By this time I had grabbed a copy of the paper from the shelf in front of the register and was reading along.
“Listen to what comes next,” Alison said.
But according to Fleck, the idea of a writer’s name being kept off the credits reminded him so much of the dreadful days of the 1950s blacklist that he felt compelled to break his silence on this issue—not to mention his long-standing antipathy for any sort of interviews with the press—and come to the defense of his writer.
“Without question,” Fleck said, “David Armitage is one of the most original voices in American film and television. And it is shameful that his career has been virtually ruined by an individual who—due to his own lack of professional success—decided to lead a vendetta against him. If anything, David’s brilliant script for We Three Grunts will vindicate him completely, and remind Hollywood what they’ve lost.”
“Fucking hell,” I said.
“Too bad they’re not doing a remake of The Life of Emile Zola. After that performance, Fleck would be a shoo-in for the part. Nice to see that he’s calling you by your first name as well. So, are you now going to finally tell me what happened on that island of his all those months ago?”
“My lips are sealed.”
“You’re no fun at all. But at least you’re lucrative again. And I tell you, this article’s going to reopen a lot of doors for you in this town.”
Certainly, the phone at the cottage kept ringing that night—as I gave quotes to Daily Variety, the Hollywood Reporter, the LA Times, and the San Francisco Chronicle. And what did I tell them? What was my official line on Philip Fleck’s spirited defense of me? I played the game, of course. And said, “Every writer needs a director like Philip Fleck . . . for his generosity of spirit, his loyalty, and his rare and wondrous faith in the written word.” (This last comment was, of course, a message to Fleck and his creative team: don’t think you’re going to be rewriting this one.)
And when the journalists asked me if I had any ill will toward Theo McCall, I simply replied: “I’m just glad I’m not his conscience.”
That evening, I tried to ring Martha again. But again I was connected straight to her voice mail. I left a simple message, saying how thrilled I was with the Times piece, how I was still hoping that Fleck would consent to the joint television interview, and how I needed to speak with her.
She didn’t ring back. And I resisted the temptation to e-mail or drive down to Malibu and knock on her door. Because, of course, I realized what Fleck was doing: besides ensuring that that DVD would never see the light of day, he was also telling his wife that he didn’t want to lose her.
The following day, the entire Fleck interview was reprinted in the LA Times. And early that same morning, I received a call from a producer on NBC’s Today program, informing me that a reservation had been made for me on the 2 p.m. flight that afternoon for New York. A limo would pick me up at Kennedy. A room was arranged for the night at the Pierre. And I’d be interviewed with Mr. Fleck sometime during the final hour of the program tomorrow morning.
I glanced at my watch. It was nine fifteen. To make it to LAX in time, I’d have to leave within the hour. So, after confirming that I could collect my ticket at the airport, I hung up and called Les at home.
“I know this is very last-minute,” I said, “but I really need two days off.”
“Yeah, I saw the piece in the LA Times this morning. I guess you’re not going to be working with us much longer, David.”
“I guess not.”
“Well, it’s fine by me about the next two days. But would you mind if you worked out a two-week notice, until I find someone new?”
“No problem, Les.”
Then I packed a suit bag, made heavy by the four scripts I threw in with my change of clothes. It took just over two hours to get to the airport and six hours to be flushed across the continent. I was in my hotel room at midnight. But I couldn’t sleep. So I got dressed and wandered the streets of Manhattan until dawn cleaved the night sky. Then I walked back to the hotel, and got into my suit, and awaited the arrival of the NBC limousine. It arrived just after seven. Fifteen minutes later, I was having pancake base and flesh-toned powder applied to my face. The door opened, and Philip Fleck came in, accompanied by two large gentlemen in stiff black suits. Bodyguards. Fleck sat down in the chair next to mine. I glanced over at him and noticed the big puffy bags beneath his eyes—a hint that I wasn’t the only person who’d slept badly last night. His disquiet was manifest. So too his refusal to look at me. The makeup woman tried to put him at ease by chatting incessantly as she daubed pancake on his fleshy face—but he just shut his eyes and blanked her out. Then the door swung open again, and a hyper-efficient woman in her late twenties walked in. She informed us that her name was Melissa (“your assistant producer this morning”), and then briefed us on our five minutes of screen time. Fleck said nothing while she ran through a list of potential questions that the co-host—Matt Lauer—might toss our way.
“Anything else you need to know, gentlemen?” she asked. We both shook our heads. Then she wished us luck and left the room. I turned to Fleck and said, “I wanted to thank you for such fulsome praise in that Times interview. I was very touched.”
He said nothing. He just stared straight ahead, his face tense with unease.
And then, suddenly, we were being escorted across a backstage area and onto the Today set. Matt Lauer was already there, sitting cross-legged in an armchair. He rose to pump our hands but didn’t have a chance to say anything more than a basic greeting as a pair of sound technicians swooped down on us to pin microphones to our lapels, while two makeup women dabbed touch-up pancake on our foreheads. I placed a pile of scripts on the coffee table in front of us. Fleck glanced down at them but continued to say nothing. I looked over at him. His forehead was mottled with sweat, and his stage fright was now seriously evident. I’d read so much about his pathological hatred of interviews. Now I was seeing—in extreme close-up—just what a trial it was for him to face the cameras like this. And again I realized: he’s only putting himself through this because he’s desperate to keep Martha.
“You okay, Philip?” Matt Lauer asked his sweating guest.
“I’ll be fine.”
The stage manager announced: “Fifteen seconds.” We all tensed in readiness. Then the stage manager gave the five-second countdown and pointed to Lauer, who was immediately off-and-running.
“Welcome back . . . and for those of you who love a good Hollywood scandal, well here’s one that’s been making the papers for the past few days. Only unlike most scandals, this one has had a happy ending for David Armitage, the Emmy award–winning creator of the hit series Selling You, who was fired off his own show after accusations of plagiarism. But now, his reputation has been completely rehabilitated, thanks to the intervention of one of America’s most prominent entrepreneurs, Philip Fleck.”
And then he gave a quick précis of the charges against me, the smear campaign waged by Theo McCall, and the way that Fleck stepped in to restore my good name.
“Now I know that you generally shun publicity, Philip,” Matt Lauer said, “so why did you decide to go public and help David Armitage?”
Fleck began to speak in a hesitant voice, his head slightly lowered, unable to meet Matt Lauer’s gaze.
“Well . . . uh . . . David Armitage is, without question, one of the most important screenwriters around right now. He also happens to be writing my next movie . . . and when his career was pulled apart by a vindictive journalist—a man who is nothing more than a paid assassin—well . . . uh . . . I just felt like I had to intervene.”
“And his intervention must have the great turning point for you, David—especially after having been so vilified over the past few months, to the point where you were essentially shut out of Hollywood.”
I smiled broadly and said, “You’re absolutely right, Matt. I owe my professional resurrection to one man—the gentleman sitting on your left, my great
friend Philip Fleck. And I want to show you just what a remarkable friend he’s been to me . . .”
I reached over to the coffee table and picked up one of the four scripts I’d left there, opening it to the title page.
“When my reputation was in tatters—and no one would hire me—do you know what Philip did? He acted as a front for me—putting his name on four of my old scripts. Because he knew that, if my name was on them, no studio would be interested. See—here’s one of my first scripts, We Three Grunts . . . but as you’ll notice, Matt, the writer’s name on the title page is Philip Fleck.”
The camera moved in on a close-up of the title page. Over this, Lauer asked Fleck:
“So you actually acted as David Armitage’s front, Philip?”
For the first time ever, Fleck met my gaze—and his eyes radiated chilly incredulity. He knew I had him now, and there was nothing he could do about it but play along. So when the camera switched back to him, he reluctantly said:
“What, uh, David said is right. His name had been dragged through such mud that he was considered an untouchable by all the Hollywood studios. And, uh, as I wanted to have the films I’m making from his scripts distributed by a major motion picture company, I had, uh, no choice but, uh, to put my own name to the scripts . . . with David’s consent, of course.”
“So, besides We Three Grunts,” Matt Lauer said, “which is going into production next month with Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, and Jack Nicholson, you’re also planning to film three other David Armitage scripts?”
Fleck looked like he wanted to crawl under the chair. But he still said, “That’s the plan, Matt.”
I quickly came in here: “And Matt, I know Philip’s going to be embarrassed about what I’m going to say next—because he’s someone who really doesn’t like to have a big deal made about his generosity—but when I was completely out of work, not only did he buy these four scripts, but he also insisted on paying me three million dollars per script.”
Even Matt Lauer seemed dazzled by this sum of money.
“Is that true, Mr. Fleck?”
He pursed his lips, as if he was about to contradict my statement. But then he nodded slowly.
“Now that’s what I call a real act of professional faith,” Matt Lauer said.
“You can say that again,” I said, all smiles. “And what was even more remarkable about this deal was the fact that Philip insisted that the twelve-million-dollar package for the four scripts would be on a pay-or-play basis . . . which is a legalistic way of saying that, whether or not they get made, that twelve million is still paid to me. I kept telling him he was being way too generous. But he was so emphatic about helping me out—and, more to the point, putting his faith in me—that I had to say yes. Not, of course, that I took much convincing.”
That last comment elicited a laugh from Matt Lauer. Then he turned to Fleck and said, “Sounds like you’re a screenwriter’s dream come true, Mr. Fleck.”
Fleck fixed me in his sights.
“David’s worth every penny.”
I met Fleck’s stare.
“Thank you, Philip.”
Thirty seconds later, the interview was over. Fleck immediately left the set. I shook Matt Lauer’s hand and was escorted back into the makeup room. I’d left my cellphone on one of the countertops. It started ringing as I reached to retrieve it.
“You crazy, dangerous sonofabitch,” Alison said, her voice downright giddy. “I’ve never seen a sting like it.”
“Glad you approve.”
“Approve? You’ve just made me one-point-two million bucks. So of course I fucking approve. Congratulations.”
“And congratulations to you. You’re actually worth the ten percent.”
A hoarse tobacco-cured laugh from Alison. “Get your ass back here. Because, after this, the phone’s going to start jumping—and you’re about to become the Man in Demand.”
“Fine by me—but I can’t do anything for the next two weeks.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m working out my notice at the bookshop.”
“David, stop talking like a goof.”
“Hey, I promised the guy . . .”
Suddenly the door opened and Philip Fleck walked in. “Got to go, Alison,” I said. “Catch you later.” And I hung up.
Fleck sat down in the chair next to mine. A makeup woman approached him, jar of cold cream at the ready, but Fleck stopped her by saying, “Could you give us a moment, please?”
She left the room, closing the door behind her. We were alone now. Fleck said nothing for several moments. Then:
“You know, I’m never making any of those scripts of yours. Never.”
“That’s your prerogative.”
“I’m even pulling the plug on We Three Grunts.”
“That’s your prerogative too . . . though you might end up pissing off Mr. Fonda, Mr. Hopper, and Mr. Nicholson.”
“As long as they get their money, they won’t give a damn. It’s the movie business, after all. No one cares about anything as long as the contract is honored and the check ends up in the bank. So, fear not, you will get your twelve million. It is a pay-or-play deal, after all. And twelve million . . . to me it’s pocket money.”
“I don’t care if you pay me or not.”
“Yes, you do. You care very much. Because, thanks to this twelve-million-dollar deal, you’re back to Hollywood golden boy status. So you have much to thank me for. Just as, in the process, you’ve done wonders for my public image. Made me seem like a great humanitarian . . . not to mention a writer’s best friend. In other words, this has been a mutually beneficial experience.”
“You really need to control everything, don’t you?”
“I don’t follow your line of thought here . . .”
“Yes, you do. Because it was you who set out to shatter everything in my life, to demolish . . .”
He cut me off.
“I what?” he said.
“You decided to stage-manage my downfall . . .”
“Really?” he said, sounding amused. “You actually think that?”
“I know it.”
“How very flattering. But let me ask you this, David. Did I tell you to leave your wife and child? Did I force you to come to my island? Did I put a gun to your head to sell me your script . . . even though you hated every idea I had about it? And when that odious McCall fellow pointed out that you had inadvertently lifted a few lines from some old play, did I tell you to go on the offensive against him?”
“That’s not the point here. You put the whole plot against me in motion . . .”
“No, David . . . you did that yourself. You ran off with Ms. Birmingham. You accepted my hospitality. You were willing to pocket the two-point-five million I offered you for the movie. You came out swinging against that ghastly journalist. And you also fell in love with my wife. I didn’t have a hand in any of that, David. You made all those decisions yourself. I played no games with you, David. You simply became a victim of your own choices. Life’s like that, you know. We make choices, and our circumstances alter because of those choices. It’s called cause and effect. And when bad things happen in the wake of the bad decisions we make, we like to blame outside forces, and the malevolent hand of others. Whereas, ultimately, we have no one but ourselves to blame.”
“I admire your amorality, Mr. Fleck. It is truly breathtaking.”
“Just as I admire your refusal to acknowledge the truth of the situation.”
“Which is what?”
“You set yourself up. You walked right into . . .”
“The trap you laid?”
“No, David . . . the trap you laid for yourself. Which, of course, makes you most human. Because we’re always laying traps for ourselves. I think it’s called doubt. And the thing we most doubt in life is the person we are.”
“What do you know about doubt?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. Money doesn’t end doubt. In fact, it often heightens it.”
He stood up. “And now, I must—”
I interrupted him.
“I love your wife.”
“Congratulations. I love her too.”
Then he turned and walked toward the door. As he opened it, he turned back to me and said, “See you at the movies, David.”
And he was gone.
On my way to JFK that afternoon, I left two messages on Martha’s cellphone, asking her to call me. When I reached Los Angeles seven hours later, there were a dozen or so messages from assorted onetime colleagues and friends, congratulating me on my television appearance. But the one message I craved—her message—wasn’t there.
I picked up my car and drove up the coast. The next morning, I opened the LA Times and discovered an extended piece in their Arts section, entitled “Theo McCall and the Art of Vendetta Journalism.” The story was very well researched, very well sourced, and essentially amounted to a complete exposé of McCall’s Stalinist methods: his love affair with character assassination, his need to destroy careers. There were also some interesting personal details, like the fact that he went around telling everyone that he was a graduate of Trinity College Dublin, whereas he barely finished high school. Or the way he walked out on two different women after getting both of them pregnant—and then refused to pay a penny of child support. All the stuff about him being fired from his one proper writing job at NBC got dredged up again—as did a little-known fact: a year or so before Selling You hit the screens, he actually pitched an idea (which went nowhere) about a sitcom set in an advertising agency. The conclusion: no wonder he had a thing against David Armitage and his wildly successful show.
Within a day of this story appearing, Theo McCall went to ground. Hollywood Legit announced that his column would no longer appear—and though many a fellow journalist tried to unearth him (in an attempt to get his response to the LA Times story), he was nowhere to be found.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Page 31