L.A. Times

by Stuart Woods

  “Perhaps you can, and I hope you’ll be frank with me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Why am I, the new boy on the lot, being rewarded with such an elegant and, no doubt, accomplished assistant? Surely there are top studio executives ahead of me in line who would be very pleased to have you working for them.”

  She regarded him coolly. “You’re very direct, Mr. Vincent.”

  “It saves time.”

  “Very well,” she said. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t know what everybody else on the lot already knows.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Let me begin at the beginning. I was born in a village called Cowes, on the Isle of Wight, daughter of a butcher. I exhibited some talent for drama at school, and afterwards I sought a career on the London stage. I got a small part in a Noël Coward play almost immediately, and almost immediately after that, Sol Weinman saw the play and came backstage to see me. He offered me a studio contract, and within a month I was on the Centurion lot, the perfect little English starlet.

  “I played small parts and an occasional second lead for a few years, and then the studio system came crashing down around me. Being of a practical bent, I went to Mr. Weinman and asked him for a secretarial job. He put me to work as one of half a dozen girls in his office, and then, a couple of years later, he died.

  “When Leo Goldman took over the studio I remained in the office and, eventually, became his secretary. We had an affair; it ended when he married. It became awkward having me around, so Leo passed me on to the studio’s head of production, Martin Bell, and I became his secretary. We had an affair.

  “This continued until quite recently, when, in short order, his marriage ended, and he married a girl in her twenties.” She spread her hands. “So, you see, I’m awkward again, and nobody else in the Executive Building wants me in his office. Everyone is afraid I’ll report back to either Martin or Leo. I’m regarded as something of a political bombshell.”

  “I see,” Michael said. “Apart from your personal relationships with Leo and Bell, are you very good at your work?”

  “I am very good indeed,” she replied evenly.

  “Didn’t it occur to you to seek work at another studio? Surely with your background you would be a good candidate for secretary to some top executive.”

  “I am fifty-one years old,” she replied. “I have twenty-three years vested in the studio pension plan, not to mention profit sharing and my Screen Actors Guild pension. All that matures in two years; then I can take my pensions and my profits and my savings and do as I please.”

  “Well, Margot,” Michael said, “I think I would be very lucky to have you spend those two years with me.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, “I think I would like that, as well.”

  “I must tell you: I’m new at this, and I’m going to need all the help I can get. You might make it your most important duty to keep me from making an ass of myself.”

  Margot laughed. “I am so glad you are intelligent enough to know that. I think we’ll get along.”

  “I think we will, too,” he replied. And, he thought to himself, you are not only going to keep me out of trouble, you are going to tell me, in very short order, where the bodies are buried in this studio—and who buried them. “Let’s get to work.”

  She stood up. “Fine. Why don’t we start with these?” She walked over to a table against the wall and picked up a stack of half a dozen packages.

  “What are those?”

  “These are scripts.”

  “From where?”

  “From all over the place. Your deal with Centurion was reported in the trade press on Friday. You’ll get more scripts tomorrow; it’s best if we deal with them directly. You’ll get a reputation around town as somebody who doesn’t waste time.”

  “When am I going to have time to read them?”

  “You won’t have time; I’ll screen them first.” She began looking at the return addresses on the packages. “This one’s been around for years,” she said, tossing it back onto the table. “This writer’s an unreliable drunk; this one’s from an agent who doesn’t represent anybody worth reading; this one’s from a New York playwright who hasn’t had anything produced since the mid-eighties—still, it might be worth reading; I’ll look it over for you.”

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  “I’ll order you some studio stationery and some business cards and get you subscriptions to the trades; leave restaurant bookings and screening invitations to me; I’ll handle your expense reports; if you need a house, a haircut, or a whore, let me know, and I’ll arrange it. I’ll tell you what I know about the people you’ll be working with.”

  That, he thought, is what I want to know.

  “There’s something you could do for me right away,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “I want you to call every used bookstore in the Yellow Pages and buy every copy you can find of a novel called Pacific Afternoons. Please send a messenger to pick them up; I’d like them by four o’clock.”

  She smiled. “Not taking any chances, are you?”

  Michael smiled back. “I never do.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  Michael and Vanessa found the Bel-Air house of Leo and Amanda Goldman on Stone Canyon, up the street from the Bel-Air Hotel. Michael pulled the Porsche into the driveway at precisely 6:00, and he thought he had never seen anything so beautiful.

  There was no imposing edifice, just a comfortable-looking exterior that only hinted at what must be a large place. Michael had not yet become accustomed to the profusion of plant life that could exist in a desert when it was well watered; the landscaping looked as if it had always been there.

  Leo answered the door himself, clad in a plaid sport jacket over an open-neck shirt. “Come in, come in,” he said, giving Vanessa a huge smile.

  “Leo,” Michael said, “this is Vanessa Parks.”

  “She certainly is,” Leo said, clasping her hand in both of his. “Welcome to Los Angeles and welcome to our home.”

  Amanda Goldman appeared, wearing a floral-printed silk dress and a knockout hairdo. “Michael,” she said, pecking his cheek rather close to the corner of his mouth, “how nice to see you again.” She turned to the younger woman. “And you must be Vanessa.”

  “Hello,” Vanessa said shyly.

  “You come with me,” Amanda said to her. “I know Michael and Leo have some talking to do, so I’ll show you the garden.”

  The two women departed together, and Leo led Michael into a small study lined with books and pictures.

  “Let me get you a drink,” Leo said.

  “Just some mineral water. I’ll have some wine with dinner.”

  Leo went to a butler’s tray that held drinks and poured Michael a Perrier and himself a large Scotch. They sat down in comfortable chairs before the fireplace and raised their glasses to each other.

  “So,” Leo said. “How are you settling in?”

  “Very well, thanks. We’re comfortable in the new apartment, and amazingly, George Hathaway has managed to put my office together in little more than a single day.”

  “I heard about the Randolph set,” Leo chuckled. “It’s all over the lot already. Expect people to drop in to see you just to see that room.”

  “I hope I haven’t overdone it,” Michael said.

  “Don’t worry about it. A little flamboyance is good for business in this business. What do you think of Margot?”

  “I’m very impressed with her; thank you for sending her to me.”

  “She’s a smart girl,” Leo said, nodding in agreement with himself. “We were an item a few years back. She’s a few years older than I am, but it never seemed to matter.” He raised a warning finger. “Never mention her name in Amanda’s presence.”

  Michael nodded.

  “Treat her well, and she’ll help you more than you can believe.”

  “I’ll remember that; she’s easy to trea
t well.”

  “What’s this about you cornering the market on some book?”

  “You heard about that?” Michael asked, surprised.

  “Of course. My girl, Helen, doesn’t miss anything on the lot.” He raised a hand. “I swear, I’m not getting stuff on you from Margot.”

  “The book is the next project I want to do,” Michael said.

  “What is it? Helen didn’t pick up on the title.”

  “Pacific Afternoons. It was written in the twenties by a woman named Mildred Parsons; the only thing she ever wrote.”

  “I read it at Stanford,” Leo said. He got up and walked along a bookcase for a moment, then plucked out a slim, leatherbound volume and handed it to Michael.

  “You had it bound?”

  “I liked it that much,” Leo said. “How the hell did you ever come across it?”

  “A girl I knew in New York passed it on to me. I was enchanted.”

  “You think a movie could make money?”

  “I do,” Michael replied. “If it’s a quality production, using the right people.”

  Leo sat up straight. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Now I know why you wanted Mark Adair and Bob Hart here tonight.”

  Michael nodded.

  Leo pondered this for a moment. “They’re both perfect,” he said, “but Hart will never do it.”

  “Why not? He’s not in all that much demand these days, is he?”

  “Nope. He made two expensive flops—I mean flops with the best people—and then he hit the bottle hard.”

  “Does he look like staying sober?”

  “So I hear.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “His wife. Susan will never let him do it.”

  “Does he listen to her about these things?”

  “He relies on her completely. She’s the one you’d have to sell, and she’ll never buy it. Bob is fifty-four or -five, but Susan sees him the way he was ten years ago, still making big-time thrillers, playing cops and cowboys.”

  “He was at the Actors Studio, wasn’t he?”

  “He was, and he was outstanding there. Then he came out here and went for the big bucks, and although he helped support the Studio for years with the money he made, Lee Strasberg would barely speak to him.”

  “Maybe he’s ready for a change of pace, then.”

  Leo gave a short laugh. “Sure he is, but Susan isn’t. She handled his money well and he’s a rich man, so he doesn’t have to make movies.”

  “He’s an actor, isn’t he? How many actors have you known who’d turn down a really good part like this one?”

  “Not many. Brando; that’s about it. Sure, Bob’s an actor, but never underestimate an actor’s vanity. If Susan tells him it’s wrong for his image, that’s it, he won’t do it.”

  “I would really like him for the part.”

  “You brought some books?”

  “Yes, they’re in the car.”

  “We’re going to screen Downtown Nights after dinner. My advice is, give both Bob and Susan the book, then get her alone and try to tell her before they leave. For Christ’s sake, don’t tell her what the book is about during dinner; she’ll have already made up her mind before you can talk to her.”

  “All right, I’ll do that.”

  “Adair’s a different sell. I think you must know that he’s mainly a novelist; everything he’s done as a screenplay is a small, beautiful, and vaguely important film.”

  “Yes, that describes it well.”

  “Try and challenge him in some way; don’t just offer him a job.”

  “All right.”

  “Who do you want for the girl? You’ll need somebody hot to make the picture noticed.”

  “You met her a few minutes ago.”

  Leo’s eyebrows went up. “Your girl? Vanessa?”

  Michael nodded. “Vanessa Parks.”

  Leo gazed into his drink. “Michael, didn’t you hear anything I said to you yesterday? She’s gorgeous, I’ll grant you that, but you’re following your cock around.”

  “No,” Michael said, “I’m not. She’s going to be startlingly good in this picture, Leo. In some ways, Vanessa is the girl in the book. It will come naturally to her, and she has it in her to be a very good actress. All she needs is some confidence, and this picture will give it to her.”

  Leo shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Leo,” Michael said, leaning forward, “I’ve got a budget together on this. I can shoot it in northern California for eight million dollars, if I can keep salaries in line. If I cast an established star, her money is going to put everybody else’s money up. Which would you rather have, a twenty-five-million-dollar movie with a star in that role, or an eight-million-dollar movie with a girl who will be a star as soon as it’s released?”

  “I like your economics,” Leo said. “You feel that strongly about Vanessa in the role?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, I’m paying you for your judgment,” he said. “Just be sure you give me my money’s worth.”

  Michael stood up. “I promise you, I will.”

  “By the way,” Leo said, “I suppose you’ve optioned the book.”

  Michael shook his head and smiled. “The copyright expires in three weeks.”

  “Absolutely not,” Leo said.

  “What?”

  “Option the book tomorrow. You should be able to lowball the heirs, but I’m not going to have articles in the trades saying how Centurion waited for expiration, then pounced.”

  “All right, I’ll option it tomorrow.”

  “Who were you thinking about for a director?”

  “George Cukor, if I could raise him from the dead. I want someone like him, who’s good with women.”

  “How about the guy who directed Downtown Nights for you? He did a good job.”

  “He’s wrong for this; believe me, I know him. I’ll use him again, but not for this.” Michael knew he was in a position to reap good publicity for his first film, and that if Chuck Parish directed his second film, the industry would think of them as partners, and he would be sharing the glory. He wanted somebody else.

  “Let me know who you want.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Let’s go meet the others,” Leo said.

  The two men rose and started for the door.

  “By the way,” Leo said, “Bob Hart is shorter than you think; don’t look surprised.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  Robert Hart was indeed shorter than Michael had thought. Even in the cowboy boots he was wearing, he came only up to Michael’s chin. He had lost weight and become grayer than in his last film, too, and Michael immediately saw him as Doctor Madden in Pacific Afternoons.

  His wife, Susan, was very small and pretty, with graying blonde hair pulled back in a bun, but in the firmness of her handshake and the directness of her gaze, Michael saw the kind of strength that her husband lacked.

  Hart was cordial, but reserved; he was obviously accustomed to homage from others, and he accepted it in a charming, almost princely way. Susan was talkative and down-to-earth. They seemed a compatible pair.

  “What are you doing next?” Leo asked Hart when they had settled in the living room for drinks.

  Susan Hart spoke before her husband could. “We’re looking at a couple of offers,” she said. “Everybody’s after Bob.”

  The doorbell rang again, and a moment later Amanda brought Mark Adair into the room. Adair was expansive and witty from the moment he arrived, Michael thought. He was sixtyish, white-haired, and conveyed a sort of rumpled elegance—just the right image for an eminent novelist.

  When they were seated, Leo again asked the mandatory question: “What are you up to, Mark? What brings you to the Coast?”

  “Turning down awful ideas, mostly,” he said cheerfully. “Paramount got me out here on the pretext of doing something significant, but it was junk. Half a dozen Hollywood hacks could do it better than I. Why the h
ell do you think they would even consider me for that sort of stuff?”

  “They want the weight of your name to give some substance to their project,” Leo said smoothly.

  “You’re so full of horseshit, Leo,” Adair said, but he basked in the compliment nevertheless.

  A man in a white jacket entered the room and announced dinner.

  They dined in a glassed-in room with tile floors and many plants. Since Adair had come alone, the usual man-woman alternation had not worked at Amanda Goldman’s table, and Michael was seated between Amanda and Mark Adair.

  “I’ve greatly enjoyed your work over the years,” Michael said to Adair when he had a chance. “I particularly enjoyed Halls of Ice.” It was the only book of Adair’s he had read.

  “Thank you,” Adair said, beaming as if he had never received a compliment. “Leo tells me you’ve produced an outstanding film, and that we’re seeing it after dinner.”

  “I just learned that myself,” Michael said, “and when you see it, I hope you won’t think that my interests are confined to that genre.”

  “I’ll try to keep an open mind,” Adair replied.

  “In fact, I’m putting something together right now, and it occurs to me that you might be the only writer I know who could do it justice.”

  “Michael,” Adair said, “you may be new out here, but you’ve certainly copped on to the Hollywood horseshit in a hurry.”

  Michael laughed. “When you know more about the project you may think I was only speaking the truth.”

  “Tell me about it,” Adair said.

  Michael looked around to be sure everyone else was absorbed in their own conversations. “Do you remember a novel called Pacific Afternoons?”

  Adair nodded. “I read it as a teenager, did a high school book report on it, in fact, but for the life of me the only thing I can remember about it is a scene where the middle-aged doctor sings to the young girl.”

  “It was Mildred Parsons’s only novel; she committed suicide a year or so later, before the book had achieved a wide readership.”

  “I remember something about that.”

  “I think she would have had a brilliant career,” Michael said, “and I think it’s a great pity that the book isn’t better known than it is.”