by Davis Bunn
Lizu Khan smiled at her granddaughter and said, “You came in late.”
“We didn’t get the stars and crew off to Budapest until four in the morning.”
“Vulgar animals,” her grandmother sniffed.
Shari retreated into her cup. Throughout that grueling week, so long as they had been in view of the cameras, the director and male lead had behaved themselves reasonably well. Which had been good, because the PR crew had put together a three-ring circus of journalists and personal interviews and an appearance on Saturday Night Live. But as soon as the lights went off, the pair went wild. Shari had never known just what the word could mean until that week. She had played handler along with Leo Patillo, and in the process gotten to know the LA club scene. The upside was considerable. After making the bookings and then climbing from limos with Colin Chapman and Raul Solish, Shari could now hit any of the West Coast’s hottest places and walk straight to the front of the line.
That morning, however, with her head still thumping from the music and the limo’s cloying smoke, she was not sure how much that actually meant. Shari rose and refreshed her coffee mug. She needed some way to take the coffee intravenously if she was ever going to wake up.
At least that was how she felt until her grandmother said, “I heard some interesting news this morning.”
Which probably meant some minor scandal involving the local Persian community. “I’m really not in the mood right now.”
“Oh really.” Her grandmother held out that day’s Variety, one of filmdom’s leading journals. “Mr. Rapello in 7D greeted me in the elevator this morning with the news that my granddaughter is on page two.”
Shari would have thought it completely impossible to wake up that fast. “What?”
“See for yourself.”
The article was entitled “New Star in the Galaxy Firmament?” Then she saw her name in the second sentence. Beside which was a Wall Street Journal -style line drawing of herself. And had to stop. And get over a full-on heart attack.
So her grandmother took back the journal and read, “‘Galaxy has always bucked the current trend to tack executive producer titles on everyone from the second coffee girl to the greenlight guy’s niece. Which made all the more interesting Sam Menzes’ confirmation, when approached by this author after Shari Khan’s appearance on Evening Entertainment, that the striking young woman would have an assistant exec producer credit on their latest expected megahit Iron Feather . Shari Khan has been seen all over town this week, playing hostess and troubleshooter while Colin Chapman and Raul Solish, back from location work in Hungary, cut a fire line down Sunset Strip. Such hands-on work is normally restricted to Sam Menzes’ most trusted lieutenants. Does this mean Shari Khan is a power on the rise? Watch this space.”’
Her grandmother dropped the journal. “I can only wish your grandfather were alive to see this day.”
Like story concepts and shooting venues, words came into fashion and then fled from the mouths of Hollywood insiders. For a while, the word was prince. A prince was someone—male or female—who cut a deal and lived by the agreement. Last week, a prince had held the power to put a story into play. Today, however, prince was used by every zero on the street who wanted to pretend he could play the film game. Recently the guy who stitched a tear in Shari’s boot called her a prince for offering a tip. Nowadays, prince was just another synonym for putz.
Today’s term was the read. This was a recent import from Washington, where the read was what the powers did every time a new book on politics hit the market. Those with clout, or those who wished they had it, found an out-of-the-way shop where they could safely heft the new book and check the back index. The inclusion of a person’s name with a citation was a clear signal of importance in the rapidly changing Washington waters.
As usual, Hollywood had its own spin, even on an imported term. No book on LA mattered to insiders, since by the time anything was bound in hardback, the films, and the players, would already be archived.
The read was what people did with the trades, as in Variety, Hollywood Reporter, the LA Times film section, and a very few top-ranked blogs like Defamer. The read was a noun, as in, I caught you in the read this morning.
Shari felt a thousand eyes follow her every move when she entered the studio lot that morning. She heard doors open. She heard talk stop. She heard footsteps scramble as people shifted over to the windows and watched her walk briskly down the studio’s central lane carrying a large wrapped box.
Shari Khan. Mentioned by name in the read.
Emily Arsene’s office was in the sprawling office structure called Building 2. The office complex was separated from Galaxy’s headquarters by a mock Lower Manhattan street, two sound stages, a row of director and star bungalows, and a billion miles. Building 2 was actually nicer in many respects than the rabbit warren in the older headquarters building. The lighting was muted, the air-conditioning didn’t rattle the overhead grill like it did in Shari’s office, and the halls were lined with framed posters from decades of Galaxy hits. None of this mattered, of course. To those lucky enough to possess a cubicle in headquarters, Building 2 was known as the Tombs.
Shari balanced her load on one hip and knocked on the open door. “You in?”
“Who wants to know?” Emily Arsene swiveled from her computer screen. “Well, well, a visit from royalty. What have you got there?”
“A present.”
“In case you didn’t realize, we peons relegated to the back lot don’t deserve such attention.”
“You want to give a gal a little room?”
Emily rose to her feet and shifted a pile of scripts. She remained standing as Shari set the box on the edge of her desk. Shari motioned to the wrapping paper. “Have a look.”
“Hey, you’re on a roll. I’ll let you do the honors.”
“Whatever you say.” Shari plucked off the bow and set it on the top rim of Emily’s computer screen. She slipped one hand under the wrapping paper and peeled it back. “I got to thinking.”
“Risky move, thinking in this business.”
“If I were Sam Menzes, I would find me someone whose loyalty was so strong she would let me relegate her to the Tombs.”
“Those of us stuck in the back of beyond don’t take kindly to that name.”
Shari pried open the top of the box. “I’d ask them to be my eyes and ears back here.”
“Where on earth did you come up with this?”
“In the limo with the boys from Budapest. Listening to them razz the people in the Tombs, the folks working hundred-hour weeks to make their film a hit. It occurred to me that the Tombs is a perfect place for a studio to spring dangerous leaks. I’d make it a point to have somebody in here who could let me know of any serious problems long before they arose. Whatever it cost, whatever I had to promise or pay on the sly, it would be well worth the investment.”
Emily Arsene kept her eyes on the bubble-packed implement slowly rising from the box. “If that were the case, and I’m not saying it is. But if it were, that person would be totally required to deny any knowledge of anything like what you’re suggesting.”
“Absolutely.”
“Long as we understand one another.”
“Oh, I think we do.” Shari elbowed the empty box onto the floor. She unwrapped the bubble pack to reveal a coffee maker.
“Oh my,” Emily said as she touched the silver-plated Thermos.
Shari had found it in the Rodeo Drive shop for kitchenware. In the window. The machine was Italian designed and Swiss manufactured. It looked like an art deco sculpture. It had cost a bomb.
Shari handed Emily the plug. “Water.”
Emily found an unopened bottle of Evian. Shari filled the tank and fished out a bag of Mrs. Gooch’s finest from her purse. She poured the beans into the top. Hit the button. The grinder gave off a sibilant rush, like cymbals beat by brushes.
“My kitty makes more noise purring,” Emily said.
Shari smiled.
“You like cats?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Almost everyone who matters.”
They waited for it to brew, then poured two cups, seated themselves, and savored.
Emily did not speak until her cup was drained. “More?”
“You kidding? I’m thinking I need another raise so I can buy myself one.”
“You’re welcome back here any time, honey.”
The endearment did not go unnoticed. “I need some help.”
Emily took her time settling into her second cup. “Shoot.”
“Did you ever read the script? Not ours. The other one.”
“Long Hunter. Sure. It was one of the first Sam handed me after I started answering directly to him.” She rolled over to her computer and typed. The printer whirred. Emily glanced at the two pages, then handed them over. “There’s my analysis.”
“Thanks.” Shari stowed them in her purse. “What was your take?”
“Most of the scripts landing on my desk are basically what I call fatburgers. Great tasting, solid commerciality, and no leavebehind. You understand what I mean by that?”
“I think so, but tell me anyway.”
“The audience comes in, they warm their seats, they eat their faces greasy, they get up, they go home. By the time they pull in the drive, they’ve forgotten what they saw and they’re hungry for the next go-round. Fatburgers. Fast food and friendly, but when it comes to vitamins, a vacuum.”
“You’re saying Long Hunter was different.”
“Very fifties. The big hero, the big theme. Man against nature and an enemy and himself. Suggesting that if it was possible then, it’s still possible today. That’s what made it different. This wasn’t just a historical drama. It suggested the challenges aren’t so different today as then, in terms of ethics and principles and life itself.” Emily smiled. “The critics would have poured gasoline all over it and set it alight.”
“Even so, you suggested Galaxy film it?”
“I liked it. I thought it would do well in the heartland.”
“What about the script for our new film, Iron Feather?”
Emily tasted her words as carefully as her coffee. “The critics will eat it with a spoon. Daniel Boone fed into the blender of deconstructive history. The stars should play well with the Generation X and Y’ers.”
Shari tried to read what Emily was not saying. The result had her feeling the same chill in her gut she’d known when her grandmother had warned her. “You think we might have some serious trouble from the upstart studio project, don’t you.”
“Not if you do your job.” Emily slipped several files into her case and rose from her desk. “I’ve got an appointment with our mutual god. Care to come along?”
Another word on the rise in Hollywood insider circles was aristocrat. Cool. Authoritative. Stylish. Understated. If anyone on the Galaxy lot defined aristocrat for Shari, it was Sam Menzes. Menzes possessed an aristocrat’s casual ruthlessness. He felt no emotion whatsoever over applying the knife. A skillful slice and his competition was filleted, and Menzes could go back to his latte.
Shari Khan did not want to work for him. She wanted to be him.
When Menzes saw the pair of them enter together, all he said was, “What have we here?”
Emily Arsene seated herself and said, “I’d like you to meet my new friend.”
Menzes gave one of his patented smiles, a brief tightening along the edges of his mouth and eyes. “Well, well.”
If Shari had any doubt of who Emily Arsene really was, it was dispelled by the way she waltzed through the six script summaries—five passes and one definite buy—then leaned back in her chair and said, “Shari here has some concerns about the quality of our Iron Feather competition.”
“Did you feed her that line?”
“No, this was all on her lonesome.” Emily smiled across the conference table extending from the chief’s desk. “Girl’s got a good nose.”
“If she came to you with this, then I agree.” Menzes asked Shari, “What do you want to do about it?”
“I’d like to come out with both barrels firing. Tell our journalist allies how an upstart is working on an old concept and trying to play the parasite and feed off our publicity. A secondrate story being worked by a third-rate studio, and stealing our thunder in the process.”
“Variety called them a shoestring operation,” Emily recalled. “Did they get that idea from you?”
“Sort of.”
“How?”
“I have a friend who is assistant to their chief editor. I might have mentioned the term.”
“Might have mentioned,” Emily said, smiling approval. “Naughty girl.”
“It’s a good idea and a better tactic,” Menzes said. “Work it.”
“I don’t want to personally shoot the bullets. I want to remain a positive face who talks only about what a great place Galaxy is, the quality films we’re producing, and what a great role we’ve carved for ourselves in American entertainment.”
Menzes studied her. “You’re afraid of wielding the knife?”
“Not at all. I just don’t want to do it publicly.”
“Where did you come up with that one?”
The truth was, her grandmother. Shari had taken to discussing tactics over coffee. Her grandmother normally just listened, which made her a perfect sounding board. Her grandmother loved being in the know and accepted that what her granddaughter needed most of all was the chance to practice. Occasionally, however, Lizu Khan spoke up. And when she did, it was with ironclad certainty. This had been one of those times.
But what Shari said was, “Watching you, Mr. Menzes. You stand above the fray. If you speak publicly, which is rare in the extreme, you never have anything bad to say about anyone. That doesn’t keep you from declaring Armageddon when it suits you.”
“Armageddon, I like that.”
“Too late,” Emily said. “It’s already been used as a title.”
“Still, it’s got a weight about it. Maybe we should have the snake pit guys fit out a special list of tactics. File them under Armageddon.”
“I’ll see to it,” Emily said, and made a note.
Menzes turned back to Shari. “What you need is one of our tame street-meats.”
“Excuse me?”
Emily answered for him. “He means a talking head.”
“Somebody with clout,” Menzes said. “Somebody who’ll throw a serious punch at our command.”
“They’re mostly second-level pundits,” Emily said. “Consultants, professors, activists, actors, journalists, bloggers, opinionated dentists. They’re all desperate for a chance to shine on their own commentator spot. They would sell their Porsches and mortgage their daughters for a chance to sing our tune.”
Menzes said to Emily, “Have one of Derek’s snakes set her up.”
“Happy to.”
“Anything else?”
They took that as their cue. Shari rose with Emily, who said, “Always a pleasure, boss.”
They made it to the door before Menzes said, “Ms. Khan.”
“Sir?”
“Speak with Gilda on your way out. Have her set you up with your own line.”
A line. As in a line of credit. Otherwise known as an expense account. Shari felt slightly giddy. “Thank you, Mr. Menzes.”
“Tell her I said for you to get usage of our table at The Grill and the Polo Lounge.” He made a process of circular filing the five analyses for the scripts they were passing on. Making sure Shari saw him drop them into the wastebasket. “For the duration.”
Emily waited for her at the elevator. When the doors slid shut, she asked, “Where’s your former boss?”
“Still in traction.” Shari’s voice sounded weak.
“Fair summary of his job security. He won’t be missed, especially by the folks he stole credit from.” Emily leaned against the wall. “I don’t need to warn you not to let this go to your head, do I?”
“N
o.” A breath and the word were enough to refocus the world. “You don’t.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Who else knows? I mean, about you.”
“Leo is my contact in the snake pit. And Derek Steen handles all the really major stuff.” The doors slid open. “But you know what I’m going to say now, don’t you.”
“There is nothing whatsoever for anybody to know,” Shari confirmed.
Emily had a smile as tight and hard as their boss’s. “I always did like a fast learner.”
20
Liz Courtney and Stanley Allcott carried their argument onto the tarmac.
“I’m telling you, I couldn’t spend nine hundred dollars on a suit and ever put the thing on.”
“That is just so like a man.”
“Not to mention the fact that you’ve got me buying four of them.”
“Oh, just get on the plane, Stanley.”
She knew he had intentionally dressed down that morning. Determined to show her he wasn’t about to put on airs. Not even for Bobby Dupree, who had sent his own private jet to pick them up. Stanley’s denims were fashionably pale, but only because he’d washed them about five hundred times. He wore a cowboy shirt as faded as his jeans, and ancient boots whose heels clicked up the metal stairs.
“My truck didn’t cost me nine hundred dollars.”
“Why do you think I’ve insisted on driving us every Thursday?” She prodded him into one of the plush leather seats. “Sit down and buckle up. You’re so big you rob the plane of air.”
“I still don’t understand what we’re doing.”
“I declare, I’ve wrestled broncos that made for more pleasant company. Now just hush up and say hello to the nice man.”
Stanley realized the pilot was watching them and harrumphed. “Hello.”
Liz said to the pilot, “All sweetness and light, that man.”
“Nice to see you again, Ms. Courtney. We’ll be wheels up in about ten minutes. Flying time to Boone is just under three hours.”
“Where?” Stanley asked.
“Stanley. Please.” To the pilot, she said, “At least one of us is very grateful, sir.”