by Stuart Woods
“Looking for a place for us to live,” he replied, marking another apartment.
“We’d better rent a car,” she said, “if we’re going househunting.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I’ve arranged something.”
At 10:00, Michael left the suite. “Meet me out front in fifteen minutes,” he said to Vanessa, picking up his briefcase and the newspaper.
“Okay. How shall I dress?”
“Like a Californian out for a Sunday drive.” He closed the door and stepped out onto a shaded walkway. He loved the Bel-Air Hotel, he thought as he walked through the densely planted gardens. He walked through the lobby and out the front entrance, then over a bridge. Below him, swans paddled up and down a little stream.
As he came to the parking lot an attendant approached. “Good morning, Mr. Vincent,” the young man said. “There’s a gentleman waiting for you just over there.” He indicated the other side of the lot, where a man waited in the shade of a tree, leaning against a car.
Michael walked over to him, looking the car over closely.
“Mr. Vincent?” the man said, sticking out his hand. “My name’s Torio. What do you think of the car?”
Michael walked slowly around the machine, a new Porsche Cabriolet, painted metallic black, with a black leather interior. “Have you got the title?” he asked.
The man opened a briefcase and handed him a sheet of paper. “It’s the real thing,” he said. “All registered in your name.”
“How do you do this?” Michael asked, looking at the title. “This looks genuine.”
“It is genuine,” the man replied, sounding hurt. “You think I’d palm off bad paper on a friend of Tommy Pro’s?”
“I suppose not,” Michael said.
“We got our own man at motor vehicle registrations,” the man said, looking around him to make sure no one was listening. “When we yank a car we already got the numbers from a vehicle that’s already trashed. This car has got less than a hundred miles real miles on it, but it’s registered as last year’s model. We turned up the speedometer to show three thousand miles. Our guy registers the car, and your title is absolutely clean, I guarantee it. You want to drive the car? It’s perfect, I promise.”
“That won’t be necessary; I’ll take your word for it.” Michael opened his briefcase, took out a thick envelope, and handed it to the man. “Twenty-five thousand cash, as agreed.”
He accepted the envelope. “I won’t need to count it,” he said, sticking out his hand again. “Give Tommy my best when you see him.”
“I’ll do that,” Michael replied, shaking the man’s hand.
“Oh,” the man said, producing a business card. “If it ever comes up, you bought the car from this dealership out in the Valley, okay?”
“Okay,” Michael replied and watched the man climb into a waiting car and be driven away. He got into the Porsche, started the engine, and drove up to the portico just as Vanessa appeared.
“Wow!” she said, running a hand over the car.
“Hop in, Ms. Parks,” Michael replied, grinning. “Let’s go find a place to live.”
Late in the afternoon, after looking at half a dozen houses and apartments, Michael and Vanessa stood in the living room of a large penthouse in Century City.
“It’s available for a year,” the agent was saying. “The owner is making two films in Europe and will be based in London.”
“We’ll take it,” Michael said.
“Well,” the woman said, “I’m afraid there are three more people to see the place, then we’ll pick the best-qualified tenant. There will be some formalities to go through.”
“I don’t think we need worry about formalities,” Michael said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll pay the year’s rent in advance,” he said, opening his briefcase, “in cash. Right now.”
“In cash?”
“That’s what I said. Now I’m sure you have a standard lease form in your briefcase, and if we can wrap this up right now there’s a two-thousand-dollar bonus in it for you. In cash. And I don’t think we’ll find it necessary to mention this to your broker.”
The woman licked her lips. “You say you’re at Centurion?”
“Starting tomorrow. Leo Goldman’s office will confirm.”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t see why we can’t forget the formalities.”
When she had gone and the keys were in Michael’s pocket, he and Vanessa stood on the terrace and looked out over the city. “Right out there,” he said, pointing.
“Where?”
“Follow my finger; see the gate and the big sign?”
“Centurion Pictures,” she said.
“I like being able to see it from here,” he said.
“Michael, what’ll we do when the year’s lease is up?”
“Don’t you worry, babe,” he said, giving her a hug. “We’ll find something a lot nicer.”
When they had moved their things into the new apartment, Michael drove them out to Malibu, and they found a restaurant and a table overlooking the Pacific. As the sun went down, they raised their glasses. “To Hollywood,” Michael said. “It’s going to be ours.”
CHAPTER
13
Michael approached the gates of Centurion Pictures slowly. He had seen photographs and film of this famous entrance all his life, and he wanted to savor the moment.
He stopped at the little guardhouse, and for a moment he felt as though he were an intruder.
A uniformed guard stepped out. “May I help you?”
“My name is Michael Vincent,” he said. “I…”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Vincent,” the guard said, smiling. “Just a moment.” He disappeared into the guardhouse and came back with a plastic sticker, which he affixed to the Porsche’s windshield. “That’ll get you in any time and without delay,” he said. “The Executive Building is at the other end of the grounds. Take your first right and follow your nose. My name is Bill, if I can ever be of any service.”
“Thank you, Bill,” Michael said, smiling at the man. “I’ll remember that.” He drove slowly past a row of neatly painted bungalows; each had a sign out front with the occupant’s name painted on it. He recognized the names of directors and writers. Then he turned right and found himself on a New York City street.
Downtown, he thought. Not Little Italy—the Village, maybe. Rows of neat brownstones ran down the block, with small shops interspersed. On an impulse he stopped the car and ran up the front steps of a house, peering through the glass of the front door. As he had expected, there was nothing beyond but a weeded lot and the back of another row of façades. The whole street was propped up with timbers.
He continued to the Executive Building and drove slowly around the parking lot, looking for a place. To his surprise, he found one marked by a freshly painted sign reading MR. VINCENT. He paused. Could there be another Vincent at Centurion? Then he decided the paint was so fresh, it must be his. He parked the Porsche, noting the distance from his parking place to the front entrance of the building. Not too far, he noted—at least, not as far as some.
The Executive Building was a substantial structure with a stone façade and a row of columns. There was an air of permanence about it. Michael trotted up the front steps and entered the building. A large desk straddled the broad hallway, occupied by two very busy telephone operators and a receptionist. She smiled coolly at him. “Good morning,” she said. “May I help you?”
“My name is Michael Vincent,” he said. “I’m…”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Vincent,” she interrupted. “Just a moment, I’ll ring Mr. Goldman’s secretary for you. Won’t you have a seat?”
Instead of sitting, Michael wandered up and down the entrance hall, inspecting the original posters that hung there—posters for movies that were like a history of his life, movies he’d seen at dozens of New York movie houses from his earliest years. There were many Academy Award—winners among them.
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Shortly, a small, plump woman in a business suit appeared. “Mr. Vincent? I’m Helen Gordon, Mr. Goldman’s secretary. Mr. Goldman isn’t in yet—still recovering from jet lag, I believe. He’s asked me to take care of you.”
“How do you do?” Michael said, taking the woman’s hand and turning on a businesslike charm. “I’m sure I’ll be in good hands.”
“Mr. Goldman thought one of two offices might be to your liking,” she said. “Please follow me, and I’ll show them to you.”
Michael followed her up the broad staircase behind the reception desk, past a set of heavily varnished mahogany doors, then down a hallway that ran the length of the building. At the very end, she showed him a large office with a reception room of its own.
“It’s very nice,” Michael said noncommittally. He wanted to know what the second one was like before he chose.
“The other office is really a little building of its own,” she said, leading him back down the hallway and out of the building. “It’s only a short walk.” She led him down a broad sidewalk that ran between two rows of huge, hangarlike soundstages. At the end, she turned a corner, and they approached a small adobe building, one end of which was half a story higher than the other. Producing a key, she led him inside.
“This is very interesting,” Michael said, looking around the empty reception area.
She opened the doors of two good-sized offices, then led him toward a large pair of double doors. “In the old days they used to shoot screen tests in this room,” she said, opening the doors and stepping back for him to enter.
The room was large, with a very high ceiling. This was the extra half-story he had noticed from outside. Sunlight poured in through high windows at one end.
“By shooting tests here, they didn’t take up time on the big stages,” she said. “I think it’s rather nice, don’t you?”
“I do,” he replied, turning to her. “May I ask your advice? Which should I take?”
Helen Gordon nearly blushed. “Well,” she said haltingly, “there is a body of opinion which holds that it is not wise to work too close to Mr. Goldman’s office. He does rather have a tendency to look over one’s shoulder.”
“I see.” Michael laughed. “Well, I think I’ll be very happy in this building. I’m going to need some space for one or two other people anyway.”
“Good,” she said. “Now, let’s see about getting you some furnishings. Follow me.” She led him out of the building and down the street. At a small door in what he assumed was a soundstage, she pressed a bell and waited. “I’ll introduce you to George Hathaway,” she said.
“The art director?” Michael asked. “I’d assumed he was dead.”
“He’s very much alive, I assure you, though he’s sort of retired. He manages props and costumes now. Mr. Goldman has kept a number of the old-timers on retainer. They seem to prefer it to a pension.”
The door opened and a tall, slender, elderly man with a clipboard in his hand waved them in. “Good morning, Helen,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Hathaway. I’d like you to meet Michael Vincent, who’s going to be producing on the lot.”
“I’m an admirer of your work,” Michael said to the man, shaking his hand. “I’ve always been particularly impressed with your designs for Fair Weather and Border Village.”
Hathaway beamed. “How very nice of you to say so.” He seemed to have a slight English accent.
“George,” Helen Gordon said, “Mr. Vincent has decided to use the old screen test building. Do you think you could put together some furnishings for him? Mr. Goldman says he’s to have whatever he wants.”
“Why, of course, Helen,” Hathaway replied. “I’d be delighted. I’m always happy to have a new producer for a client.”
“Mr. Vincent,” Helen said, “I’ll leave you in George’s capable hands. When you’ve finished here, come on back to the Executive Building; Mr. Goldman should be in by that time, and he’ll want to greet you himself.”
“Thank you, Helen,” Michael replied.
She left the building, and George Hathaway beckoned for Michael to follow. He led the way to another door and opened it.
Michael stepped through the door and stared. What he had thought was a soundstage was a vast warehouse of furniture and other objects, stacked high on steel shelving. The central aisle seemed nearly to vanish into the distance. “It’s like something out of Citizen Kane, Mr. Hathaway,” he said wonderingly.
George Hathaway laughed. “Yes, I suppose it is. And please, you must call me George.”
“And I’m Michael.”
“Let’s have a wander around, and if you see a desk or a sofa or anything else that catches your eye, you just let me know.”
Michael followed the old man slowly through the building, gazing at the collection of seventy years of movie making—furniture, paintings, objets d’art, hat racks, spittoons, bars from English pubs and Western saloons. At the end of a row, Michael spotted something familiar. Leaning against the outside wall was an eight-foot-wide stretch of oak panelling surrounding a stone fireplace. “George, isn’t that the fireplace from Randolph’s study in The Great Randolph?”
“It is,” George beamed, “and how nice it is to find someone with the eye to recognize it.”
“I always loved that room,” Michael said. “When I was about twelve, I had this fantasy of living in it.”
“Tell me,” George said, scratching his chin, “were you thinking of using the tall room for your office?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Well, you know, that whole study is here in this warehouse—the desk, furniture, books—everything, and I think it might fit the tall room, with an adjustment or two. How would you like it if I reassembled it for you?”
“You could do that?”
“Of course. Mr. Goldman says you’re to have whatever you want.”
“That would be absolutely wonderful, George. I’ll feel like Randolph himself.”
“Consider it done. Will you want the other rooms furnished?”
“Yes, I’ll be hiring a few people soon.”
“Well, if you’ll leave it to me, I’ll choose some things for them.”
“Thank you very much.”
George picked up a phone against the wall and punched in a number. “I’ll get a crew on it right away,” he said. “We’re not too busy at the moment, so I should be ready for you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? As soon as that?”
“Well, Michael,” George Hathaway said, “this is Hollywood, after all.”
Michael left the warehouse and started back toward the Executive Building walking on air, headed for his first meeting with Leo Goldman. He passed a small bungalow, and through the open windows came the sounds of a string quartet, playing something Michael didn’t know. He thought it must be recorded, but when he stopped and looked inside, he saw three elderly men and a woman playing their instruments, lost in the music. He continued on toward the Executive Building. This was indeed Hollywood, he thought.
CHAPTER
14
Michael entered the Executive Building again and found Helen Gordon waiting for him.
“Oh, good,” she said. “Mr. Goldman has just come in. Let’s go up to his office.”
At the top of the stairs she opened one of the large, gleaming mahogany doors he had noticed before and led him through an elegant waiting room where two young women were typing furiously on word processors. Helen rapped on an inner door, then opened it and showed Michael into Leo Goldman’s office. The room was large enough to contain a huge desk, a pair of leather sofas in front of a fireplace, a grand piano, and a conference table with seating for twelve. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase with a ladder on rails. Leo Goldman sat in a large leather chair, his feet on his desk, talking into a telephone headset that was plugged into one ear. He waved Michael to one of the sofas and continued talking rapidly.
Michael sat down and regarded the room’s furnishings. Ever
y object seemed to be the best of its kind, carefully chosen to make the enormous room comfortable and beautiful.
Leo tossed the headset onto his desk, walked the twenty feet to where Michael sat, shook his hand, and sprawled on the opposite sofa. “Well, did you have a good flight?”
“Yes, just fine, Leo.”
“Your rooms at the Bel-Air all right?”
“Perfect. We enjoyed it, but we’ve already found an apartment in Century City.”
“Good; fast work. Who’s we?
“My lady friend, Vanessa Parks.”
Goldman nodded. “Have you moved in yet?”
“Vanessa is moving us today.”
“Will we meet her tomorrow night at dinner?”
“You will.”
“Good; Amanda will be delighted. By the way, is there anybody special you’d like to meet?
“At dinner?” Michael asked, a little nonplussed.
“Sure. Anybody in town you’d like me to ask?”
“I don’t know a soul here.”
Leo shook his head. “I mean, is there anybody you’d like to meet?”
Jesus, Michael thought, can he just summon anybody he wants? “Well, there are lots of people I’d like to meet.”
“Name somebody.”
Michael thought. “Yes. I’d like to meet Mark Adair.” He had read in the Times that the novelist was in town.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Leo said.
“And I’d like to meet Robert Hart.”
“Well, at least you want to meet movie stars, just like everybody else,” Leo said, laughing. “Bob Hart is just back from a month at Betty Ford’s,” he said. “Booze, not drugs. He hasn’t worked in over a year.”
“If you don’t think it’s a good idea…”
“No, it’s fine; I like Bob, and I’ve always loved his work. His wife can be a little hard to take.” He picked up a phone on the coffee table between the sofas, pressed a button, and spoke. “Helen, invite Bob and Sue Hart to dinner tomorrow night; you’ve got the number. And call the Beverly Hills and see if Mark Adair is there; ask him, too. Let me know.” He hung up. “If they’re not in town, think of somebody else.”
