Unscripted

by Davis Bunn

  Danny stood in front of the hotel and waited as the driver’s door opened and a woman in a slate-grey suit stepped down. “Mr. Byrd?”

  “That’s me.”

  She glanced at the parked cars. “Where is everybody?”

  Danny pointed at the western ridgeline. “Locals park here and hike the hills, watching the sunset. My team is on set. We’re alone.”

  She gave him a cop’s hard-eyed measure. Her dark hair was chopped very short. She was slender but appeared both strong and extremely aware. “Ms. French is on the phone. She asks that you give her a minute.”

  “No problem.”

  “Where will Ms. French be staying?”

  “Here, if she likes. Otherwise at a Solvang inn. It’s her call.”

  “Show me the rooms, please.”

  Danny turned and started up the stairs. He held the door for her. “Can I ask your name?”

  “Kate.”

  “How many others are in her security detail?”

  “Depends on the circumstances, Mr. Byrd. It’s just me for the moment. But that may change at any time.”

  “Understood.” Danny led her up the main staircase and through the double doors leading to the hotel’s finest suite. Nothing could hide the fact that the entire hotel was in desperate need of renovations. But the parlor’s domed ceiling held three original hand-blown Tiffany lamps, and the bed’s four posters were carved from the same redwood as the broad-planked floors.

  Kate inspected each room, checked out the bath, then declared, “I believe Ms. French will be quite comfortable.”

  “Great.”

  “How many others will be based here?”

  “The entire crew—that’s nineteen including me.”

  “What about Mr. Cross?”

  “I’ve put him in one of the cabins.”

  “Jennie has heard some things. Will he be a problem?”

  Danny decided she would prefer to hear it straight. “He might try. But I imagine if Ms. French comes down hard on him one time, he’ll fold his tents and creep away.”

  Kate liked that enough to smile. “Why don’t we go back outside and meet the lady herself.”

  Jennie French stood beside the rear passenger door when Danny emerged from the hotel. She waved at him, then pointed at the phone still attached to her ear. Beside Jennie stood her personal assistant, whose name Danny knew was Evelyn. Danny had dealt with her several times and thought Evelyn was going to be a true asset. Many PAs to the stars expected to be treated like power players themselves. Their egos were bruised by the slightest hint of disrespect. If that happened, they made the set as miserable as they possibly could. Plus the PA was normally in charge of managing a star’s entourage during a shoot. This could include a cosmetician, hairdresser, manager, agent, personal vet for the pets they insisted on bringing along, and one or more petulant lovers. To have a star like Jennie French show up minus limo and hangers-on placed her in a very exclusive group indeed.

  Danny wasn’t certain, but he thought Evelyn belonged to an equally rare breed. He hoped the PA would prove to be a professional whose primary job was to smooth the star’s path. Simply having a star like Jennie French on set did not mean all her other responsibilities were going to go away. Lane Pritchard had outlined some of the urgent matters Jennie needed to juggle—a cover shoot for Vanity Fair, negotiations on a book whose film rights she wanted, an unsatisfactory screenplay for the film going into production four weeks from now, issues regarding a three-film production deal with Universal, and so forth. All in the next nineteen days.

  Danny liked having this opportunity to study her. He had never been this close to a major star, and Jennie French was most certainly that. Two Oscars and currently nominated for a third. Three films completed last year, at least that many this year. A power in the industry. His for almost three weeks.

  She was five feet seven inches tall and could not possibly weigh more than 110. She was fine-boned and had the sculpted features of a long-distance runner, or a bird of prey. Her beauty was simply one component of her unique draw. She shared the hunting bird’s intent stillness, able to focus completely on whatever was being said over the phone. Danny felt the woman’s kinetic power like it was plugged directly into his chest. He would have been intimidated by her force had he not already been dealing with a younger version.

  Emma shared a number of traits with this woman, enough to make it believable that Jennie French was indeed her mother. The same tensile strength, the narrow bones and perfectly carved features, the piercing brown-gold gaze, the age-defying beauty, the copper hair. Jennie wore her age with the same awareness and comfort as every other aspect of herself.

  She said into the phone, “I agree with all those conditions except the first. That’s my final word, Bart. Are we good? . . . Excellent. Write it up and send it to Lane.” She cut the connection, handed the phone to her PA, and said, “No more calls.”

  “Cosmo is still asking about the shoot.”

  “I haven’t decided. Tell them to get back to me next month.” She offered her hand. “You’re Danny, correct? Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise, Ms. French.”

  “Let’s go with Jennie, okay? Tell everybody on set.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’m sorry we’re late. Traffic was unbelievable.” She turned to where Kate was coming down the stairs. “We good?”

  “I think this residence will suit you well, ma’am.”

  “Excellent.” She offered Danny a professional smile. “I hate commuting. Especially with early hours on set.”

  “I’m with you.”

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Setting up in Santa Barbara.”

  Jennie showed surprise for the first time. “We’re shooting a location scene?”

  “In ninety-three minutes,” Danny replied.

  “Where are my pages?”

  “You don’t have any lines.”

  “Costume?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to shoot you dressed exactly as you are right now.”

  She looked down at herself. “I’ve been in these clothes since daybreak. I’m a mess.”

  “They fit the scene perfectly.” Danny glanced at his watch. “We don’t have a moment to lose.”

  30

  MEGAN WAS STANDING outside Santa Barbara’s Soho Music Club when her old pal from K&K pulled up. Gary Landis rose from his dark grey Mercedes E350, waved the script pages she had sent him, and said, “This is real? You’ve got me hooked up with a speaking role?”

  “Unpaid.”

  “Girl, pay is not the issue. Screen time is.” Gary looked as excited as she had ever seen him. “I am definitely in your debt.”

  Gary Landis had been passionate about acting since childhood. He acted in the local LA theater and took whatever paying roles he could land. His winning smile had been featured in four different toothpaste ads. He was, in his own way, holding on to whatever shred of his dream came within reach.

  None of this, however, was why Megan had invited him up. She circled his new car because it was expected of her. “Nice ride.”

  “The notice that I could order what I wanted just dropped out of the sky. Nobody’s saying, but it appears your departure had its benefits for those of us still surviving the place.” He studied her. “You look good, Megan. Relaxed.”

  “I’m too busy to relax, but thanks.”

  “You know what I mean.” Gary wore what probably passed for weekend casual back in Des Moines—light-blue jeans, a dress shirt, and a silk and wool jacket. Hand-stitched cowboy boots. He nervously fingered his collar and said, “I had always hoped, you know, we might have a chance.”

  “You need to move beyond that,” Megan replied. “We don’t have much time and we have a lot of ground to cover.”

  He frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  “First I need to know that you can really hear me.”

  “Megan . . . Yes.”

  “I mean it, Gar
y. This is maybe the most important conversation we’ll ever have.”

  His sky-blue gaze was clear now. “Okay. What?”

  “There’s a woman who’s serving as my intro into the San Luis Obispo law practice. Her name is Sonya Barrett.”

  “Wait, you brought me here to talk about a job?”

  “Just listen, Gary. Sonya was formerly the chief litigator at Wright-Patten. A junior partner. She almost lost herself in the process, so she left. And now she’s a partner in the firm I’ve joined. And what I’ve learned from her . . .”

  Gary was focused now. Intent. “What?”

  “There’s a different legal arena than what we’ve been led to believe is the only one dealing with film. And it’s fun.”

  The bitter humor they all developed in order to survive surfaced now. “Girl, what drug are you on?”

  “My new firm is made up of some very good people. And the work is incredible. There are no layers. I was told to go out and do whatever is required. I’ve spent my first week here negotiating a three-and-a-half-million-dollar film deal. No oversight except for what I request. They trust me.”

  Gary stepped back until he collided with the car. “Megan, we’re talking San Luis Obispo. I mean, how much farther in the sticks can you get?”

  “How happy has LA made you, Gary? How fulfilled are you at K&K?”

  “This is a job offer. I don’t believe it.”

  “Actually, it’s not. It’s too early for that. The business isn’t in place yet. But I’ve been talking with these people. My new friends. Exploring the next step. And I’ve discovered . . .”

  Gary’s voice softened. “Tell me.”

  “I’ll do better than that.” Megan reached for his arm. “I’ll show you.”

  Jennie French was clearly a woman comfortable with silence. She had not spoken since they’d left the hotel. Her gaze swept Santa Barbara’s State Street scene. Finally she asked Danny about the alternate accommodation he’d had in mind.

  “It’s the only place in Solvang that offers anything like a suite,” he replied. “The building was recently gutted by its new owners and turned into large studios. It’s nice. Nothing fancy, but the best this town has to offer.”

  Jennie said, “Kate?”

  The security woman caught Danny’s eye in the rearview mirror. “How many doors open onto the street?”

  “Seven.” It was a standard question from stars and their retinues, one Danny had fielded many times before. “There’s also a private parking area and pool behind the main house.”

  She turned to Jennie and said, “I can guard you better where we are now.”

  “Let’s stay with Thrashers Ridge for the moment,” Jennie said. “What a name.”

  Evelyn spoke for the first time. “The thrasher is a bird.”

  Jennie did not show any surprise at her PA having the answer at hand. “Really?”

  “Native to California. It prefers thick brush and often goes unseen even by people who know where to look.” Evelyn’s voice was pleasant enough for a monotone. Danny suspected very little could shake this woman’s calm. “Solvang used to have thousands of the birds living in neighboring forests. Now the flock is restricted to the ridge owned by the hotel.”

  Jennie went quiet and did not speak again until they were driving along the Santa Barbara Harbor. “So how does a young film producer come to own a hotel?”

  “That needs to wait,” Danny said. There was nothing to be gained by adding that it had to wait because he didn’t have any idea. “You’re on in less than half an hour.”

  31

  THE SOHO MUSIC CLUB was becoming known as the premier live jazz locale between Los Angeles and San Francisco. It regularly pulled in acts that went on to become huge international sensations. The food was good, the atmosphere relaxed and electric, the stage and music systems and lighting all professional quality.

  They entered the club by way of the kitchen. The staff was gone, and the steel counters were filled with remnants of a buffet-style dinner. Michelle had laid out a special meal and invited only longtime customers. Danny had agreed to pay for the meal and the bar bill, which was going to be substantial but far less than what renting a restaurant and filling it with extras would have cost.

  Then there was the matter of their unexpected bonus, which was the result of their dinner at Robin’s. The reason Michelle had wanted to speak with Danny after the meal. The reason he kept wanting to break into song.

  Danny had expected Greg to be in the kitchen, ready to prep Jennie. But as they entered, Annie rushed through the doors leading to the restaurant and said, “Hi, Ms. French. Annie Callow, writer. Danny, Greg needs another fifteen minutes. There’ve been issues with the lighting.”

  Danny didn’t care about that so much as what Jennie thought about not being properly greeted. If Annie noticed his concerns, she didn’t show it.

  “The run-through looks great. Consuela is a natural. The locals are behaving.” She started back through the swinging doors. “Greg asks you to start prepping.”

  As the door swung shut, Jennie demanded, “You’re using locals as volunteer extras?”

  Danny felt her displeasure and agreed. “They’ve all signed waivers, and they’re being paid. Sort of.”

  “And this Consuela?”

  “Consuela Reyes is the focal point of this scene. She’s been acting in commercials and local theater since she won a beauty contest as a teen. She worked most of today with Annie and Greg and Alex, getting ready for your arrival. It’s good, Jennie. Really a solid scene.”

  Jennie crossed her arms. “I didn’t agree to this gig for a dose of community theater.”

  “Something major and totally unexpected is happening out there,” Danny replied.

  She could have melted the swinging doors with her glare. “I’m listening.”

  “Word is spreading through this entire region about our project. The response has been . . . well, incredible is the only word that works for what’s going on out there.”

  “I hate working with local extras,” she said, still glaring at the doors. Danny decided that was better than enduring her heat directly. “They’re unruly. They insist they know better. They grow impatient. They chatter. They blow scenes.”

  “We agree. But this is different. Jennie, they’re not here because of you.”

  She turned to him. Silent now.

  “Emma and her mother are genuinely loved around here. We’re only now learning what that means.” Danny gestured at the door. “Michelle has turned her restaurant over to us for free. On a weekend night. We’re paying the locals with a quick buffet and some drinks. Anybody who doesn’t behave is expelled. But that’s not the best part. Michelle is lifelong friends with Randy Willis.”

  “Willis, the jazz pianist?”

  “Right. He’s agreed to accompany Emma tonight. We’re doing it now because Randy leaves tomorrow for two weeks, touring in Canada.”

  The news eased Jennie’s tension. As well it should. Randy Willis was one of those rarest of breeds, a jazz musician whose fan base crossed all sorts of divides. He had written three scores for films, one of which had been an Oscar finalist and another that had won him a Grammy. The last time he and his band played in Los Angeles, it had been to a sellout crowd in the Hollywood Bowl.

  Jennie asked, “Where is Emma?”

  “In an apartment upstairs. Consuela and her husband live there.”

  “Why?”

  “Consuela is both the head bartender and assistant manager.” Danny waved that aside. “Greg thinks it’s important from the story’s standpoint that you not meet Emma until after tonight’s scene.”

  She circled back to, “So Randy Willis is doing a cameo. Tonight. And you don’t want me to have any lines?”

  Danny nodded. It was the right question to ask. “Get ready for round two.”

  32

  MEGAN WATCHED GREG move about the restaurant, ordering people and lights and camera placements with quiet authori
ty. She had come to know several directors because she had begged and pleaded to be allowed on set. Most K&K attorneys had laughed at her request and assumed she was starstruck. But that wasn’t it at all. Megan wanted to make film her life, and studying what happened on set was all part of the package. She shared what film professionals knew and never talked about. That there was an energy to the process of bringing a story to life. So strong it survived the tedium and the exhaustion and the stress.

  Megan thought Greg handled his job with the skill of a good football quarterback. The guy who relied on everybody and made them feel equally vital to the success of their next play. He talked calmly, he repeated himself until he was certain things were getting through, then he moved on. When he stepped over to where she and her friend were seated, he asked, “What’s your name again?”

  “Gary. Gary Landis.”

  “Megan has vouched for you, Gary. She assures me you can carry the scene. You’ll be front and center, and we don’t have time for multiple takes. Understood?”

  Gary swallowed. “I’m good to go.”

  “Okay. Watch for my signal.” Greg moved on.

  Gary glanced at Megan, both nervous and excited. “I wish there was some way to tell you what this means.”

  Greg addressed the group encircling the bar. Steady, calm, defying the storm he was in the process of creating. “We’re going to shoot a scene based on the history of Thrashers Ridge, which Annie has turned into script. Consuela will tell the story, supported by several others around the bar. Your job, Gary, is to respond like it’s the first time you ever heard what Consuela is about to reveal. And Alex here will serve as Consuela’s goad. So you follow his lead even though you’re front and center. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “That’s my guy.” Greg turned to Alex. “The second camera will play off you the whole time. You’re a pro. Tell me you know what to do.”

  For once, Alex rose to the occasion. “You’re asking me to play the weary local. Man, this is what I live for.”