“We brought cheese and crackers for starters, didn’t we?” Marcie argued. “And your so-called guest was just another trick.”
“Yeah well, f.y.i. he felt so constrained by other people in the house, especially straight people, and so he wasn’t even another trick! Plus before you woke up the next morning, that guy you brought kept waving his meat in front of my face through his skimpy BVDs while pretending to read the cereal box, as though I couldn’t live without any.”
Marcie changed the subject. “You’ve already met Jim Anthonys. He’s a nice guy. Once you remember, you’ll see. He’ll take you to dinner and talk to you about the new book which he’s seen the proposal to and which Laetitia has spoken to him about. How can that kill you?”
“I’m busy tonight.” Which was partly true. He had at last given in and agreed to go to The Detour’s opening.
“So’s Jim Anthonys. This is for tomorrow night.”
There was silence from both ends, which Vic broke first.
“Tell me who this guy is again?”
Marcie named the film company which Jim and his business partner had started as a subsidiary of one of the studios allegedly to produce a small number per annum of quality, small budget films.
“I’ll owe you big time, Vic “ Marcie said. “We’ll go to the Terrace on your birthday.”
The upper-class place in the penthouse of that building overlooking Columbia University’s quad.
“Jim Anthonys knows that the book is a thinking man’s western, right? Based on a true crime in Dakota Territory?”
“He got the proposal. He thinks it’s great.”
“And—details—Where? When? And for how long?”
“Joe Allen’s.”
“Broadway and forty-seventh street’s a little far to go even for you, Marcie.”
“It seems there’s a Joe Allen’s near you in La La on Third Street, off,” reading something, “is it Saint Vincent?”
“No, dear that’s a hospital in Greenwich Village where they either ignore or try to convert gay men. Could it be San Vee-cen-tay?” he corrected. “Hold on, Marce. What’s the address?”
“Eight Seven Fourteen Third Street.”
Victor checked the bath house pass Andy gave him. And . . . Yes! Joe Allen’s was across the street.
Vic would have dinner with this Jim Anthonys (why the plural? how many personalities did he have, anyway?) then drop across the street to the bath house. Knowing he would be fucking his brains out later would make the dinner fun, even if Jim Anthonys turned out to be multi-hemisphere lobotomized.
“Well, if I must. Do it just this once!”
“Now you know why you’re my favorite client.”
“Enough about me. What word from the world traveling film star?”
“Don’t get me started. There’s an actress in the film!”
“To everyone’s astonishment!” Vic replied.
“To mine.”
“Oh, please. High Chapparal Barbecue? Doubtless she’s petite, blond, with a forty-inch rack, and constant need of protection.”
“Rick declares it’s only thirty-eight.”
“And your lover Rick knows this rather personal statistic how, exactly?”
“They all do. Because her tops keep getting ripped off by branches and stuff in the running scenes. Or so he says, and they have to be replaced.”
“Every six minutes? Picturesquely?”
“Something like that.” She sounded very gloomy.
“Well, Alain Resnais this film director is not! But I’ll bet the guys are going to line up for it somewhere. C’mon, he’s in the jungle. Rick’s probably having a hell of a time. And the last thing he’s thinking about is that blonde.”
“He says he’s having a terrible time and he’s sorry he went,” She began sniveling, “And he wishes he could break the contract and come home.”
“Pobrecito, Rick! I’ll light a candle for him.”
“Maybe I should go.”
“Have you been invited?”
“No, but . . .”
“Let’s see. Not invited to the closed set of a film in progress six thousand miles away. Yes, That’s smart. I’d do that.” Vic said, then shouted, “Right after I castrated myself!”
“That’s about what my mother said.”
“You must be depressed if you’re actually talking with your mother.”
“She’s impressed Rick’s in a film.”
“Correction, Marcie, she’s impressed by Rick’s paycheck from the film.”
“You’re right. She’s a witch and I think my cold is coming back.”
“I heard it’s seventy degrees there. Freak heat wave.”
“Be nice to Jim Anthonys. I’ll call you afterward. Oh by the way, do you know some guy named Mark Chastain?”
“Met him out here Sunday. Why?”
“He called and told my tres gai assistant, Dane, that you left something with him?”
Left something? It must have been my heart, Vic thought.
“Want his number?” she asked.
Mark called with a lame excuse to call back?!!! Insert bells lights and whistles!!! Then repeat: Mark called?!!!
“Sure, let me get a pen,” Vic said as tonelessly as he could.
Ed and the others were waiting out on the street in front of Silver Screen’s offices when Meade pulled the limo up and Ed signalled Vic’s driver not to park but instead to follow his canary yellow Corniche. They went west along Sunset but dropped down Doheny to Beverly Hills. They turned onto Santa Monica and looked headed toward Century City. Ed called from his car to Vic’s.
“We’re going to the Network. Brandon will see us now. Now all you have to do is tell him about the book. Tell him the story, just the way you wrote it for us.”
Omigod, it’s showtime!
“I don’t remember how I wrote it for you.”
“Don’t be nervous. You’ll do fine,” Ed assured him.
Fifteen minutes later they arrived and Meade drove down into another vast, cool underground parking lot, and the others gathered at the elevators up except for Ed who was schmoozing with someone he’d met. He arrived five minutes later in the three story-high glass-ceiling lobby. Stan or Tim had given their names to the centrally located receptionist and they’d been sent to cool off in one of the seven living rooms within this airport of a waiting lounge.
Now that they were here, suddenly Vic was a blank wall.
The other guys were nervous too. Probably his blankness projected not only to them, but to the entire cortege dancing attendance in this vast room.
A few minutes later Ed sauntered over and they were called and escorted by a pretty efficient-looking Sorority-Sister type secretary whose thin lips boded no good. They went through double doors and into a huge office with gargantuan windows facing in two directions. Through one Vic could look directly west past miles of flat residential development to the ocean and what must have been Santa Monica beach where he and Andy had played the previous day. Only this was from a height of twenty stories. The other direction looked north to Beverly Hills, Bel Air, and the mountains beyond and was equally breathtaking.
The man they were introduced to was a few years older than Vic, and it took Vic a few minutes to realize who he was: Brandon Tartikoff, the network’s Boy Wonder, with a dozen hit shows and advertising revenues up the wazoo. He was the network’s savior, leading the previously hang-dog third-place network into the very top tier, which the other two biggies were now trying to catch up to.
“Cool views, aren’t they?” Brandon asked.
“Most cool,” Vic agreed.
“It’s kind of like the best tree-house in L.A.”
Yes, it was. Even cooler, Vic detected an East Coast, in fact New York suburban accent. Brandon had a pleasant squarish face, cute mouth, very large, very dark, soulful eyes, and he reminded Vic of some of the cuter Jewish guys he’d gone to college with. He instantly heard Gilbert’s voice asking “Never mind business, the re
al question is, would you do him?” Vic answered silently, “For sure, I’d do him.”
They all sat down and coffee mugs were brought and filled and everyone shuffled around a bit, trying not to act like there were too many people even in this oversized office. After some introductory remarks by Ed and Stan, they all glared at Vic as though he was wearing clown’s makeup.
Brandon said, “So Ed tells me you’ve got a story to tell me?”
At first, Vic was baffled. Story? What story? Then he thought, Oh! the novel’s story!
But did Tartikoff not already know the story of the novel? Hadn’t Ed Trefethern said, Well, we’ve got this book, a psychological thriller about a strange yet utterly contemporary boy-girl romance, set in the singles scene of East Side Manhattan and . . . Let me send it over by messenger. Surely he . . . ?
Or not.
Vic suddenly had to assume not. So he began speaking and it actually all came back to him: the character’s names, the relevant settings, their various relationships, the story itself, dramatic crest by dramatic crest, leading to the plot’s tangled but inevitable climax, the denouement, and at last the tragic ending.
When Vic was done, the Silver Screen crew all sighed in audible relief behind him, signifying that he’d not too apparently screwed up.
The Boy Wonder asked Vic six questions about what he’d just told him. At first Vic though they were details, which meant that Brandon had listened carefully. Vic answered them as best he could, but his reasoning changed as he did so. Maybe this guy did not care a bit. It might just show that he was being courteous.
Ed began speaking about other, similar stories, and how Vic’s was fresh and different. Tim followed Ed, talking about how they’d done demographics with the publisher and how the story “slanted” male forty, female sixty, and heavily to ages eighteen to thirty-five—in other words, the most desirable advertiser demo of all, perfect for the network’s proposed time slot. Stan then spoke and said how they’d done some “initial basic expense analysis and cost differentials,” and then he began to spout various percentages which would mean, as he concluded that “the numbers are workable for the network.” Vic assumed he meant to produce the film without losing money, and of course for ABC and Silver Screen to work together. Sam, the youngest, just sat there, trying not to look impressed by the décor.
After all that, Brandon allowed that, “It’s a terrific story. I can see why it’s so popular. And I can easily see why you folks are so high on it. I think it would make a heck of a production. Who were you thinking of for the leads, Ed?”
“Anna-Marie’s role is the one we need to settle first.”
Ed then named several actresses whom he thought would be good for the role, then added, “You and I were both happy with Dee Wallace in that last project we did together. She read and knows Victor’s book and even though it might be a very different role for her . . .”
The next five minutes were all about Dee versus several other actresses, most of whom Vic had no idea of. Meanwhile Vic kept thinking, Wasn’t Dee Wallace cute and pert and blond? Very blond all-American Midwest-looking? Anna-Marie was supposed to be slender, dark haired, and kind of ethnic-looking. Wasn’t that, after all, the attraction for Theo, who was himself (at least in the book) cute and strawberry blond and all-American and Midwest-looking? If Anna-Marie was all-American, whom would they suggest to play Theo?
Ed was speaking, however, and since Vic was The New Kid he wouldn’t barge in, even with something as basic as this.
When Ed was done, Sam spoke up and mentioned someone else to play Theo who came from daytime television and who Vic didn’t know but who they said would bring in “the ratings” (that is, that show’s female audience) with him.
Brandon stood up, signaling the end to the meeting. Handshakes all around, wishes for Vic’s further success, and for his new book too, of course.
They all got up and turned to exit.
Vic followed the other guys. Behind him, he could just make out Ed trying to get some word from Brandon, and Brandon saying something vague that ended with the words, “but you know, Ed, it’s edgy stuff!”
Vic stopped and heard Ed reply, “How edgy can it be? It was six months on The New York Times paperback bestseller list. Selling in Spanish and German too! What used to be edgy isn’t any more. You know that. Young people, our targeted audience, want a bit of an edge. Your own surveys tell you that.”
“You’re absolutely right, Ed.”
At which point Vic knew with a total certainty that it was a dead deal, and at last, for the first time since he’d arrived in California, he could relax.
He heard Brandon tell Ed that he’d think it over.
Vic joined the other guys who had trooped over to the elevators and were getting in when Brandon had his assistant tap Vic’s shoulder and ask him back, alone.
The Boy Wonder stood there just inside his doorway, a big boy after all, looking at Vic without saying anything, but holding Vic’s outstretched hand.
“You and I come from the same place. Maybe a couple of towns away,” he began. “Few years apart.”
They began talking about what schools they’d gone to. The parks and beaches and lakes they’d played at. Neighbors, really, growing up just a few miles apart.
Brandon smiled. “I feel like we know each other already!” he said, and held Vic’s hand. People you meet out here, Vic thought, they all seem to know you. “I just know we’re going to see each other again.” Brandon added. “But right now? . . . this project? . . . I just don’t know.”
“I know.” Vic said. “You love it. But the story is too subversive.”
“Something like that.”
“It is an anti Romeo and Juliet story,” Vic admitted. “That is how I sold it to my publisher That is how I wrote it. That is why it’s a best seller!”
“You’re still here a few days more?” Brandon seemed to change the subject.
“I leave this Sunday evening.”
“Don’t leave earlier. Promise me.”
“Why?” Vic felt he had to ask.
“You know . . . In case I want to reach you. To talk things over.”
“Sure. Fine. I’ll be here until Sunday evening.”
This time Brandon gave him a warm clasp on the shoulder, almost a hug, and a firm handshake.
The others were all still congratulating each other when Vic got down to the garage. Ebullient, except for Ed.
“Comparing where we grew up and all,” Vic said for the others, to explain what the return chat was all about.
When no one else was looking, Vic raked a fingernail across his throat and Ed choked out a small laugh—he knew too they’d bombed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
”I can’t let you off here,” Meade said.
“This is the address I was given,” Vic replied.
“Maybe so,” the driver argued, “but look! We’re in the middle of nowhere!”
Where they were actually wasn’t so much “nowhere” as it was the corner of Virgil and Santa Monica Boulevard, about a block before it met Sunset Boulevard, in an area known as Silver Lake. And it was dead, dead, dead. Yes, there were street lights, spaced out widely on the empty streets filled with wind-blown trash. And it was true that on either side were houses and even a few two-story apartment buildings with a few solitary lights on. But there were no storefronts. No street life. No activity at all. At least not by night. In fact, the area looked warehousey. It looked light industrial. It looked, Vic thought, exactly like the kind of area where a hot leather bar ought to be.
“I have it on the best of word that there is a rocking party behind those three windows.” Vic pointed.
“I’d better wait for you.”
Right, and cramp my style totally in case I meet someone hot?
“Go home.” Vic said. “If I need a ride I’ll call a cab.”
He got out purposefully, in full confidence that behind the windows with those little red votive candles was actually
the world’s hottest leather bar premiere, as he’d been promised on numerous occasions by Gilbert and Andy.
Meade continued to sit there until Victor waved him on, and only when the limo vanished around the corner did Vic cross the street and go inside. He’d dressed specifically Village-Chelsea: tight 501 jeans with the top button open, cowboy boots with thick heels, black fitted t-shirt that didn’t quite meet the belt, one size too small jacket that wouldn’t ever zip up. This is as hot as Vic would ever look—and it usually got someone-or-other’s interest.
He strolled into the bar, which was indeed open, and indeed lighted with red votive candles, and indeed had rock music playing. It possessed two bartenders and two customers dressed much like Vic huddled at the far corner of the bar, half necking with each other—that is, when they were not talking to one of the bartenders. The other barkeep was at the other end mostly talking on the phone. That was the entire population of the Detour.
I know this is laid-back California. But, even so, is this it?
The two customers at the bar ignored him. Two more came in and spoke with the other bartender. Vic drank a beer and was ignored. Once, he got up and looked behind a leather curtain which led to a tiny patio supposedly devoted to outdoor sex—by raccoons, he assumed, since no people were present. He returned to the bar, finished a second beer, then asked the less dreary bartender of the two to call him a cab.
He went outside to wait. As before, the street was empty in every direction. A very long block away, there was extremely sporadic traffic on Sunset Boulevard mostly headed downtown.
On the one hand, he was amused and secretly pleased: after all the urgings and goadings to come tonight, Gilbert would be utterly crushed and humiliated. Vic would hang this alleged premiere in front of Gilbert as a indication of how completely off Gilbert’s supposed gay party radar was. It would be such great fun to harp on it month after month.
The wind rose, and what might have been a car’s headlights turned toward him, but then turned all the way around in a U-ey and were gone.
While Vic was irritated, he was also strangely satisfied. After all, it was now three days that he’d gone without sex in Los Angeles. Given how much sex he’d had, how often and how unavoidably he’d had sex the previous week, this was something of a streak. Perhaps with the TV film deal officially a corpse, he didn’t have to worry any longer and could return to his usual being hit on once every few weeks while he concentrated upon getting into bed with the handsome, the warm, the affectionate, husband potential Mark Chastain. Maybe in fact this was the clearest sign yet that Vic’s fooling around days were officially over and it was time to settle down, and who better with than with Mark?
Justify My Sins Page 9
