L.A. Times

by Stuart Woods

  “Monty, alas, passed on last year. I am his executor.”

  “Were there no other relatives surviving?”

  “None. The rights to all of Mildred Parsons’s works passed to Monty on her death; those rights rest in his estate. The income from those rights passes as a bequest to Carlyle Junior College. And, as I mentioned before, I am the executor.”

  “As executor, are you empowered to act for the estate?” Michael hoped the hell he was; he didn’t want to have to deal with the trustees of some college.

  “I am so empowered.”

  “You don’t have to have the permission of anyone at Carlyle Junior College?”

  Moriarty chuckled. “I do not. Carlyle gets the income, but as long as I’m executor, I make all the decisions.”

  “Good. I would like to purchase the film rights to Pacific Afternoons. I am in a position to offer you five thousand dollars for a one-year option, renewable for an additional year at the same rate. On exercising the option, I will pay a further twenty thousand dollars.”

  “And just who are you, Mr. Vincent? I mean, do you represent a major studio?”

  “I am an independent producer,” Michael said.

  “Ah, an independent,” Moriarty said, sipping his Scotch. “This town is full of them. Tell me, Mr. Vincent, do you actually have five thousand dollars?”

  Michael checked his temper. “Mr. Moriarty, I am an independent producer with a production deal at Centurion Pictures, and as such, I have the full backing of that studio. If you like, I will have Mr. Leo Goldman call you and confirm my position there.”

  Moriarty held up a hand. “Please don’t take offense, Mr. Vincent; it’s just that this town is full of people who style themselves independent producers. Centurion is a reputable studio, and I accept that you represent them.”

  “Thank you. Do you accept my offer?”

  “What offer was that?”

  Michael tried not to grind his teeth. He repeated his offer.

  “Alas, no,” Moriarty said. “I cannot accept such an offer.”

  “What sort of price did you have in mind?” Michael asked.

  “Oh, I didn’t have anything in particular in mind,” Moriarty said, replenishing his drink.

  “All right, Mr. Moriarty, I will offer you ten thousand against twenty-five, but that is the best I can do.”

  “Is it, Mr. Vincent; is it, indeed?” Moriarty swivelled slightly in his chair and gazed out the window.

  Michael stared at the man, fuming. What was his game? What kind of negotiation is this?

  “Mr. Moriarty, you are wasting my time. What do you want for the rights?”

  Moriarty jumped, as if startled from a reverie. “Mmm? Oh, the rights, the rights, yes.”

  “Yes,” Michael said.

  “Yes.”

  Michael wanted to strangle the man. “Mr. Moriarty, you must be aware that the copyright on Pacific Afternoons expires in three weeks, and, if I wish, I can simply wait and have the rights for nothing. So if you expect to earn anything for your college, put down that glass and start doing business.”

  “Ha-ha!” Moriarty cried. “So you were operating on the premise of the life plus fifty years copyright law! Well, my fine fellow, that doesn’t apply here! The copyright to Miss Parsons’s novel runs on the old copyright law—the one that was in effect when she died. So if you wish to threaten me with expiration of copyright, you’ll have to wait another twenty-four years! Ha-ha!”

  This is some sort of nightmare, Michael thought. It’s a bad dream, and I’ll wake up in a moment and it will be all right.

  “Is there anything else you wish to say, Mr. Vincent?”

  “Frankly, Mr. Moriarty, I’m speechless. Do you wish to sell these rights?”

  “As a matter of fact, I would love to sell the rights, but I can’t.”

  “What?”

  “I promised Monty Parsons when I became his executor that I would never, ever sell the film rights to Mildred’s little novel. He hated the films, you see; thought they were common and vulgar. He would never allow his sister’s only work to be corrupted in such a fashion.” Moriarty tossed down the remaining Scotch in his glass and emitted a low chuckle. “Did you think you were the first, Mr. Vincent? I’ve had a regular parade of ‘independent producers’ in here over the years wanting to film that book. I’ve always thought it would make a fine little film myself, but I had to say no to all of them.”

  Michael was stunned. “Then why, may I ask, did you drag me down here for this ridiculous meeting?”

  Moriarty spread his hands. “Well, it gets lonesome in this office, you know, the Parsons estate being my last client. It passes the time to bandy a bit with a producer. I’m afraid, Mr. Vincent, that you’ll have to wait until I’ve passed on. Then you can go to the trustees of Carlyle Junior College and make a deal with them. They didn’t make any promises to Monty Parsons.”

  Michael stood up. “Good day, Mr. Moriarty.”

  Moriarty waved his glass. “Good day to you, Mr. Vincent. And thank you for your visit. Come back any time!”

  CHAPTER

  21

  Michael drove back to the studio in a fury, whipping around corners, passing other cars, twice nearly running down pedestrians. There were two cars ahead of him at the gate, and he waited, taking deep breaths and trying to regain control of his anger. By the time he was let through he was able to smile and wave back at the guard.

  He parked in his reserved spot and walked the few yards to his building, his mind still racing. He didn’t have the rights to Pacific Afternoons. How could he make the picture? He had a top star and a top writer ready to work, and he didn’t have the rights to the property!

  He walked through the waiting room and Margot thrust a handful of pink message slips at him.

  “We’ve got a request from the PR department for an interview and photographs with one of the trades,” she said, following him into his office. “It’s a real coup, getting that kind of space. When do you want to do it?”

  “Set it up for next week,” he said. “A morning.”

  “Fine.” She wrinkled her brow. “Michael? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, sitting down at Randolph’s huge desk. “I’m just thinking about something.”

  The phone rang and she picked it up at his desk. “Mr. Vincent’s office. Oh, yes, Leo, he’s right here.” She punched the hold button. “It’s Leo on one.”

  “Tell him I’ll get back to him.”

  “I can’t do that,” she said, alarmed. “I’ve already told him you’re here. Leo hates being put off; you’ll have to answer.”

  Michael picked up the phone and forced a smile into his voice. “Leo, how are you?”

  “Great, kid. I just had Sue Hart on the phone; she told me the news. Congratulations!”

  “Thanks, Leo.”

  “And you got Mark for the screenplay, too! That’s a tour de force performance, Michael. I’m proud of you.”

  “It’s going to be a good production,” Michael said lamely.

  “How you coming on the rights to the book?”

  Michael gulped. “It’s in the works; I don’t anticipate any problems.”

  “Good, good. I’m glad everything is going so smoothly. Catch you later, kid.” Leo hung up.

  Michael hung up and found that he was sweating heavily.

  Margot stuck her head into the office. “George Hathaway is here; he seems pretty excited.”

  “Sure, sure,” Michael said, struggling to put the rights problem out of his mind and concentrate on the business at hand.

  George Hathaway came into the room, a thick roll of heavy paper under his arm. “Michael,” he beamed, placing the roll on the desk, “I read the book, and I loved it! I was up all night thinking about it and making sketches.” He unrolled the papers to reveal a sketch of a cottage.

  Michael stared at the sketch. It was as if George had reached into his mind and extracted his image of the northern Californi
a house of the protagonist of Pacific Afternoons.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s perfect, George; it is the cottage. How did you do it?”

  “Well, I used to be an art director, my boy, not just in charge of the props department.” He flipped through his sketches: it was all there—the cottage, the music room, her bedroom, the doctor’s study—every important scene in the book had been rendered.

  “I’m overwhelmed,” Michael said. “How did you do all this so quickly?”

  “I’ve always been a fast study,” George said. “Would you believe I drew this set—” he waved a hand at The Great Randolph’s study “—in half an hour?”

  Michael sat back in his chair. “George, will you do this film with me?” he asked.

  George turned pink and beamed. “My boy, I’d be honored.” He blinked rapidly, and his voice became husky. “It’s been a long time since somebody offered me something important.”

  “And it is important,” Michael said, standing and clapping the designer on a frail shoulder. “Mark Adair is doing the screenplay, and Robert Hart has agreed to play the doctor.”

  “Why, that’s fabulous,” George said. “Who for costumes?”

  “Who would you recommend?”

  “Edith Head, but she’s dead, like just about everyone else I know.”

  “Think about it.”

  “There is somebody,” George said. “She lives in the group of apartments where I live, and she’s been trying to get work. Young, but she’s very talented, I think.”

  “Ask her to do some sketches for me, and to call Margot for an appointment. What’s her name?”

  “Jennifer Fox—Jenny. I’ll tell her, and I’ll work with her myself on the sketches.” George smiled. “You know which scene I loved best in the book?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one where the doctor sings to the young woman. ‘Dein ist mein ganzes Herz’—‘My Whole Heart is Yours.’”

  “Yes, that is a wonderful scene. We’ll have to cut it from the film, though. I doubt if Bob Hart could carry it off.”

  “Why not? He doesn’t have to sing—you could dub it—he’s actor enough to bring it off.”

  “I think the scene might be too much in conflict with his previous image in films.”

  “Too bad, I love Lehár.”

  “Who?”

  “Lehár, Franz Lehár.”

  Michael searched his mind for the reference. “Opera?” he hazarded.

  “Operetta,” George said. “He wrote ‘Dein ist mein ganzes Herz.’”

  “Ah,” Michael said. He didn’t have a clue.

  “Have you never heard it?”

  “Not for a long time,” Michael lied.

  “Will you give me just ten minutes more of your time?”

  “Of course, George.” What the hell was the old man running on about?

  George ran from the room, picked up Margot’s phone, and made a call. Five minutes later, two workmen appeared pushing a grand piano on a dolly and set it up at one end of Randolph’s study, then two elderly men walked in. One of them was carrying a sheaf of music.

  “Please,” George said, waving Michael to a sofa, “sit.”

  Michael sat down.

  “Mr. Vincent,” George said formally, “may I present Anton Gruber and Hermann Hecht?”

  “How do you do,” Michael said. Then the Gruber name struck home. The man had written scores for dozens of films in the thirties and forties. Michael had never heard of Hecht.

  Anton Gruber sat at the piano and played a soft introduction, then Hermann Hecht, assuming a concert position, his hands folded before him, began to sing.

  Michael had never heard the music before. It was old-fashioned, certainly, but the melody was wonderful. The old man sang it in a slightly cracked baritone, but with such feeling that when he had finished and the piano was quiet, Michael had a lump in his throat. He stood up and clapped loudly. “Gentlemen, that was wonderful. I’ve never heard it done better!”

  “I thought you’d like it,” George said. “Now you can see why it’s so important in the story, the doctor finally expressing himself to the young woman in a song, in German yet, when before he couldn’t tell her of his feelings.”

  “You’re right, George,” Michael said. “It could be the emotional high point of the film. It could be perfectly wonderful, if I can get Bob Hart to do it.”

  “He’s an actor, isn’t he?” George asked. “All actors are hams. He’d never pass up a scene like that, even if he can’t sing. Hermann here could dub it for him.”

  “It might work,” Michael said. It damned well would work, he thought; it could bring the audience close to tears, as it had him.

  It was a wonderful scene that could be played by a huge star in a film that he could not make unless he owned the rights to the novel. He could hear Daniel J. Moriarty laughing at him.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Michael drove the Porsche slowly up Sunset Boulevard toward the Bel-Air Hotel. Vanessa sat beside him, checking her makeup in the mirror on the back of the sun visor.

  “Tell me who this guy is again,” she said.

  “His name is Tommy Provensano,” Michael said. “I knew him as a kid in New York, growing up.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Don’t be surprised if he calls me Vinnie sometimes. It’s kind of a nickname.”

  “Okay. Is he bringing anybody?”

  “Her name is Mimi; that’s all I know about her. It may be their first date.”

  “How old a guy is Tommy?”

  “A couple of years older than I am.”

  “If he’s boring, do I still have to be nice to him?”

  “Vanessa, in Hollywood, you have to be nice to everybody. You never know who you’re talking to.”

  “That’s a good policy, I guess.”

  “Believe me, it is.”

  Tommy opened the door and grabbed Michael in a bear hug. “Hey, paisan,” he roared. “It’s the big-time Hollywood producer!” He had slimmed down some and was wearing an expensive Italian-cut suit.

  “Hello, Tommy,” Michael said. “I’d like you to meet Vanessa Parks.”

  Tommy suddenly became the gentleman. “How do you do, Vanessa,” he said. “I’d like you both to meet Mimi.”

  A small, dark-haired girl stood up from the sofa and shook both their hands. She was demurely dressed and very beautiful. Michael thought Margot had done her job well.

  Tommy popped a bottle of champagne for them. Dom Perignon, Michael noted, remembering that he was paying for it. Tommy poured, and when their glasses were full he addressed the little group.

  “This guy,” he said, taking Michael’s shoulder and shaking him like a rag doll, “and I were greasy kids on the street together. We stole fruit from the pushcarts, we rolled drunks, we did all the terrible things young kids on the street do, and we went home every night to our mothers.”

  “Tommy,” Michael said reprovingly, “you know very well that we never stole any fruit.” He turned to the others. “Tommy has a romantic view of our youth.”

  “And listen to him talk,” Tommy said, pinching Michael’s cheek. “He used to talk like me!”

  Michael bore his gaze into Tommy, and he seemed to take the hint.

  “That was a long time ago, of course,” he said, glancing apologetically at Michael. “Now, where are we eating?”

  “I thought you might enjoy Spago,” Michael said dryly. “The pizza’s great.”

  “I get it, I get it,” Tommy said. “I’ll behave.”

  “No,” said Michael, “you’ll really like the pizzas. They’re different from what you’re used to.”

  Their table overlooked Sunset and the big movie billboards. Tommy couldn’t get enough of the place.

  “I can’t believe I’m sitting in the same restaurant as Burt Reynolds,” he whispered hoarsely to Michael.

  “I’m sorry there aren’t more stars here,” Michael replied. “There
usually are.” It was the first time he had been to the restaurant, but the headwaiter had been ready for him.

  Vanessa stood up. “I’m for the little girls’ room,” she said. “Join me, Mimi?” The women left Michael and Tommy alone.

  Tommy was suddenly quiet and serious. “So, tell me how it’s really going, Vinnie. No bullshit, now.”

  “Tommy, it is difficult for me to explain coherently to you just how well it is going. Downtown Nights opens later in the fall, and I’ve already got Robert Hart starring in my next picture.”

  “Robert Hart the movie star?” Tommy asked, amazed.

  “Movie stars are who star in pictures, Tommy. And a great novelist named Mark Adair is writing the screenplay.”

  “I heard of him. My wife read one of his books one time.”

  “How is Maria?”

  “She’s okay. She likes being a capo’s wife, I can tell you. She’s getting a lot of new respect from her friends.”

  “And how do you like being a capo?”

  “My first taste of real power,” Tommy said. “It’s like fine wine; you can’t get enough.”

  “Come on, you’ve had a lot of juice for a long time.”

  Tommy shook his head. “It’s not the same as manipulating Benedetto to get what I want. Now, I want something, I say so, and I get it.” He looked around the restaurant. “I really like this place. You don’t think it’s bugged, do you?”

  Michael laughed. “Certainly not. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Listen, you always have to worry about taps these days—that and guys wearing wires. Seems like the FBI is everywhere.” He leaned closer across the table. “Just between you and me, looks like the Don is going to take a fall.”

  Michael became Vinnie for a moment. “No shit?”

  “A big fall. He’s going to be inside by Christmas, the way things are going. Frankie Bigboy’s blabbing his head off on the stand; he’s all lined up for the witness protection program, and nobody’s been able to get a shot at him.”

  “I never thought Frankie was the type to testify—especially against the Don. He’s a dead man.”

  “I doubt it. A minute after the jury says ‘guilty,’ he’ll be running a bowling alley in Peoria or someplace. We won’t see him again.”