
that has become jaded by the false hype and fake heroism they’re fed in school. They want the truth, and that’s what we are delivering. Truth with a star-driven edge. This is hot, and this is now.”
Carey McGraw waited for the leading man and director to finish their high note and the ensuing applause. “Is it true that Colin Chapman shed real tears when they cut the Gucci tag out of his fringe leather jacket?”
Shari Khan actually laughed out loud. “Where do you people dig up this drivel?”
“Well, that’s all the time we have. Ms. Khan, thank you for speaking with us.” She faced the camera. “This is Carey McGraw, and you heard it first on Evening Entertainment.”
Menzes guided Shari away from the cluster at the foot of the stairs. He waved to someone Shari could not be bothered to see. “Once again, you have handled yourself exceedingly well.”
Now that the lights were gone, Shari could not stop shaking. “Thank you, Mr. Menzes.”
He saw her nerves, and approved. “You know what they call somebody who can face the gun and stay calm and say the right thing in television-sized bullets?”
“A lady with a job?”
His smile turned genuine for the second time that night. “Close. A woman with a future.” He nodded once. “Good to see I was right about you.”
18
Because of the phone call and prayer time with his newest investor, Bobby Dupree was able to open the doors connecting his office to the boardroom, walk in, and say as smooth as his wife’s finest silk, “Celia Breach, as I live and breathe. Bobby Dupree.”
“How do you do, Mr. Dupree.”
Normally he would go into his aw-shucks routine, insisting she call him Bobby. But there was something in that drop-dead gaze. A seen-it-all wariness. And a depth of sorrow he had not expected.