My Soul to Keep

by Davis Bunn

  “We stocked up on some fresh sandwiches and the coffee is brewing. You folks help yourselves.”

  When the cabin door shut, Liz said, “You were saying?”

  “You never wrestled a bronco.”

  “Caught, wrestled, branded, broke. My daddy was a lover of the west country. He taught me because I wanted to learn.”

  The private jet taxied and whooshed into the air with a sports car’s zoom. Stanley’s eyes widened at the experience. “This sure ain’t Delta.”

  “Are you going to play nice?”

  “I would if you’d get off my back about those suits.”

  “Stanley, I want you to be still for just a second and pay attention. You think it’s a fancy banker talking to you. You think I’m suggesting you put on airs. And that’s not it at all. You’re going to be a pastor again, Stanley. Of a church with twelve thousand members.”

  “At least I will be until they discover who it is they’ve actually hired.” He sounded like a bearish nine-year-old.

  She surprised them both by reaching over. “Give me your hand.”

  His eyes grew suspicious. “Why?”

  “Because you’re a dear sweet man and I want to hold it.”

  He did as he was told. And sat looking at the fingers suddenly intertwined with his own. “How am I supposed to argue with you now?”

  “Stanley, I’m not trying to build a lie, and that’s what’s scaring you. You’re afraid of becoming the fraud you made yourself into the last time you took the pulpit. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “No. You’re right.”

  “But those deacons who hired you know what I know, Stanley. You’ve grown beyond that. I remember how you were before. You always dressed nice for Sundays. You said it was honoring the place and the people.”

  “You said it yourself. I’m different now.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t take the good from your past. What worked well. What made you such an engaging minister.”

  “I don’t dress for Wednesdays, and I’m at the pulpit then.”

  “And you don’t have to there. But Sundays are different.” She studied the man, the craggy features, the strength, the miracles. “You could use a haircut too.”

  “Don’t press your luck.”

  “And a facial.”

  He started to bark again, until he caught her smile. “You had me going there.”

  “I know a fabulous nail specialist. She could do up your pinkie in sequins.”

  Stanley took a firmer grip on her hand. “I never thanked you, Liz. Giving up the church you’ve been a member at since …”

  “Only church I’ve ever known. My husband and I met because our parents were founding members.”

  “I didn’t know that. Or maybe I did and forgot.” He reached over so he could add his second hand to the mix. “I would have never done this without you.”

  Her response was cut off by the pilot opening the door. He caught sight of how they were seated and said to the co-pilot, “I guess it’s okay to take off the Kevlar now.” He went on to Liz, “Mr. Dupree is on the line, ma’am. He’d like to have a word.”

  “Do I come forward?”

  “Handset is in your armrest.”

  She pulled out the phone and said, “Bobby?”

  “Howdy, Liz. They taking good care of you?”

  She smiled at Stanley. “Everything is fine.”

  “Looks like I won’t be able to join you after all. Wildfires breaking out everywhere. The reverend with you?”

  “Right beside me.”

  “I know you’re going because Brent asked you to come. But he did it because I asked him to. Here’s what I’d like to see happen. There are nine Shoestring investors from the Houston and Dallas prayer groups. They’d appreciate hearing what you folks discover while you’re down there.”

  “I don’t know the first thing about making a film.”

  “I know that and so do they. I’ve got my accountants ready to sit down with you tomorrow morning and walk you through the numbers. But what’s more important is just to get your impressions and share them with the group.”

  “They haven’t known us long enough to accept our impressions.”

  Bobby’s smile came through at thirty thousand feet. “Sorry, Liz. But that’s where you’re wrong.”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Come on in, Trevor. Shut the door, will you?”

  “Certainly.” Brent Stark, director and star, was “in the chair,” as they said in Hollywood. The chair being the padded stool placed before the three-sided makeup mirror. They had managed to bring in a top-flight artist, Rachel Drewe, another of those drawn from the long list of unwilling early retirees. Hollywood was like the rest of America, as far as Trevor was concerned, much too willing to cast experience on the refuse heap and embrace the youth, the latest, the fad.

  Trevor remained mildly astonished at the team they had pulled together in such a short time. If he had any complaint, it was how the crew was either grayheads like himself or so young they looked scarcely able to drive, much less handle the rigors of a feature shoot. Yet even here the chemistry was already working. Those aged and experienced, burned by LA life, were balanced nicely against the fresh-faced hyperactive young hopefuls, many of whom were believers. The elders were kept from clustering and turning cynical. The youth were reined in from dangerous excesses.

  Trevor was, to say the very least, astonished.

  “I’m worried,” Brent said.

  Trevor leaned against the doorjamb. Crossed his arms. And did his best to hide how pleased he was to be taken into the boss’s confidence. “I take that as a good sign.”

  Brent asked the makeup lady, “How much longer will you be?”

  “A few minutes still.” For some unfathomable reason, Rachel Drewe had died her dark hair a shade that reminded Trevor of a polished two-penny coin. Somewhere between red and copper, so metallic he could almost catch his reflection. She wore it short and determinedly curled. Rachel dabbed at Brent’s chin, inspected her work in the mirror, then wiped it off. “This is your first scene, first take. It’s not a day to skimp on time. We want to get this shade exactly right. You’ll be wearing it for the next eighteen weeks.”

  Trevor said, “Anything you want to say won’t go any further.”

  Rachel agreed. “Makeup artists who can’t keep secrets tend not to be hired again.”

  “I’m good with actors,” Brent said. “I’m good with scripts. But I’m worried about my ability to choose shots.”

  “We’re going with the right one here, mate.”

  “It’s kept me up all night. Starting with this big of a scene. Maybe it’d be better if we held off, just for a few days, and shot something tight and easy.”

  “First of all, no shot is easy. Second, we’re not shooting for the cameras.”

  “An interesting take on things, seeing as how it’s coming from my DP.”

  “That’s what you hired me for, mate. And here’s a lifetime behind the lens distilled into one take. You want everybody on board. Not for the day. For the season. So you start with a bang. Maybe the sound is a little muffled. Maybe the light isn’t perfect. Maybe you look back in ten weeks’ time and wish you’d done something about the shoot entirely different. That’s not what’s important here.”

  Trevor walked over. Moved in tight enough to fill the director’s vision. “You want a big scene at the top. You want people to go away tonight thinking and talking and all saying the same thing. You’re after a wow. You want your crew to believe . Believe in you, believe in the story, believe they’re working on a hit. When your gaffers join in and sing your chorus, you know you’ve got a winner.”

  Rachel dabbed his forehead and said, “He’s right, you know.”

  Brent stared at his reflection and said nothing.

  “You’ve rehearsed this take for what, five days?”

  “Four. Maybe we should go one more.”

  “No, mate. No. I
said five only because the days have been so long.” Trevor hesitated, then gave a mental shrug. In for a penny, in for the whole ride, his dear old mum liked to say. “I’m sticking my neck out here, saying things before we’ve shot our first scene. But now’s as good a time as next week. I’ve been in this business a long time. Started as a lighting drone on a potboiler called Panama Jack.”

  “I saw that movie. I was ten. It was pretty awful.”

  “Pay attention to the here and now. What I meant to say was, in all my days, I’ve never had a director show such respect to the DP, and listen. I insisted on being the judge of quality whenever you were in front of the camera. You agreed not to go near the monitor. I suggested you limit the amount of basic rehearsal and move to working on the set.”

  “You were right. We’ve got a high-action film, which means it’s camera driven and set driven, not script driven.”

  “I wish you could hear yourself. Telling a DP he’s right. Directors don’t do that.”

  “This one does.”

  “That’s right, mate. You do. And so believe me when I tell you, it’s not just me who is noticing the difference. This crew is looking for a reason to believe in you and in this project. So go out there and shoot the big bang.”

  Brent waited while the makeup lady set the plastic cone around his face and sprayed his hair. Then, “Bobby wants me to start with a group prayer time.”

  “I’d go one better. I think you should stand up there and give them a little devotional. Those who don’t share our faith know what they’re working on and who our backers are.”

  “I feel like I’d be living a lie.”

  “No, mate. I’m sorry, but you’re wrong there. You’d be lying if you masked where you’ve been and who you are as a result. But if you stand and give them honest, why, who knows what might happen.”

  Brent looked at him then. And let his naked fear show through.

  Trevor was far too much the reserved Brit to give in to his first impulse, which was to walk over and embrace the man. So he made do with, “My first DP, the man who gave me a leg up in this trade, used to say, ‘First you shoot the schedule, then the script, and if there’s any time left you shoot the art.’ I’m sticking my neck out here, but my gut tells me we might turn that adage on its ear. It’s touch and go to be making predictions before the cameras roll. But I’m thinking we just might shoot more than a picture here. I’m hoping and praying that we’ll make history.”

  21

  The changes kept coming fast and furious to Shari’s life. Perks sprouted like desert blooms after an unexpected rain. Her third-floor office was shifted to a corner spot. The old occupant vanished along with his name off the door, guillotine-clean. Shari shared a secretary now with the forensic accountant assigned to Iron Feather, but since he was off counting rubles or whatever the Hungarian currency was, Shari possessed her very own lackey. The woman’s name was Natalie. Shari did not like her. Natalie’s otherwise blank expression was marred by a barely veiled contempt. Shari kept her around for two reasons. First, Shari was not entrenched enough to begin shifting personnel. Second, she liked the reminder in Natalie’s eyes, the warning that one false step and this would be her fate, resigned to the rubble heap of broken dreams, fetching coffee and hunting down street-meat for a younger, luckier person climbing the slippery ladder.

  Another change was her phone.

  Shari had given her cell phone number to maybe ten friends. On a normal day, or what passed for normal until the previous week, she might have two messages. Now the message box was constantly blinking full. She emptied it every morning and by noon it could accept nothing more. She was getting pitched story ideas by the truckload.

  And being invited everywhere. By people she had never heard of before.

  Another change was the pink slips.

  There was a certain irony to Sam Menzes’ choice of color for his handwritten interoffice notes. He wrote them on the same pad Derek Steen used for firings. The first one had arrived the afternoon following her meeting with Menzes and Emily. Shari would have wailed aloud had she been able to find the breath.

  Then she read the scrawled message. Handle this. It was attached to a printout of an email from an angry New England distributor whose copy of Galaxy’s latest hit had arrived scrambled, with one incorrectly labeled reel, which they had only discovered in the middle of a packed showing on opening night. Shari had arranged for air shipment of a new edition, then personally spoken with the man and comped him and his family for a weekend bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. She waited for something, a query or comment or anything, from Menzes, but heard nothing more. Except another such memo. And another. And another.

  She was handling another crisis when her secretary’s head popped into her office and said, “There’s an agency limo at the gates asking for you.”

  Shari cupped her hand over the receiver. “CAA sent their tame commentator by limo? I didn’t agree to cover that.”

  “You want me to check?”

  “No. Tell them I’ll be right down.” Shari rang off, gathered two scripts and a contract all bearing the terse pink queries, and grabbed her purse. As she passed Natalie’s desk, she said, “I don’t know when and I don’t know where.”

  Natalie responded with a snide little, “Whatever.”

  Shari popped out the front door, then stopped in midstride. A thought caused her to veer right and head for the Tombs.

  She marched into Emily’s office and waited while Emily lightly basted a sweating techie from their computer-effects division.

  When the kid fled, Emily said, “They were given a thirtysecond gap in our latest Pixar-style film and turned it into a month-long assignment that’s currently costed at ninety-one thousand dollars.”

  “How do you keep your low profile and still manage to rip them apart?”

  “All he knows is I’m helping him keep his job. Which is true. The problem with firing the current generation of geeks is the next one is no better.” She sighed. “Have a seat.”

  “Can’t. Got a limo at the gates.” Shari grinned. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  Emily smiled back. “It’s a rough gig, but hey, somebody’s got to keep the drivers busy.”

  Shari handed over the contract Menzes had sent down that morning. “You seen this?”

  Emily took it and flipped through the pages. “No.”

  “It’s a CAA star.”

  “I’m not sure Sam would want this being shown around.”

  “I’m not showing it around. I’m showing it to you.”

  “You sure know the way to this girl’s heart.” Emily handed the contract back. “So what’s the issue?”

  “We’re shooting the talking head this morning. He’s handled by CAA. At first I thought the agency was just padding his expenses, sending him in a limo. But now I’m wondering.”

  “That’s the way you keep your head in this town.”

  “But they haven’t seen this.” Shari shook the contract. “How would they know I’m handling it?”

  “Maybe they’re just guessing. Or maybe …”

  “They’ve got a mole,” Shari finished. “In Sam’s office.”

  “Or on your floor. Who brought you the contract?”

  “No idea. It was on my desk this morning… .” Shari snapped her fingers. “Natalie.”

  “Who?”

  “My secretary.”

  “Ah.” Emily nodded. “It’s all becoming clear. Natalie was in PR. She mishandled a big one, and in a very big way.”

  “Derek probably assigned her to me as a warning.”

  Emily thought a moment. “Let me see the contract again.” She flipped the pages, then said, “Okay. The agent in charge is one Zubin Mikels. I know him.”

  Emily picked up the phone and dialed. “Front gate? Let me speak to Jules. Jules, hey, it’s Emily. Yeah, not bad. You? Great. Look. There’s a limo waiting … yeah, that one. Do me a favor, hon. Go out and say Ms. Khan has been held up
a moment by Mr. Menzes, she just wanted to let them know she’s coming as soon as the boss finishes up. Yeah, that’ll cool them off. No, wait, there’s something else. Take a look in the back of the limo. See if there’s a round little slimeball in a ten-thousand-dollar suit with shoes the size of ballerina slippers back there. Yeah, I’ll wait.”

  She drummed her fingers for a second, then, “Is that so. Okay, dearie. I owe you. No, I don’t owe you that much.” Emily hung up the phone. “Bingo.”

  “What do I do?” Shari asked.

  When they had worked their way through the contract, Shari rose and said, “What was it you said to the guard? I owe you.”

  “You better believe it.”

  She started for the door, hesitated, then turned back. “Why me? It should be you going for the brass ring.”

  In that moment, Emily aged fifteen years. “I broke one of the cardinal rules in this town. I fell in love with the wrong man.”

  “An actor?”

  “No, honey. A guy who didn’t stay invincible. He’s sick and he’s going to stay sick and we need a stable paycheck more than I need a chance to go for the gold.”

  “I’m sorry, Emily.”

  Her smile was twisted with old pain. “It’s all smoke and mirrors anyway, right?”

  There were three men in the back of the limo, but Shari knew instantly which one was Zubin. The agent had a smarmy expression, dead fish eyes, olive complexion, and dark oily hair.

  “Shari Khan. Always a pleasure to be kept waiting by a lovely lady. Isn’t that what I was telling you, Harv?”

  “Sure, Zubin,” the younger man agreed. “That’s what you said.”

  “Meet my associate, Harv. Harv, say hello to the newest star in the Galaxy, isn’t that what Variety claimed?” He had tight, even teeth and feet the size of an infant’s. His legs were too short to reach the limo’s padded carpet, so they stuck out slightly, their diminutive size accented by hand-stitched Italian lace-ups polished to a midnight shine. He patted the seat next to him. “Come make an old man happy. Let me read your fortune.”

  “I’ll accept the seat, Mr. Mikels. But Sam Menzes is my destiny maker.”