by Davis Bunn
Not, Shari decided, altogether a bad thing.
So she told them about the two interrelated projects. Iron Feather they knew about, particularly as their daughter had recently flown to Budapest. What they did not know was how intimately she had become involved in the new film scheduled to begin shooting three months after Iron Feather wrapped.
“Shari Khan, executive producer of Snowbound.” Her grandmother purred the words. “Aren’t you proud of her?”
“Very,” her father and Jason said together.
That was all it took. The two men and Shari’s grandmother all laughed, and in an instant the table’s mood changed.
Shari loved her mother very much. But her mother sought solid stability in every aspect of her existence. She would have liked nothing more for her daughter than a proper marriage to a doctor or lawyer and a few well-mannered children. Stable. Normal. As far from what Shari wanted for herself as Pluto. Shari saw in her mother’s silence a recognition that Shari was going her own direction. No matter what she might think of her daughter’s chosen course, it was happening. Her mother’s silent resignation added a special flavor to the moment, a sharp poignancy that bordered on pain.
She felt Jason enfold her hand in his own. “All right?”
Shari forced herself to smile. “Fine. Well, not fine. But getting there.” She joined her other hand to his. “Thanks to you.”
Everyone at the table saw the exchange. Her grandmother and father shared a smile. Her mother did not speak. Shari wished she could convince herself that two out of three was not bad.
While they were having coffee, the English star’s table broke up. Samantha Vaughan smiled her guests on ahead and slowed as she passed their table. “Mr. Garrone? I don’t know if you recall, but we were introduced at the De Niro fund-raiser.”
Her boyfriend instantly became a manager. “Of course, Ms. Vaughan, what an honor.”
“I do hope I’m not disturbing. You must be Ms. Khan. I’ve heard such nice things about you recently.”
Shari found herself disconcerted on two levels. First, that the star would shine so brilliantly on her behalf. And second, that the woman she had only seen speaking in a sultry bayou-laced voice was now addressing her with a tony British accent. “Thank you. These are my parents, and my grandmother.”
“How very nice. I do apologize for barging in like this.”
Her mother allowed, “I enjoy your show.”
“Oh, thank you so much. That means more than I can say.” The woman’s illuminating force shifted back to Shari. “Forgive me for being so bold. But were you by any chance speaking about Snowbound?”
Shari did her best not to gape. “How did you know?”
“It so happens that the original writer is a dear friend. He was devastated when Moore Madden redrafted his script. He’s been over the moon since you and the studio insisted upon his reinstatement. I managed to sneak a look at the script, and I must tell you, I would give my eyeteeth for the chance at that role.” She laughed delightedly. “I assure you, Ms. Khan, there would be no such nonsense over cost or expenses with my agent.”
Shari found herself at a loss for words. “I’ll convey that to Sam.”
“Oh, thank you. You don’t know how much that would mean.” She reached in her purse and handed Shari an embossed card. “My producer is having a few people over for a screening of my latest film next Tuesday. I don’t suppose you might possibly be free to join us for dinner? I’m sure he would be delighted.”
Shari looked at Jason. Help.
Jason, who had far more experience with such moments, said, “We’d be honored.”
“Oh, splendid. I’m so pleased.” She returned her smile to the seated trio. “Well, I mustn’t keep you any longer. What a delight this is. I’m so grateful for your time, Ms. Khan.”
Shari lowered herself back into her chair, aware of her grandmother’s knowing smile.
“At certain levels,” Jason said, “Hollywood is a very small town.”
Her grandmother actually chuckled. “At certain levels.”
Her mother said nothing at all.
36
The Beverly Hills courthouse system could exist nowhere else than the center of Hollywood wealth. It flanked Santa Monica Boulevard in a four-acre enclave of palm-studded lawns. If the set designer from Casablanca had been given a blank check, the result would have been the new city hall and courthouse. No jail, of course. The city paid the county jail a fortune so they could schlep the detritus beyond the emerald city’s borders.
The previous night, Shari’s long days had culminated in a genuine Hollywood coup. Carey McGraw, on-screen personality of Evening Entertainment, had headlined the film Iron Feather.
They were seated in the rear of the studio’s largest limo, a white stretch Esplanade that was usually reserved for the flavor of the month. Today, however, it contained Derek Steen, Shari, Leo Patillo, and a courtroom bulldog named Roger Lang. Although the court case was being brought by the collective unions, Roger was being paid by the studio. Nobody outside the limo knew that.
The reason they were all so somber was heightened by Derek saying, “Play it again, Shari.”
“Change the name,” Leo said, “speak a little lower, and I’d swear I was listening to Bogie.”
Shari used the remote to turn on the DVD and feed the signal to all three screens. A trio of brightly eager Carey McGraws launched into her wind-up. She described Iron Feather’s progress from the long-held dream of Sam Menzes to reality. She then segued to a brief introduction of the second Boone film, being shot by a company whose only work to date had been country music videos, and ended with a shot of the smoldering remains of the Wilmington studio. When the camera returned to the studio, an uncomfortable Bobby Dupree was seated around the curved dais from Carey. As far from the television personality as he could possibly get without falling off the stage.
“Mr. Dupree, you are here in Los Angeles to answer charges brought by the film unions that you are not adequately compensating your employees.”
Bobby Dupree had a double-fisted clench on the chair’s arms. “Maybe you can tell me something. Where’s that Menzes fellow shooting his picture, Outer Mongolia?”
“I believe the location work is being done in Hungary. But—”
“Hungary, Mongolia, Upper Elbonia. You mean to tell me Menzes is paying them fellows union rates?”
The bulldog lawyer said, “Ouch.”
“I don’t believe the Menzes film has been mentioned in the court proceedings, so how—”
“That is the problem in a nutshell, Ms. McGraw. You don’t believe. You don’t believe.”
Carey McGraw had not risen to the position she held by being a shrinking violet. “Let’s get back on the subject, shall we?”
“I never left it.”
“Would you care to respond to the charges leveled against you?”
Bobby shrugged. “Those goons across town burned us out, but that didn’t stop us. So now they’re gonna try and use the courts. I don’t know how to put it any simpler than that.”
“Are you implying that Galaxy Studios is behind the attack on your facility in North Carolina?”
“You’d sure like it if I did say that, wouldn’t you?”
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s my telling you I know what your game is.”
Carey swiveled around without thanking her studio guest. The camera moved in for a closeup on McGraw. Good-bye, Bobby Dupree. “And now we have an Evening Entertainment exclusive, the first look at Galaxy’s upcoming release, Iron Feather. Directed by Raul Solish. Starring my own personal heartthrob, Colin Chapman.”
Their in-house team had slaved over the rough cuts, refashioning them into a ninety-second trailer. They had laid on the music director’s first run at a film soundtrack. The result was dramatic, vivid, potent.
“Plays well,” Derek conceded.
Carey McGraw’s face returned to the screen. “We invited Bobby Dupree t
o share a cut of his own film, entitled Long Hunter. Mr. Dupree’s response was, ‘When I’m good and ready.”’
Carey McGraw’s tight smile showed precisely what she thought of that. The bulldog laughed out loud.
“The list of also-rans that have tried to piggyback on larger studio releases is endless. The tactic does not grow any nicer with time. It is this reporter’s opinion that even if Long Hunter does manage to overcome the court injunction and its recent trial by fire, its only hope for any audience at all will be by beating Iron Feather’s release date. Because as soon as Long Hunter comes out, it will be left in the dust. That is, if the film does not go straight to DVD. This is Carey McGraw for Evening Entertainment.”
Steen declared, “It couldn’t have played better if we had scripted the thing ourselves. We didn’t, did we?”
Shari replied, “I arranged for Sam Menzes to invite Carey and her actor husband to one of his dinners and private screenings. But the program is all her doing.”
“So why the long face?”
She nodded to Leo. “Tell them.”
Leo didn’t mince words. “They’re ahead of schedule.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Maybe so. But it’s also happening.”
Steen’s face resumed its customary scowl. “You’re telling me we’ve thrown everything we can at this thing and can’t make it go away?”
“Not only is the filming on target. The Nashville music crowd has pulled out all the stops. Tim Crawford is doing the score. He’s got eleven different acts putting time into the soundtrack. All original works.”
Shari said, “We need to assume they’re going to be ready with a finished project ahead of us.”
Derek reached out a hand and traced a finger across the slick surface of the nearest screen. “I still have trouble seeing them as a bona fide threat. You saw the trailer. Our dailies are fantastic. Solish has done a superb job. You’ve just seen our opposition. There’s nothing coming out of Carolina but a bad attitude. Even CBS is calling this a straight-to-video clunker.”
Shari desperately wanted to agree. But the conversation she’d had with her grandmother the previous evening, after watching the Evening Entertainment piece together, still lingered. “If I’m wrong, we’ll put it down to giving me some experience and a case of first-time nerves. I’ll personally apologize to Sam for wasting his money.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Derek said. “When it comes to protecting his investment, Sam always was a suspender and belts guy.” He studied her. “But you don’t think that’s what is happening, do you.”
“I want to. I really do. But the risk, Derek. What if they have a halfway decent film and it’s ready before ours?”
“We can’t let that happen.” He turned to Lang. “What’re our chances you can stop the Shoestring film in court today?”
“Slim to none.”
“Then why are we paying you?”
“I told Ms. Khan the same thing the day she waltzed into my office.” He shrugged with the easy manner of a man too powerful to be shoved around. “We’ve given it our best shot. At least we’ve gotten a hearing. But do I think the judge will rule in our favor? Probably not.”
Derek took aim at Shari. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Post production is going well. I’ve spoken with Solish. He agrees with you, that I’m probably hyper because it’s my first film. But he’s also agreed to a release date five weeks early, which would put us two weekends ahead of the Shoestring flick.”
“It’s a huge effort and probably not necessary,” Derek mused. “But when it comes to crushing the opposition, Sam Menzes has always had a taste for overkill. Okay. I’ll take the release-date change to the boss. What else?”
Shari addressed Lang and Leo, “You mind giving us a moment?”
“No problem,” the lawyer said as he opened the door. “See you in court.”
When Leo and the lawyer stood under the same palm tree as their driver, Derek said, “I’m listening.”
Shari outlined her idea in quick Derek-sized bites.
He chewed on it for a while, then said, “This conversation never took place.”
“Why do you think we’re talking about it in the back of a limo?”
He nodded. Once. “Make it happen.”
Shari hoped she appeared as calm as the others. In fact, she had only been in a courtroom once before, and that had been a county court for an unpaid traffic violation. This was totally different. She sat between Derek and Leo, two pros positioned by the rear doors. Even so, the shabbily dressed attorney seated next to Bobby Dupree turned and smirked, then spoke to his client. Bobby turned and scalded them with a piercing look.
Shari held his gaze. But it was hard. Why, she could not say. Particularly as she was learning to handle the diamond-hard glares of some of Hollywood’s biggest players. But there was something about this man. He looked like a kid, right down to the freckles. But there was nothing whatsoever childlike about his gaze. He did not merely study her. He reached across the distance and bored down deep.
Derek muttered, “Who’s the clown in the bad suit?”
From her other side, Leo replied, “Some legal schmuck from Riverside. His biggest client until today has been a church.”
Derek leaned forward. “This is a joke, right?”
“Am I laughing?”
Derek leaned back in his seat. Crossed his arms. Expelled a long breath. “This is a total waste of company time and money.”
“I hope you’re right,” Leo said.
Derek leaned forward again. “Don’t tell me she’s got you worried too.”
“Her, him, the fact that they’ve taken everything we’ve thrown at them and kept going. Something.”
Derek examined the former cop. “You heard something you haven’t told me?”
“You know that’s not my game.” Leo hesitated. “But my gut won’t let me go.”
“Your gut.”
“A cop learns to trust his gut, Derek. Sometimes that’s the only thing between you and the bullet.”
Derek looked like he was about to say something more. But the bailiff said, “All rise. Fourth district court of Beverly Hills. Judge Ridgeway presiding.”
The judge was a woman in her sixties, greyhound lean and California tanned. “Be seated.” She took the first file from her day’s pile, checked the computer screen to her left, then said, “I have before me a request for an injunction against Shoestring Productions by the Teamsters, Local 612. Who represents the union?”
“I do, Your Honor. Roger Lang.”
“All right. And for … Shoestring, that’s the name of the company?”
“Indeed so, Your Honor.” The lawyer’s lumbering form and wrinkled state only accented Lang’s polished exterior. “I represent Shoestring Productions.”
“And you are?”
“Larry Hessler, Your Honor.”
“I don’t recall seeing you in my courtroom before.”
“I practice out of Riverside.”
“And who is this with you?”
“Bobby Dupree, Your Honor. Chairman and chief executive of Shoestring Productions.”
“Very well.” She motioned to Lang. “You may proceed.”
Shari pretended to listen as Lang outlined his writ. But as she had been behind the complaint’s formation, she had ample time to study the back of Bobby Dupree’s head and again recalled her grandmother’s comments of the previous night. They had been seated in her grandmother’s living room. Shari had gone there after an endless day of meetings. Jason was in Hawaii on business, trying to wrap up representation of a bestselling author. Despite the four thousand miles between them, Shari and her grandmother had watched Carey McGraw’s program with Jason. He phoned just before it came on and watched with his phone in his ear.
When Carey McGraw moved to the next segment of her show, Jason’s first comment was, “I could land you an exec role at any studio in town.”
&
nbsp; Shari hit the Mute button on her TV. “I’m not looking for another job. Besides which, my name’s not mentioned anywhere.”
“Rule one in this town, you’re always looking, Shari. Always open to offers.”
“Are you?”
“If a studio offered me a firm five-film production contract, sure, I’d jump. But this isn’t me tonight. This is you. And the fact that your name isn’t on the deal makes it even more incredible. A woman who can wield this much influence and not need to be in the spotlight. That’s rare.”
“More like a deer in the headlights,” Shari joked.
“This is serious, Shari.”
Her grandmother said, “What is he saying?”
Shari related Jason’s side of the conversation. Her grandmother said, “Your gentleman is correct. But you both are missing the crucial point.”
“Which is?”
Lizu Khan motioned to the screen. “The man you cannot see anymore. You think he is dead and gone. So does the announcer lady. But I know better.”
Jason asked, “Shari, are you there?”
Shari passed on her grandmother’s comments.
“How does she know?” he asked.
Lizu replied, “I know what I know.”
To Shari’s surprise, Jason did not scoff at the response. Instead, he said, “I confess this is a new one. But your grandmother never ceases to amaze me.”
When Shari was leaving that night, her grandmother allowed Shari to kiss her immaculate cheek and then said, “Mark my words. This man, he is still a threat. You must find a way to destroy him. And do so mercilessly.”
Lang took half an hour to lay out his writ. The principles, however, were simple. Back in the thirties, the federal courts declared the studio system monopolistic. It had been disbanded. And here Shoestring was doing it again.
The judge interrupted the union’s lawyer only once, and that was to ask, “What is your client’s interest in this?”
“We fought against the studio’s hold on power then, and we’re doing it now, Your Honor. What makes this worse is how this upstart company is striking at our workers with a doublewhammy, by filming with nonunionized employees.”