by Davis Bunn
“Call me Zubin. I’m sure there must be something that could lure you away from Galaxy.” He motioned to the distinguishedlooking gentleman seated next to Harv on the limo’s rear-facing seat. “Of course you know our distinguished expert.”
She nodded a greeting to the talking head and replied, “Thanks, Mr. Mikels. I’m happy where I am.”
“Loyalty. How quaint.” He said to his associate, “Why are we still here?”
“Sorry, Zubin.” The junior associate knocked on the black partition glass. When it rolled down, he said, “Let’s move.”
Zubin Mikels had a voice far too resonant for his body. “So, my dear. I have been hearing some very fine things about you.We have an opening on our senior team, and I’m here to see if you might be what we’re looking for.”
“Why don’t you give Natalie a look,” Shari shot back. “I hear she’s soon to be hunting for a job.”
There was a flicker of something deep in those dead black eyes. “Sorry, that name doesn’t ring a bell.”
Shari smiled and did not respond.
“You’re sure you want to turn me down before you even know what it is I’m offering?”
As though on cue, the pundit for hire and Harv, his agent, began a conversation of their own. Shari leaned closer and said, “That’s not why you’re here, Mr. Mikels.”
“Is it not.”
“You’re hitting on me because I’m handling the contract for that loser of a project you’re trying to shop to Galaxy.”
“You obviously are mistaken. I don’t handle losers.”
“Snowbound,” Shari replied. She was close enough to smell the pomade he used in his hair. “A stinker in leather with a gold embossed cover is still a stinker, Mr. Mikels.”
He did not move save to lace his fingers across his belly, which along with his voice was the only part of him that might be called oversized. “Khan. That’s a Pashtun name, is it not?”
“In my case, it’s Iranian, or Persian, as my grandmother prefers to say.”
“Persian, Pashtun. My own family is from the frontier region between Iraq and Turkey. From this distance, it makes us almost cousins.” The smile was more calculated. “Where we come from, Ms. Khan, a handshake and a verbal agreement are still highly valued. Men of honor do not go back on their word. And that is what Sam Menzes gave me on this project. His word.”
“Sam Menzes is the most honorable person in this business.” She was hot over his male arrogance. Men of honor. Huh. “Present company not excluded.”
Back in her office, Emily had warned Shari that agents of Zubin’s caliber seldom made mistakes. But his eastern European pride was pierced by what Shari said, and he made one then. “Obviously Sam was thinking with some other portion of his body than his brain when he hired you.”
Shari discovered something about herself then. She had inherited a trait directly from her grandmother, another little item that had skipped a generation entirely. When her father grew irate, his voice rose until it was higher than his American wife’s. Shari’s grandmother, however, became calm. Quiet. Reserved. And deadly. Shari did not know how her grandfather had been when he was irate, as she had never seen him lose his temper. Or perhaps she had simply been too young to recognize the secret signs. Shari had always been adept at volume and tantrums. Now she realized it was only because she had never been this angry.
Her voice grew so soft she could have sung the words to a sleeping infant. Her entire body was washed in an icy calm. But something clearly came through, because Zubin slid a notch away from her, moving back from the carefully contained explosion.
“Zubin.” She smiled as she said his first name for the first time. “I want you to listen carefully. Sam Menzes agreed to your project in its original form. Which was before Moore Madden, your director, fired a screenwriter with three Oscars under his belt and proceeded to rewrite the story. Now Madden’s nineteen-year-old nymphet of a girlfriend is the heroine, instead of Colin Chapman, the box-office marvel who agreed to the story and now has backed out.”
The young agent said, “Excuse me, Zubin.”
“I’m busy.”
“We’re here, sir.”
“So go.”
“Sir, we’re on air in less—”
“Remind me, Harv. Why is it that you’re here? To handle things, yes? So go handle.” When the pair slid from the door held by the driver, Mikels said, “My client, the director Moore Madden, is one of the hottest names in the business.”
“If that’s the case, I’m sure you won’t have any problem schlepping this across town.”
He toyed with his jacket’s middle button. “There has been no mention of casting the female lead.”
“Come on, Zubin. Men of honor don’t lie to one another. Isn’t that what you just told me?”
His expression hardened. “So what’s on offer?”
“Galaxy insists on final script approval. The director drops any intention of co-writing credits. He also drops his lady from any role in this project.”
“I can perhaps work out something on the former. But his lady stays.”
“Not even in the lunchroom, Zubin. She’s out. If she wants to make her mark, she’ll do it legitimately and not on Mr. Menzes’ dime.” Shari gave Zubin a moment to object, then went on, “And one more thing. The original screenwriter is back on the project. And it’s your job to resell the project to Colin Chapman.”
“He’s filming somewhere. Rome, I think.”
“Actually, it’s Hungary. I hear it’s lovely this time of year. Who knows, maybe you’ll take a few days off, travel farther east, go see the clan.”
“We’ve got a better name in mind for your project’s starring role.”
“Let’s get this straight, Zubin. Right now there is no project. Menzes has Chapman’s production company on long-term contract. Chapman wanted the original script as his next vehicle. So it was green-lighted. Then your Moore Madden began his rewrite, and the whole thing unwound. If you want this thing to move, you have to get us the original script and the original star. And no ladyfriend. She is gone. Finished. Buried.”
Zubin’s gaze had gone slit-thin. “Young lady, there is an important lesson you’ve not managed to learn in your meteoric rise. You don’t make enemies in this town. Too often, they’re the allies you need on the next go-round.”
Shari opened her door. “I guess that’s one memo your interoffice spy forgot to copy me on.”
Shari was still steaming as she entered the television studio’s lobby. The place was jammed with casting agents and starlets applying for a job on a hospital soap opera, the company’s latest hit. Shari rammed her way through, exuding such force the crowd parted ten feet in advance of her passage. Harv, the junior agent, blanched at whatever he found in her face.
Shari demanded, “Where is our guy?”
“He’s in makeup.”
“Don’t tell me, Harv. Move.”
“Sure. Right.” He gave her the same sort of look she had just garnered from Zubin. As in, who is this woman? At any other time, she might have actually enjoyed it.
Harv knocked on the makeup room door. Shari, however, did not wait. She pushed in. The makeup guy said, “You mind?”
“I need a minute.”
“We’re on in three and I’m still—”
“I need a minute now.” She stepped forward, then turned around and gave a viper’s smile. “Help us out and guard that door, Harv. From the outside.”
Shari turned back. Maybe in time she’d learn to compartmentalize. Right then, however, she did not see a distinguished expert on film trends, impeccably dressed and groomed. Instead, she saw just another man who stood between her and her goals. “I need to go over a couple of items with you.”
He had recently become famous introducing cinematic hits from the fifties on the Menzes archive-film channel, and doing occasional spots on entertainment shows about by-gone celebrities. He was a man on the rise, and he knew it. He probably did not m
ean to come across as patronizing as he patted his silvergray hair and said, “Oh, I’m sure you’ll do fine just leaving that to me. I’ve got several great ideas about what I’ll—”
He stopped because Shari had taken hold of the napkin tucked into his shirt collar. She had to do something, and it was either crumple the napkin or take hold of his neck and squeeze. But the tone of her voice never changed. A soft, melodic rush. “Listen very carefully. I want you to go out there and hammer two points.” She rolled the napkin into a tighter and tighter ball, the effort straining the muscles from her wrist to her jaw. “One, that their take on Daniel Boone is the same line of heroic rubbish that we’ve been spoon-fed by romantic historical junkies for decades. But America has moved beyond that. We’re after a new history. The one that talks about Indians as a noble race that was decimated and left to rot. Now do you have that or do I need to go over it again?”
“I had rather thought—”
Shari got in very close.
So close, in fact, she could hear the rise and fall of his swallow. “And here is the other point you must make. This other production company is so raw they don’t even have a name. Variety recently ran an article suggesting this upstart runs on a shoestring budget. That’s by far the most important thing you can say right now. They’re a nothing group and they’re working on a shoestring. They’re nobody. Now tell me you have that.”
Another swallow, then, “Yes.”
Shari took a step back. “Good. Now go out there and bury them with all the polish you can manage.”
22
Candace Chen had flown into Asheville, North Carolina, the evening before. After spending the night at an airport hotel, she had driven four hours west. Arriving on location, she met the director of photography on the path leading to Brent’s trailer. The DP’s face was pink from the outdoor work he’d been doing the past few weeks. His features were also mobile in a distinctly English way.
“Candace Chen, as I live and breathe,” he greeted her.
“Mr. Wright, I’ve admired your work for years.”
“Now, now, I’m much too old for you to be wasting your charm on me.”
“It’s true, though.”
“Far be it from me to turn down an honest compliment.” He took her proffered hand in both of his. “It’s not often I have the chance to shake the hand of a true Hollywood legend. The only woman in living memory to wrest a script away from Sam Menzes.”
“It cost me everything.”
“If you’ll forgive me for correcting you, Ms. Chen. I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. Honor, my dear lady. It’s a priceless quality. One you can’t buy, or build, or steal.” He seemed genuinely reluctant to let go of her hand. “May I say, Ms. Chen, I’m looking forward to having a right old time turning this fine work of yours into an even finer film.”
“Thank you.” She hefted the script she held in her other hand. “I’ve just this morning finished the final changes requested by Celia and Brent.”
Trevor Wright’s attitude went through a distinct change. “Brent must be looking forward to getting hold of them, so I won’t keep you. But do look me up and let’s have ourselves a chat, will you? There are a number of points I’d love to cover with you at my elbow.”
Candace tried to tell herself there wasn’t a warning in the man’s final look. Climbing the stairs to Brent’s trailer, she heard the generators thrumming on the other side of the pines. As though they echoed a rising sense of fear.
She stepped inside and was greeted by Brent’s reflection in a three-sided mirror. “Candace, good, I was just going to send somebody to find you.”
She exchanged brief smiles with the makeup artist with metallic curls. “Jerry asked me to tell you the crew will be ready in ten. Oh, and your two friends have arrived.”
“Do me a favor, will you, Candace? When we’re done, go introduce yourself to Stanley and Liz and bring them to the gathering point. I won’t have a chance to speak with them until later.”
“No problem.” She set the script on the makeup table. “We’re good to go. At least I think we are. The green plastic tabs mark the rewritten scenes.”
“I’m sure your work is excellent.” He waited until the makeup lady with the amazing helmet of hair pulled the napkin from his neck. “Thanks, Rachel.”
“You are more than welcome.” She patted his shoulder. “Trevor was right, you know. About everything.”
“We’ll see.” Brent waited until Rachel had left and shut the door, then slid a slim folder to rest beside Candace’s script. “Take as much time as you like. But if you’re going to stay here on the set, you’re going to have to sign the document.”
She felt the liquid fear congeal. “What?”
“There’s a reason why directors don’t generally allow a screenwriter on the set. It’s because they can’t let go of their work. But what we’re trying to do here is buck a lot of trends. I’m willing to go against this one as well. But only if you sign that document.” He tapped the folder. “It says you are turning over all decisions to me. That we have a shooting script and you are no longer in control of what happens. From this point on, the script is mine. Control is mine. Decisions as to what gets changed are mine and mine alone.”
Candace felt herself split into two people. One of them shrieked a silent panic note. All the nightmare fears had been taken from the dark of her volcanic nights and compressed into a slender manila folder.
The other, however, whispered that she could trust this man.
Candace wanted to tell the quieter side of herself that it was impossible. But she had spent the past few weeks learning the same thing about a woman named Celia Breach. That all actors were not created with equal measures of slimy deceit. If she could trust an actress, why not a director?
No, her other voice screamed. Never. Not this.
She looked from the folder to the man. Brent wore a deerskin shirt and trousers. His frontier boots rose from leather soles to supple leggings that were lashed to his ankles and shins. He might be dressed like an actor on location. But he was every inch a director. Calm. Resolute. In total control.
She licked her lips. “I-If I sign?”
“Celia has offered to share her trailer with you. You’ll be either here or back at the Wilmington soundstage, wherever we feel scenes need more work. You’ll be welcome to speak with me about any changes I’m considering. But you must agree not to discuss any such decision with anyone else, and once the decision is made, you won’t discuss it at all.”
He gave her half a beat, then said, “Pray on it, why don’t you. But if it takes you longer than tonight to decide, I’ll have to ask you to come no closer than the motel.”
Liz Courtney stood on a trailer porch that smelled of freshly sawn wood. Everything had a raw, bustling look. Stanley leaned on the railing and squinted into the sunlight. The winter appeared over. Birdsong drifted upon a softly perfumed breeze.
The production encampment was in a field connected to the highway by a newly graveled road. Somewhere to Liz’s left, behind a hedge of towering pines, drummed a battalion of generators. The field now housed a dozen massive trailers and piles of equipment.
Landing Bobby’s plane had required every inch of the runway in Boone, North Carolina. They had traveled west from there, across the Tennessee state line, into tight-rimmed valleys with jagged ridgelines and rocky clefts. The low-altitude hardwood forests were just beginning to show a minty trace of spring. The ridgelines were dominated by towering pines, some of the biggest she had ever seen.
Jerry Orbain, whom she had last seen doing his investigative work in Austin, had been there to greet them. The diminutive man had only responded to direct questions, and then as tersely as possible. Liz had gathered he was present because Bobby Dupree had ordered it, and saw the duty as beneath him. She learned they were traveling into Cumberland frontier territory. They were south of a national forest, north and west of an American Indian reservation. Twice she saw deer grazing bes
ide the road.
The woman who now approached their trailer was not lean so much as taut. Her dark hair was caught in a bundle at the nape of her neck, her checked shirt rolled away from strong hands. “Ms. Courtney? I’m Candace Chen.”
“How do you do. May I introduce Reverend Allcott.”
“Stanley,” he corrected. “An honor, Ms. Chen. Brent has talked very highly of you and your work.”
Liz might be surrounded by a world of strangeness, but she knew a troubled woman when she saw one. “Is everything all right, Ms. Chen?”
“Call me Candace. Fine. Why?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just …”
Stanley took up the slack. “You look troubled, is all. And the young man who met us at the airport.”
“Jerry Orbain.”
“Right. He seemed to share your expression.”
“Jerry is Jerry.” She clearly did not like being compared to the young man. “I’m sorry it shows. Brent asked me to take you over to the gathering. Not unload on you.”
“Liz and I have a lot of experience being there for others, Candace.”
Liz asked, “Is there any way we might help?”
Candace Chen appeared blasted by elements stronger than most people ever endured. Liz had seen the same taut expression in cowhands and oilmen, folks accustomed to handling impossible situations in worse weather. She recalled what Brent had described of her background, living on the edge of lava land, and said, “There is nothing harder for a strong person than admitting they need a helping hand.”
Candace rapidly blinked her dark eyes and held determinedly to control. “Thanks for your concern. But I’ll manage.”
“Of course you will.” Liz risked a brisk pat on the woman’s shoulder. “But just know, if there’s anything we can do, feel free.”
“Thanks. Please come this way.” They walked from the trailer that acted as a front office and staging room to the set. “Who are you anyway?”
“Friends of Brent. Stanley runs his AA program back in Austin. I was partner in his business.”