by Davis Bunn
“If you say so.”
He tapped a speck of green in the sea. “I thought maybe we’d sail around Catalina Island.”
“Why stop there? Why not Hawaii?”
He rewarded her with another secret laugh. “Permission to kiss the helmsman.”
They returned home in a roundabout fashion, coming into view of land well south of the harbor. Shari had dozed off, warmed by the late afternoon sun, sprawled on the cushioned bench that framed the stern deck. Twice Jason had suggested she go below. But she had no intention of missing any moment of the day. Even when asleep. She knew it did not make any sense, but Jason understood enough to laugh. Shari carried the sound into slumber.
She did not sleep so much as travel the waves on a different level. The sun finally tickled her salt-brushed nose. She sneezed and sat up.
“I was just about to wake you.”
She rose and stretched. “That was a delicious sleep.”
He smiled, understanding. “Sometimes I sneak out here and bunk on the boat just so I can wake up to the sound of the water, even if it’s just the harbor.”
She moved over beside him. “Where are we?”
“Coming up on Marina del Rey.”
The crashing surf created a rim of smoky white. Above it rose the ochre hills and waving palms. The houses of the rich and famous beckoned from the hillsides, their windows turned to defiant shields by the westering sun.
He reached for her hand and drew her close. Jason wrapped the arm not holding the wheel around her neck and pointed to the highest of the hills. It rose like a steep cone, crowned by a steel and glass sculpture to success. “That’s my home.”
“All of that?” The day was too fine to hide her astonishment. “It looks like an apartment building.”
“It’s big and it’s beautiful,” he conceded. “But it’s also lonely.”
Her heart went from barely awake to overdrive. “Oh, come on.”
“You’re too careful not to have checked. You know I don’t play the Hollywood field.”
“I know you’ve had a string of models and stars.”
“I’ve tried with a few,” he agreed. “Somehow it hasn’t worked like I’d hoped. I’d almost given up. For the past sixteen months, Valerie has been my mistress.”
“Who?”
He patted the wheel. “The one lady I have never shared with anyone before today. This was as far as I hoped to make it. Down from the marina and back again. Instead …” His arm drew her tighter still. “I know this might feel rushed, but … Move in with me, Shari. Make that lonely hilltop our haven.”
Jason’s unanswered invitation loomed between them as they returned to the city. Shari did not hold back her response because she was tempted to refuse. She did it simply to savor the moment. Draw it out in a way that she could only describe as her feminine right.
Jason drove an oversized Land Rover, the back stuffed with sailing gear. She laid her head on the leather headrest and breathed the tangy sea air that remained only in her head. From time to time she glanced over at this man, strong enough to not press her for an answer. She thought of all the men she had been with before, all the mistakes that had seemed so right at the moment. She shut her eyes to the memories. They both had secrets that would only eat like worms at the day’s specialness.
They were on the freeway when he glanced at his watch and asked, “Mind if I turn on my phone?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“I had no idea we would be out this long. And I’m supposed to be available for a deal breaker of a call.”
She knew the moment had to end sometime. But now that the time had come, she felt a hollow sorrow. “Go ahead.”
The instant he hit the switch, the message bell chimed. He fitted the Bluetooth earpiece into place, held the phone by the wheel, and coded the Message button.
It was ridiculous to think the day’s splendor could vanish in the space of a sigh. But that was exactly how it seemed. Jason shifted from sea-bound freedom to the chains of business in one breath. He snapped the phone shut and said, “I need to do this, Shari.”
“So go.”
He reopened the phone, dialed the number, and spoke in a voice she hardly recognized. “Make it fast.”
Shari turned her head to the window and pretended to watch the zipping cars, tattered houses, and businesses that topped the concrete walls. She kept her head turned away when he finally cut the connection and tossed both phone and earpiece into the center console. “Sorry, sorry.”
“Jason, please.”
“Today of all days.”
His regret was palpable, so strong she found it possible to ease herself around and say, “I have a problem. At least, my grandmother thinks so.”
“About us?”
“No. Business.”
He grinned at her. “You had me worried there.”
She told him about the morning’s newscast and the coverage given Bobby Dupree and the burned studio. Jason’s nodding rocked his upper body. “I saw it. Twice, as a matter of fact.”
She waited for him to ask if she’d had anything to do with it, and liked immensely that the question, even if just thought, did not register on his features. “Grandmother thinks they are still a threat.”
“They’ve lost their sound stage, probably their wardrobe.”
“That’s what I told her.”
“Even if they were working in Culver City and had a whole industry to call on, I doubt they could make up the lost time.”
She caught the hesitation because she was listening for it. “So give me the other half.”
“Your grandmother is one amazing lady.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“It couldn’t hurt to check it out. Do you have eyes on the ground?”
“I could.”
“If it were me, I’d go to Menzes and Steen both. Tell them you’re not worried. Nothing that strong.”
“Just want to make sure.”
“That’s it. And I’d have a backup plan ready in case they ask What if?”
She nodded slowly. “My grandmother thinks you’re Jewish.”
Jason laughed, and once more the day’s delight returned. “What a dame.”
“Are you?”
“Half. My mom. Pop was just a Baltimore portside mongrel—part gypsy, part pirate, if you want to believe my mom. He split when I was eleven. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”
“She said you were Sephardi.”
“Wow.”
“Are you?”
“I have no idea. I’ll call Mom and ask.” He pulled up in front of her apartment building. “You know what I’d like?”
“Tell me.”
“If your grandmother joined us for dinner on a regular basis. We make it Lizu’s night, part of our weekly routine. Take her out to someplace special. We sit and we walk through the week. Yours and mine. We get her take on this world. I bet we’d learn some incredible things, Shari.”
She leaned over and kissed the point where his jawline met his hair. “I’ll go up and pack an overnight bag.We can come back tomorrow for the rest of my things.”
32
Shari held vivid memories of what it was like to do the work and receive no credit. So the first words out of her mouth were, “Leo has come through again.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Their morning meetings were not daily events. But they were becoming such common practice that Menzes’ secretary no longer even asked if she had an appointment. She simply nodded Shari through. Gilda was typical of senior executive secretaries, protective of their bosses and jealous of their position. She responded to Shari with barely veiled hostility and made a habit of sniffing at some point in almost every conversation. Shari assumed it was because she represented opportunities Gilda either never had or failed to capitalize on. So she spent a moment when she could, discussing items that were not confidential or explaining precisely the purpose behind the meeting. Gilda would ne
ver be an ally. But she also never kept her waiting unnecessarily.
Derek Steen was off fighting battles in other lands, so Shari met that morning with Sam Menzes and his new assistant, a young woman named Beatrice or Elizabeth or something. It was hard to believe this bright-eyed young thing was only a year or so younger than Shari. She watched Shari from the corner beside Sam’s desk with an expression akin to awe.
“Shoestring is going for it,” Shari told him.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Leo was so shocked by the news he flew out himself. He thought the people he’d referred to me were just extending their paycheck. He phoned last night. They’re not only filming. They’re editing as they go.”
Menzes did not take the news well. “They’re intending to beat our release date.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Can we move ours up?”
“Not with Solish as director.” Raul Solish was a phenomenon within the industry, known for drawing the best work from his actors and milking mood from the Gobi Desert of scripts. But he was also a perfectionist, which in the past had caused horrendous delays. Menzes had hired him only after Solish agreed to a contract stating any extra days of filming would be taken from Solish’s final paycheck. The director’s agent claimed his claw marks were still visible in Menzes’ carpet, as he was dragged kicking and screaming into the deal.
“Talk to Solish,” Menzes said. “Explain the situation.”
“Should I go through his agent?”
“No, I want you to tell him personally.”
“Solish is in Hungary.”
“That’s right. Tell him about the Shoestring situation. The guy is a lot of things, but dumb is not one of them. Explain that the timing has become crucial.”
Shari blinked. “I’d like to set some things in motion here first.”
“Such as?”
Her response was slow in coming. Flying her over to discuss a timing issue with a world-class director meant a definite change. What precisely the change was, she could not say. But Sam Menzes did not like to be kept waiting, so she hustled together her thoughts. “I’d like to use some of the guard dogs penned downstairs. Have them contact their allies in the system and send out a dire warning. How a Shoestring success would cost them all.”
“Imagine a world where our system doesn’t function,” Menzes agreed. “Where the star they represent doesn’t rule.
Where pay scales are slashed to the bone.”
“Where they can’t play like they want,” Shari added. “Or live like they want. Where they’re judged by their behavior as well as their work on the screen.”
“I like it. Have them put out the warning in the strongest possible terms. Say it comes directly from me. But since it’s the snake pit we’re talking about, you need to stress that we don’t want any direct attacks. No smoking gun that can be traced back to us. There’s too great a risk that the troubles they’ve had recently will be dumped in our laps. We clear on that?”
“Perfectly.” Shari knew a dismissal when she heard one. But she remained where she was, held by a sudden thought.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to have Emily come with me. To Hungary.”
Sam had not been expecting this. “Explain.”
“I could tell you it’s so we can discuss the new Snowbound script with Colin. And we might as well, if we’re going to be there. But the truth is, I owe her.”
Sam’s eyes tightened in that momentary smile. “You play it straight with me.”
“Always.”
“I like that. Okay. Make it happen.”
“Thank you, Sam.” It was the first time she had ever used his first name. “A lot.”
His voice tracked her across the office. “Tell your team to make it clear the warning comes straight from me. Anybody who promotes this Shoestring picture, they’ll never again set foot on our studio lot. They even say the word shoestring and they’re toast.”
Once again the unexpected drew her to a halt. “My team?”
He liked the fact that she had caught it the first time. She could tell. “Tell Leo I said to assign you some people. Do you want an intern?”
She gripped the knob to hold herself steady. “I don’t have enough to keep my secretary busy.”
“I expect that to change.”
The moment’s intensity clarified the nightmare whispers that had repeatedly robbed her of sleep. “What happens if they make it happen? Shoestring, I mean. What if, despite everything, they come up with a finished product, and on time?”
There was no trace of his former good humor. “That’s why I want your team in place. And ready. To deal with that very threat.”
There was only one word to describe their trip to Hungary.
Stunning.
For a while, it looked like Jason might be able to join them. But an unforeseen disaster with one of his clients, a hyper young woman who responded to being dropped from Hollywood’s Alist by shoplifting almost forty thousand dollars worth of furs and jewels from Saks, left him commuting from the Beverly Hills courts to the jail in LA County.
Shari missed him, but she was not altogether sorry that he had not come along. This way, she was the star. Not the star in front of the camera, with a billion pairs of eyes watching her every move. But a star just the same.
Budapest was a jewel box filled with old Europe treasures. If there was a better place to travel on a Hollywood-size budget, Shari could not imagine it. She and Emily shared a two-bedroom suite in a former royal palace that was now the latest prize in the Mandarin Hotel chain. The concierge downstairs in the lobby was for peons. They had their own butler. All Shari needed was to express the first word of a wish, and it was done. Poof. The prime minister’s box at the opera. The finest table in a restaurant booked years in advance. For their treks through the city, they had a vintage Rolls that had once belonged to the British embassy and used to ferry visiting dignitaries, including Churchill.
For their forays into the countryside, they had a chopper.
What was more, the film folks treated it as normal.
She was out there doing business for Sam Menzes. Of course she was given the best of everything. After all, before they wrapped, Iron Feather would cost the studio ninety-seven million dollars. All this money had to be spent in less than eight months. Speed was everything. Of course she had a chopper.
For his location headquarters, Raul Solish had taken over what in France would have been called a manse. Shari had no idea what the farm enclave would be called in Hungary. But the ancient stone chateau was presently filled to overflowing with frenetic Hollywood energy. They sat in what, according to Solish, had once had been a count’s library, the central table blanketed with equipment and cables.
Solish responded to the prospect of an upstart company stealing his film’s thunder like a pro. He watched Shari tie up her dealings with her snake pit team via satellite phone—cell phones had not made it this far into the eastern European countryside—and accepted the threat as both real and now.
Solish liked to rough-cut as he shot, which gave him a chance to reshoot anything that did not fit precisely with his vision. The downside was obvious; any change in direction meant extra shots and huge overruns, not to mention the threat of his becoming absorbed in his editing and losing a day. Or a week.
He showed them rough cuts of three scenes, all of which took Shari’s breath away.
“We took out the British soldiers,” Solish said when they were done. Nine of them were in a semicircle before the flatscreen monitor, seated in chairs the size of thrones. “They were getting in the way of our story.”
Shari stared at the empty screen and felt the electricity exploding in her gut. She was not making a film. She was creating an image that would dominate the culture and reshape thinking. “That scene of the Indian village on the move, that was incredible.”
“The Shawnee didn’t live like that, of course. We stole it from the Navajo. The
Shawnee were domesticated. Which means they knew perfectly well what they were doing when they sold Boone that land.” Raul Solish waved that aside. “What’s important here is that Boone and his men arrived and stole away the Indians’ way of life, using the white man’s more sophisticated weapons.”
The AD piped up, “The British had armed the Indians by then. Which was why they had to go.”
“Absolutely,” Solish agreed. “If the Brits were in, it was white against white. And we lose the drama.”
“You did right,” Shari agreed.
“Okay, so here.” He slipped her a trio of DVDs. “I burned these last night. Four scenes. Show them to the trades.”
“This is exactly what I need,” Shari said.
“I know.”
Shari let herself be shepherded back to the front door. As soon as she stepped outside, the chopper’s rotor began spinning. “About the timing issue—”
Solish shouted to be heard over the revving chopper. “Tell Sam he can count on me. No group of religious wackos is going to upstage a Raul Solish production.”
33
From Chatham County, Brent and his crew traveled to a tiny hamlet called Fairhaven. They then shifted to an outdoor museum in Lincolnville. After that they worked in a river valley containing a genuine frontier settlement. They spent three days filming at each location. Then they packed up and moved again. Their days started before the first rays of dawn. They shot for hours and hours and hours. They stopped when the arc lights created silver echoes of the stars overhead. Roadies worked until they were ready to drop, laying out the next day’s shoot. The pace was grueling. But they got it done.
The second camera crew, led by Jerry Orbain, was normally one day ahead of them. The set designer and his building crew struggled to remain one scene ahead of Jerry. Their meetings, either by video link or in person, started when the day’s shooting and building were halted by exhaustion or lack of light or both. Bobby hired a chopper to ferry them back and forth. No one asked him. Brent and he spoke several times a week, usually in ninety-second bursts.