Hello Hollywood

by Suzanne Corso

  What I did know was that even though Isabella’s father was dead, he had loved her fiercely and had loved me the best he could. She would never have that inner void that had screwed me up. And Vito Bonti would never contaminate her life—I would make sure of that.

  • • •

  When I entered the house, the sliding-glass doors to the patio were open, and I could hear the Jacuzzi running. But I didn’t hear either Isabella or Lauren. For a horrifying moment, my imagination slammed into overdrive. I was sure Vito’s partner in this scam had gotten onto the property while I was driving him to the motel and had kidnapped my daughter.

  I dashed out onto the patio, where the glow from the Jacuzzi created a strange texture of light and shadows against the walls, the deck. There they were, the two of them with their earbuds in, listening to their respective music. Isabella waved, slipped the buds off her ears. “Mom, we warmed up that lasagna and already ate.”

  “Okay, love. I’ll be inside.”

  I wanted to stand there for a while and watch them, absorbing this perfect scene of my daughter with her closest friend, doing regular teenage stuff. I never knew that kind of normalcy and was happy that she did. But I knew that if I stood there, watching them, it would seem weird to her, weird to her friend, like I was some kind of voyeur or overprotective parent who was checking to make sure the kids weren’t drinking or smoking weed out there in the Jacuzzi. I slipped back inside the house.

  I was so emotionally drained by what had happened with Vito that I could barely muster the energy to warm up some of the lasagna. When it was steaming, I carried it into the living room with a stack of scripts and my phone. Clara had fixed it, and I could now send and receive text messages without any problem.

  I turned the phone back on and found a rather terse text message from Paul, telling me that Jenean Conte would like to come by the house sometime this week, at my convenience, so she and I could chat. I replied that I would meet her somewhere. After what had just occurred with Vito, I didn’t want any part of Brooklyn Story to breach those gates at the bottom of the driveway, the gates to my new life, the story I had written myself into, as Grandmother Ruth would say. Paul wouldn’t understand that. He didn’t understand the three candles I lit every morning, either.

  Bottom line? Paul didn’t understand jack shit about me.

  I polished off the lasagna, then sat back and shut my eyes just to rest them for a few moments before I started one of the scripts. Maybe I dozed off and dreamed. Or maybe what I saw were hypnogogic images, tricksters that bubbled up from my subconscious. Whatever the source, the story these images told was clear: if I broke off my relationship with Paul, he would sabotage the filming of Brooklyn Story.

  I bolted forward in the chair, my heart racing, my breath hitched in my chest. A warning, I thought, it was a warning.

  Liza and I, over the past months, had talked a lot about prescient dreams. We all have them, Sam. We just don’t pay ­attention.

  Immediately, my reasoning brain interfered. Would Paul really sabotage himself just to get even with me? Absurd. I hadn’t even done anything: I hadn’t broken off the relationship; I hadn’t made any decision yet other than acknowledging the fact that I didn’t love him. Also, Paul’s company stood to make an enormous amount of money from the film. And with Conte now attached to it, the overseas sales could prove to be just as, or even more, lucrative for him.

  And yet, in the back of my head I could hear this small, soft voice cautioning, Be careful, Sam. Think things through. Look at what has happened today. The signs are there.

  From my argument with Paul earlier today to Vito’s unexpected arrival and the horrible things he had said to me, the signs were there that my dream could be derailed. Even worse, it wouldn’t take much for that to happen.

  My company had money coming in from our deal with HBO, and my accountant had helped me with investments and tax loopholes and all the rest of it. But the bottom line was, if the deal with Gallery Studios fell apart, I wouldn’t be able to finance Brooklyn Story on my own.

  Fifteen million was enough to set up a production company and pay salaries and buy a home for Isabella and me, but what remained could very well finance a low-budget horror film. In the end, fifteen million dollars—a sum that 99 percent of humans on the planet would never see—was just pocket change in Hollywood.

  If I ended my relationship with Paul, I risked having the movie shelved. He wouldn’t do it consciously; it wasn’t as if he would be staying up late in the night to figure out a way to fuck me over. It would be more subtle than that, an internal thing, something born within his own childhood, the only kid of movie-industry parents, raised by nannies and hired help. It would be compounded by his son’s addiction to computer games. Paul blamed himself for Luke’s stint in rehab.

  If I’d paid more attention to him when he was younger, if I’d been more present . . . if, if, if.

  If. Our lives were predicated on that two-letter word.

  Only in this city would there be a rehab center for a specific game—Mystery Manor, a hidden-objects, hunt-and-click game, now available on Facebook for the iPad. The download was free, but if you wanted to advance in the game, there were in-app purchases for diamonds, the game’s currency, and for objects that enabled you to explore the various rooms. The game was endless, as infinite as the universe, and was also connected to social media, so you could ask your “friends” for stuff. And some of these “friends” became real friends. It was how Luke had met his current girlfriend. Paul had told me as much.

  He’d also revealed that where Luke had gone so terribly wrong was with the in-app purchases bought with a phony credit card.

  Paul’s son had spent thousands on those in-app purchases and had lost his job and a three-year relationship. He’d had a breakdown not long after Paul first asked me out six months ago; once a week or so, Paul drove out to the facility in the Hollywood Hills to visit his son. Supposedly, Luke now believed that he actually lived in Mystery Manor, a place where something terrible had happened.

  Yeah, it was weird. Hollywood weird. But it was real. People actually went into rehab for this shit.

  The point, though, was that Paul was made up of a morass of conflicting emotions, and I was afraid that if I didn’t toe the line, I might find my movie—and my dream, my hopes for a better future for my daughter—tossed under the truck.

  Roadkill.

  I once looked up the definition of the phrase. The Merriam-­Webster online dictionary provides two definitions, neither of them particularly savory:

  1: the remains of an animal that has been killed on a road by a motor vehicle

  2: one that falls victim to intense competition

  Guess which definition fits Hollywood?

  It had happened innumerable times in this town. Movies with not-quite-famous actors were shot, then shelved. When and if they were released, the results were not impressive.

  I couldn’t risk it.

  But was I willing to continue a relationship with Paul, to keep sleeping with him, so that Brooklyn Story would make it to the big screen?

  Nope. Even I had my limits, my boundaries. Sex as a weapon, a tool, had never been my thing. My emotions simmered way too close to the surface for that kind of deviousness, for that kind of dishonesty.

  I leaned back in the chair, an arm covering my eyes, and felt as trapped as I had ever felt in Brooklyn, all those years ago.

  It didn’t matter that I had way more money than I’d had then. It didn’t matter that at the height of his success, Alec had been worth more than a hundred million. Never mind any of that because right now, at this precise moment in time, I was a Bonti again, living on food stamps and wearing clothes from the local thrift shop.

  You never escape your past.

  THREE

  The next morning, when I was in the middle of reading a script that both Marvin
and Clara loved, I got a text message from Paul.

  Am very sorry for what I said yesterday. Was just feeling left out. May I stop by to give you something?

  I immediately felt bad that I had told him to fuck off. I had overreacted. And wasn’t this progress? Paul was learning to say I’m sorry.

  Sure, c’mon by. I’ll fire up the Nespresso machine.

  Both Paul and I liked strong cappuccinos, so I used the dark roast. When he walked into my office ten minutes later, I handed him a mug and gestured at the porch. “Let’s sit out there. It’s a glorious morning.”

  Glorious in spite of the fact that I’d slept poorly, that Vito gnawed at the back of my thoughts.

  “Smells fantastic,” Paul said, and sipped. “Makes my morning.”

  We ducked out onto the porch. A cool breeze rustled through the palms, swollen with the salt scent of the Pacific. “I realize I’ve been letting Luke’s situation spill over into the rest of my life, Sam, and then I take it out on the people I care about.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  He rocked his hand from side to side. “Better. They’ve got him stabilized with meds.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a small square box. A jeweler’s box. “I want you to have these.”

  He popped open the lid, revealing a pair of ladybug earrings made of rubies and flecked with what looked like onyx.

  “Wow, these are gorgeous, Paul. Thank you.”

  “Here, put them on.”

  He handed me the box. I hadn’t put on earrings this morning, and these little beauties even complemented the red in my blouse. I slipped them into my ears. “How do they look?”

  “Like they were made for you,” he said. “I’m actually on my way to a meeting, but dinner when you can?”

  I felt bad all over again, though, because he was trying, that much was obvious. “Sure. I’ll call you.”

  He touched the end of my nose. “A spot of cappuccino.”

  We both laughed and went back inside. I walked him to the front door, and as I was on the way back into my office, Clara said, “Beautiful earrings, Sam. Ladybugs bring luck.”

  “Yeah? We can all use some of that.”

  Just then my cell rang. It was on my desk, and I hurried back into my office. It was Kelly, from the motel.

  “Hey, Sam, just wanted to give you the heads-up. Vito checked out of here a little while ago and left in a cab, presumably for the airport.”

  Relief coursed through me. “Thanks for letting me know, Kelly. Did he give you any trouble?”

  “Uh, yeah.” She lowered her voice. “He called a couple of times, ordering room service. I told him we don’t have room service. Then he came down to the lobby and wanted to know where he should go for takeout and to buy a disposable cell phone. He made a couple of long-distance calls from the room, and I had to charge your credit card.”

  “For how much?”

  “That’s the bad news. Both calls were to New York, and the bill came to two hundred and change.”

  “Shit, two hundred?”

  “Uh, yeah. He was on for a couple of hours. I jotted down the numbers. You want them?”

  “Sure.”

  Kelly ticked off the numbers, and I jotted them down. Both were Brooklyn area codes, and I was tempted to call them just to find out who would answer. But I was afraid if I opened that door, I wouldn’t like what I found on the other side. “Great, Kelly, thanks so much. I appreciate everything you did.”

  “I gave my two-week notice here. I’ll see you on the set!”

  “You bet.”

  After we hung up, I sat there staring at those numbers, tapping my pen against the desk, and realized it sounded like the ticking of a clock. “Forget it.” I slapped the pen down, folded the piece of paper, and slipped it into a zippered compartment in my purse. I went over to my altar and lit three new candles I’d brought from home. I liked the colors—pastel green, rose red, bold blue.

  “Please,” I whispered. “Keep Vito out of my life. That’s all I’m asking.”

  The rest of the day was uneventful, a change for me. I was grateful for it and slept eight hours straight that night.

  • • •

  Shortly before noon the next day, I finished the script just as Clara popped her head in the door. “Liza’s here.”

  Liza. It took me a moment to remember she was picking me up for a meeting with some Gallery Studios execs. “Okay, tell her I’ll be right out. By the way, I finished the script you’ve been raving about. I love it.”

  “I knew you would.”

  “I think we should option this one, but need to mull it over before making a decision.” I grabbed my bag, and on my way out the door, Clara handed me a leather shoulder bag that held my iPad, folders, and notes I would need.

  “Go wow ’em, Sam,” Clara said.

  “It’ll be the other way around, I’m sure.”

  The meeting had been Liza’s idea. These two executives—Brian King and George Prince—were the ones who had green-lighted Brooklyn Story. Liza wanted them to connect a name with a face and a personality. Meeting a king and a prince can only be a good thing.

  Paul had never suggested such a meeting, but then again, why should he? Technically, DeMarco Productions was a competitor. Realistically, though, we were hardly competitors. Paul had been in the business for more than twenty years; I was the new kid on the block. But it irritated me. Was it his way of trying to maintain control over the project and me? Of keeping me dependent on him for information or something?

  Or something. All too frequently, these two words were attached to Paul’s motives. Somewhere in the last six weeks, I’d overlooked the fact that he was a player.

  But how could I even be thinking this way after I had agreed we would have dinner when I was free? Sometimes, my own actions bewildered me.

  Liza and Marvin were chatting in the doorway to his office. As usual, Liza looked terrific, California chic and casual in classic Ralph Lauren. She had braided her hair, and it curved gracefully over her right shoulder. “You ready, hon?” she asked.

  “Definitely. Where’re we meeting them?”

  “Blu Jam Café, breakfast twenty-four/seven.”

  Once we were outside, on the way to her car, Liza asked, “Did Paul ever suggest a meeting with these guys?”

  “Nope.”

  “Interesting. In my book, Sam, that’s a sin of omission.”

  “I was thinking the same. Of course, to be fair, I never suggested it, either.”

  “He’s the producer, he should’ve suggested it. And, given your personal relationship, you shouldn’t have had to suggest it.”

  “I’m really conflicted about my relationship with him, Liza.” I explained how I’d felt at lunch the other day when Paul had been talking about Brooklyn Story as if it were his story. “Then yesterday he apologizes and gives me these beautiful earrings.” I touched them. “Maybe I’m just being overly sensitive about all this.”

  “Ha. Never deny the validity of what you feel at any given time, Sam. Our emotions are our most reliable GPS.”

  I thought of my visceral reaction the night before last to Vito’s sudden appearance and knew I’d done the right thing by not allowing him onto my property, into the life Isabella and I had carved out for ourselves here. “A part of me is afraid that if I break things off with him, he’ll do something to sabotage the movie.”

  I blurted it out as soon as we were in her Mercedes. To my surprise, she didn’t laugh, didn’t offer any of the rebuttals that someone else might have about how absurd it would be for Paul to undermine himself financially. Instead, she flashed one of her winning smiles. “Which is exactly why I want you to meet these Gallery boys.”

  “So you think Paul is capable of doing something
like that?”

  “Between us, hon, yes. And in this town, you have to assume it’s the standard MO.”

  “It’s not your standard MO.”

  “Or yours. High five, sistah!” We both laughed, then Liza added, “On a personal level, I’ve never liked Paul very much. But he’s so well connected and knows so many players in the business that I try to maintain a business relationship with him. I manage a lot of people who have worked with him.”

  “You never told me you disliked him, Liza.”

  “I didn’t feel it was my place. I’ve heard way too many stories about how he has screwed people over—mostly actors and actresses. But he has never done anything to my clients. He knows I’d ruin him if he did.”

  “How could you ruin him?”

  “A soft whisper in the ears of people who work with him. Innuendo is a career buster here.”

  “Remind me to stay on your good side,” I remarked.

  “Hon, you have been on my good side since the day we met. That’ll never change. Soul sistahs to the end!”

  • • •

  Blu Jam had a touch of Art Deco about it in the pastel colors of its facade and the shaded sidewalk tables. Despite the fact that the lunch rush was over, the place was still crowded. Liza had made a reservation, and we were seated at a choice spot outside, surrounded by lush potted plants that gave us ample privacy. Within minutes, the two royals arrived, one tall and slender with dark hair; the other shorter, muscular, and black, his hair paling to gray at the temples. Both looked to be in their late forties.

  Liza stood up and waved them over. From her descriptions, I knew the taller man was Brian King, and that his shorter companion was George Prince. Together they had green-lighted fifteen of Gallery’s most lucrative films since the early 2000s. King and Prince: good names for studio royalty.

  I liked that neither of them wore a suit, that they didn’t look like studio executives. If anything, they looked like a couple of recent transplants from the East, both wearing khaki pants, colorful cotton shirts, and sandals. California chic, like everyone else around here.