A second reason for the open-arms welcome was the way we did the casting for Knights of the City. We held open auditions and encouraged disadvantaged youth to try out as dancers. The auditions were held in both Broward (Fort Lauderdale) and Dade (Miami) counties and attracted two thousand young people per session. From them, we selected 116 dancers and 250 extras, fed them, and paid them well. We also made it a condition of work on the film that those who were chosen would have to maintain good grades in school.
The glitter of the movies, the jobs for low-income youth, and the good-grades requirement further ingratiated me with the media and public. Despite my background and the danger of negative publicity, I opened the movie set to the press. This initially resulted in added waves of positive publicity.
In addition, I was able to avoid a problem that had frequently chased away potential filmmakers from South Florida. Although Florida was a right-to-work state with few unions, the Teamsters' South Florida branch was notoriously tough to deal with. The union specifically targeted movie companies and demanded that all the equipment trucks, including the trailers for the stars, be driven by Teamsters drivers. These drivers were paid $1,500 a week, even if they did nothing but stand by an idle truck or trailer for weeks at a time. This bled the limited budgets of independent films.
Shortly after Knights of the City opened a production office, a big, burly Teamsters representative paid Jerry Zimmerman a visit.
"This is a Teamsters film, or there won't be a film," he announced.
Zimmerman smiled. "You'll have to talk to my boss."
A meeting was set for the following day at the second-story office of Houston Holdings, the gasoline-company branch office in Fort Lauderdale. The union rep marched in and tried to bully his way around. "I told your partner, there will be no film without the Teamsters."
"Sounds like a threat," I said.
"No threat. Just a fact. No Teamsters, no film," he ventured.
"You see this window behind me," I said, pointing to the office's large picture window. "If I ever see your face in here again, you're going out that window."
"I don't think you understand what you're doing," he said, storming out.
Two days later, I received a call from the Teamsters representative.
"Mr. Franzese," he said meekly. "I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Whatever you want, you got it. If there's anything we can do for you, just name it."
"Okay, here's what I'll do," I said. "I'll take one Teamsters driver so it doesn't get around that we busted you out. My guys will handle the rest of the trucks."
And that's what happened. We were on our way to producing low-cost films in South Florida.
83
As I stared at the young dancer by the pool that day in Ft. Lauderdale, all the hassles of making the movie and running the gasoline operation suddenly appeared insignificant. I fought with myself over whether to give in to my desire to woo her or to stay away and keep my mind fixed on business. There were plenty of available women around the set-uncomplicated women. I didn't need this Mexican beauty.
The only problem was that I couldn't keep my eyes off of her. When a cast member who was passing out T-shirts around the pool skipped her, I found myself doing what I had sworn I wouldn't do. I ordered one of my men to get a box of shirts out of the trunk of his car and bring them to me. Then I used the T-shirts as an excuse to meet the young woman personally.
Agent David Wilder was sitting near her by the pool and made the introduction. "Michael, this is Cammy Garcia, the girl we sent for in L.A."
"Hi! Nice to meet you," she said, briefly glancing up, then shyly diverting her eyes.
Up close, she was even more beautiful than she had appeared from across the pool. What struck me the most, however, was that she was both innocent and yet very exciting.
It was a troubling sensation. I had long made it a policy to never drink, take drugs, or fall in love-all for the simple reason that I always wanted to maintain control of every situation. As I walked away from the pool that day, I had to steel myself against the weakening effect of this woman.
There was something about the woman's name and something about the strange way Wilder had introduced her that nagged at me afterward. What was it?
It wasn't until I was back in my room that it came to me. Cammy Garcia. Cammy...Camille ...Camille Garcia. It had to be the same girl. A week before, I had received a call from a man demanding to speak to the movie's producer. He said he was the father of one of the dancers and was worried about his daughter. He wanted to be assured that everything was on the upand-up with her job in the film. His daughter, he said, was young, innocent, and inexperienced, and had never been far away from home.
In the world of movies and professional dancers, such a faux pas on the part of a parent could have doomed the young woman's chances. Movie sets can sometimes be the setting for wild and sinful happenings, and nosy parents are considered to be an unwelcome hindrance. But instead of being upset that day, I found the father's concern to be endearing. I promised him I would personally watch out for his daughter and make sure that she was safe.
After hanging up, I called choreographer Jeff Kutash and ordered him to give dancer Camille Garcia a private room, so that she wouldn't be bothered by some wild roommate, and also to boost her salary to $500 a week.
"Give her the $235 per diem expenses," I added (the top scale we were paying at the time).
Kutash didn't say anything. If I wanted to give special treatment to a particular dancer, he wasn't going to question it.
It turned out that Kutash was baffled by the whole thing. Although Camille was a member of his L.A. dance troupe, he hadn't selected her to be in the movie. She had lied to her parents and had come to Florida with a one-way ticket purchased with piggy bank savings and borrowed money, hoping to somehow crash her way onto the set and thus get her career going. When Kutash spotted her at the kickoff party, he was surprised.
"Blueberry Muffin!" he said, calling her by the nickname he had given her. "What are you doing here?"
She swallowed hard and tried to play it cool. "I heard something about a dance movie in Florida. Some of my friends have a part and invited me down."
"Don't worry," Kutash had said to her. "I'll get you in. I'll get you a part."
Then, in no time at all, the happy but confused young woman found herself with a top-scale dancer's contract and a private room at the Marina Bay Club with a view of the glittering bay. The weekly $235 per diem payment alone was more money than she had ever made in a week in any of her previous jobs.
Although Camille was confused by it all, and by how fast and how easy it had come, she was also smart enough not to say any of this to others.
I smiled as I thought about the weird set of circumstances that had enabled the dancer to crash the movie. When Wilder had introduced her as "the girl we sent for in L.A.," he was just putting his own spin on the fact of her unusual arrival. Once I knew all of this, it became clear to me why she had seemed so timid and afraid when we first met, glancing up and then quickly looking away. With her tenuous position, she certainly didn't want to attract the attention of the movie's producer. She must have thought I was staring at her because I couldn't figure out who she was and why she was on the set. A veteran performer would have jumped at the opportunity to get close to the producer, to try to snare a bigger part. This young woman just wanted to hold on to what she had.
The truth was that Camille Garcia almost hadn't been there. When she had tried out for his dance troupe in Los Angeles, Kutash could tell that she was unschooled and probably came from an underprivileged family. He could also see that she possessed creativity and natural talent and made a striking appearance onstage. She had an ethereal quality some of the most professionally skilled dancers could never achieve. His group was big enough to embrace some dancers purely on potential, so he didn't dismiss her outright. In the end, it was a close call, but he decided to take a chance on the dark-haired teenager with
the angelic face.
Camille Garcia had spunk, that was for sure, and that fact attracted me to her even more. A woman like that could crash her way into a man's heart the same way she had pushed her way into the movie. A woman like that, especially a woman as beautiful as Cammy, could be trouble. Yes, I definitely wanted to stay away from her.
84
The close, family-like atmosphere of a movie crew on location made my plan to avoid Cammy Garcia all but impossible. I kept bumping into her in the hotel lobby or around the set, and every time I caught a glimpse of her, it stopped me dead in my tracks. Each new sighting burned another image into my mind. The mere sight of this woman was enough to drive me crazy.
Late one afternoon the following week, I spotted her in the lobby. She looked incredible. I noticed that she was carrying an envelope in her hand and was heading toward the mail slot near the front desk. Just before she slipped it in, I grabbed her wrist.
"You don't want to mail that," I said.
She was doubly startled, first that someone had sneaked up on her, and second that it was the producer. The letter, as I had guessed, was to her boyfriend in California.
"Why not?"
"Who's it to?" I asked.
"A friend."
"What's his name?"
Her eyes flashed, and she smiled coyly. "How do you know it's a he?"
"You don't want to mail that," I repeated, affecting my best smile. "Why don't you throw it away?"
"Isn't that your girlfriend over there?" she said, pointing to a woman with long brown hair I'd been speaking with earlier.
"No, she's the girlfriend of a friend. He called and asked me to give her a part."
I looked at Camille intently. Then, just as quickly, I said, "I've got to go. See you around." And I left.
All that day, I tried to keep my mind on business, but the image of Cammy Garcia kept intruding. I remembered an Italian old wives' tale about men being "hit by a thunderbolt" because of the effect a particular woman had on them. There didn't seem to be any explanation, it was claimed. It just happened. I had laughed about that idea in the past, but now I wasn't so sure. My own personal "thunderbolt" seemed to have suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
When a group from the cast and crew got together to see the movie Breakin', Cammy was among them. Although we didn't sit together, I spent more time watching the blue light from the movie screen dance over her face than I did looking at the movie itself.
The following evening, I saw her alone in the lobby. She appeared upset, so I approached her. "You don't look very happy. What's the matter?"
She looked up at me, and her eyes misted, and her lips trembled.
"I'm going home," she said. "These people are not my type. I was just trying to mind my own business."
"Why? What happened?" I asked.
"There's a rumor going around that I'm sleeping with you," she admitted.
I was so moved by her little girl reaction to the typical movie location gossip that I could hardly speak. What had started as purely a physical attraction at that moment turned into something far more terrifying. Michael Franzese was on the verge of falling in love.
"That's funny," I said. "This is just the second time we've spoken, and every time I try to talk to you, you're suddenly gone. Are you hiding from me?"
She brushed away a tear and briefly smiled. She must have been confused. I was the problem to begin with, and instead of combating the rumormongers, I was providing them with more ammunition.
"Meet me after the cast meeting, and we'll have a drink and talk," I said, trying to convince her to stay in Florida without revealing why it mattered so much to me.
"I don't drink," was her response.
"I don't either," I offered. "So, we'll have some milk."
She laughed and promised to wait for me.
I saw her come into the meeting and then exit a few minutes later, but when the meeting was over, she was nowhere to be found. I was disappointed-to say the least.
85
Although Camille had continually troubled my thoughts from the moment I first saw her, I had yet to realize that her room was diagonally across the hall from mine. Once I discovered this fact, I made no more pretense about keeping my distance from her. There was no fighting this thunderbolt, I had decided.
The trouble seemed to be that the proverbial thunderbolt had not yet struck her. Every time I bumped into her for the next week, I made her promise to drop by my room to visit me that evening. She'd say "Okay, okay," but then she'd never show up. Each time I was disappointed. At the same time, I also found this unusual conduct to be amusing. It didn't turn me off at all. In fact, Cammy's frequent no-shows only heightened my desire to see her.
I had to go to New York on business, and while I was there, I found myself agonizing over Camille the whole time. The pain of such intense desire, such intense unrequited desire, was new to me. I hardly knew this girl, but that didn't seem to matter. The separation did nothing to heal the strange malady that had overtaken me. I hated New York more than ever and wanted nothing but to return to Florida-to return to her.
Any chance of making another attempt at forgetting Cammy Garcia was dashed when, soon after arriving back in Florida, I paid a visit to the skating rink I had rented for the dancers, and she was there. The sight of her blew me away.
The following evening, I threw a pizza party in my suite and made arrangements to show the pay-per-view Thomas "The Hit Man" Hearns-Roberto Duran boxing match. A big, noisy crowd gathered, and the commotion attracted Cammy from across the hall. She wandered in, fresh out of the shower, with her hair still wet. I noticed what she was wearing-an oversized orange shirt buttoned up the front. She looked unbelievably beautiful. I wanted to rush over and welcome her to the party, but I was trapped. I was sitting in the center of the room with a sheet tied around my neck so that the movie's hairdresser could give me a haircut.
Before I could get free, Camille was gone. Fortunately, she returned twenty minutes later, just as Hearns was knocking Duran senseless with a thunderous combination.
"You came back," I said to her, not wanting to miss the second opportunity.
"I'm just looking for my friend Katie Lauren," she said. "I don't think she's here."
And she turned to leave.
I grabbed her hand, "Camille, before next Tuesday at midnight, you must come to my room and talk to me."
The deadline was arbitrary. It just popped into my head, but she promised to come.
Tuesday came and went, and Cammy never appeared. I was very baffled by this.
On Wednesday, Jeff Kutash invited me to watch the dancers practice in a local studio. I cleared my schedule to attend, and I wasn't going just to check out the progress of the movie's choreography. My interest in the dark-haired dancer was now apparent to everyone.
During the break, one of the other dancers rushed over to Cammy backstage.
"The producer is personally interested in you!" he gushed.
"Who?" she asked.
"Michael!" he replied. "Haven't you noticed? He's been burning a hole through you the whole time."
After the rehearsal, a group of the dancers and crew members were chatting about where they were going that evening. The consensus was Shooters, a popular Fort Lauderdale nightclub. Someone asked me to join the group, but I said that I was exhausted and needed sleep. I had been getting up at dawn each day in order to oversee my business interests in New York and keep the filming of the movie going.
"If you want, you can bring a date," a cast member piped in, figuring I had plans for a more private evening ahead of me.
"He doesn't need a date," Cammy said, edging in beside me and putting her arms around my waist. "He's with me."
The instant she touched me I felt like my body was on fire.
"That's... that's right," I stammered. "I'm with Camille."
"Looks like you have a date," Frankie Cestaro said, snapping me out of my fog.
"It does," I answered.
"I'll go home to Delray Beach and get some rest. Call and wake me at about eleven, and if she's there, I'll go."
86
When Frankie called, I was in a deep sleep.
"Is she there?" I mumbled.
"She's here," Frankie confirmed, "and she looks sensational!"
His description of her popped my eyes open like a burst of caffeine, and I shot out of bed, quickly dressed and drove to Shooters. When I arrived, an associate from New York, Peter Napolitano, was sitting next to Cammy.
"Let me sit here," I whispered to him.
"Michael, I'm doing good here," he said, nodding Cammy's way.
"Pete, get outta there," I ordered, far firmer than he expected.
He got the message and bolted.
"Well, here we are," I said.
"We've finally gotten together." Cammy smiled.
"What made you put your arm around me today?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said.
"Well, it worked," I told her. "It got me out of bed."
We talked for the next couple of hours, and it was as if we were the only ones there. We chatted about the movie and her dancing and her life.
Cammy told me about growing up poor in the barrios of Norwalk, southeast of Los Angeles. She had known what it was like to go to bed without dinner, not because she was being punished, but because there was no food in the house. She also knew what it was like to walk barefoot through the grass, not because she wanted to feel the sensation, but because she had no choice.
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