by Stuart Woods
Susan Hart spoke up. “Certainly, what you say about the scene with the trainer and those with the children is true, and certainly, the doctor has to win the girl, but why the hell does he have to sing?”
“Because he is an incurable romantic, Sue, and this is an incurably romantic film. That is its great strength, and that is what is going to create enormous word of mouth for this film. What’s wrong with singing?”
Susan drew herself up and began to reply, but she was, uncharacteristically, interrupted by her husband.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve sung,” Bob Hart said.
Susan turned and stared at him. “What?”
“Long before we even met, darling, I was trained for the musical stage; in fact, that was where I thought my career would lead.”
“You never told me that,” she said, astonished.
“It never came up. Before I joined the Actors Studio I was concentrating mainly on finding a part in a musical. It was Lee Strasberg who saw the dramatic talent in me and who changed my direction.”
“For which we can all thank him,” Michael said. “Let me ask you, Susan, have you heard this piece of music?”
“No, and that’s not the point,” she replied.
“I want you to hear it right now,” Michael said. He picked up the phone. “Margot, please send in Anton and Hermann.”
Anton Gruber and Hermann Hecht entered the room and everyone settled in to listen.
Anton played an introduction, then Hermann began to sing. Michael glanced surreptitiously at Susan Hart from time to time, but her face was a blank mask. When Hermann had finished, everyone applauded, then the musicians left.
Michael turned to Bob and Susan. “Well?”
“I can sing it,” Hart said. “It’s within my range. I’ll have to do a lot of vocalizing; get back in shape.”
“Susan?” Michael asked.
“I grant you it’s beautiful,” she said, “but why does it have to be in German?”
“Tell you what, Susan, let’s shoot it, then decide,” Michael said. “I promise you I’m not going to make a fool of Bob. If you don’t like it when it’s done, we’ll shoot an alternative scene.”
She turned to her husband. “Do you really feel comfortable with this?”
Hart shrugged. “Let’s see how it goes.”
“All right,” Susan said, “we’ll look at it on film, then decide. But nobody, and I mean nobody, in the industry sees the scene until we’ve approved its inclusion.”
“That’s fine with me,” Michael said. “Eliot?”
“Fine with me, too,” Rosen said. It was the first time he had spoken.
“I’ll get back to you on the screenplay after I’ve talked to Mark,” Michael said. The meeting adjourned.
When the Harts had gone, Eliot Rosen spoke again. “Do you really think she’ll sit still for that scene?” he asked. “She looks like a pretty tough cookie to me.”
“Trust me,” Michael said. “Anyway, the scene is what kept her from getting around to questions about you.”
“I’m beginning to like the scene,” Rosen said.
CHAPTER
30
Michael stood in the center of Leo Goldman’s enormous office and basked in the glow of adulation. A hundred of the film industry’s movers and shakers—producers, studio heads, actors, directors, and journalists—filled the room. They had all just seen the first screening of Downtown Nights, and there was nothing but praise in the air.
Michael’s beard had grown fuller now, and he felt reasonably safe in this crowd, although he had spent the first ten minutes of the after-screening party checking out every face in the crowd. None of them was the man in the Mercedes who had witnessed the murder of Daniel J. Moriarty, and none of them was the woman in curlers across the street.
He was receiving the congratulations of one of the town’s hottest directors when Leo’s secretary tugged at his elbow.
“What is it?” Michael asked, trying not to sound irritable.
“The security guard at the main gate is on the phone and wants to talk with you. Apparently there’s someone who claims he knows you trying to get onto the lot.”
Michael excused himself from the conversation and went into the outer office to take the call.
“Mr. Vincent, this is Jim at the front gate. There’s a man here named Parish who says he’s the director of your picture; he wants to come to the screening.”
“Chuck Parish?” Michael asked. This was inconvenient.
“That’s the one.”
Michael thought for a moment. “Jim, give him directions to my office; I’ll meet him there.”
“Yessir.”
Michael hung up the phone and left the building. He walked quickly toward his office and arrived just in time to see Chuck Parish climbing out of a battered sports car. As Michael approached, Parish tripped getting out of the car and fell on his face. A briefcase that had been in his hand bounced and came to rest a few feet away.
Michael picked up the briefcase, then helped the young man to his feet. “Careful there, Chuck; you took a bad spill.” He looked terrible, Michael thought.
“Goddamned car,” Chuck said. “Can’t get used to it; belongs to a friend.”
“Come inside.” Michael unlocked the door, turned on some lights, then led Chuck into his office. “That’s a pretty bad scrape on your forehead,” Michael said. “Let me get something for it.” He went to the liquor cabinet, poured some vodka on a tissue, then returned and dabbed at Chuck’s forehead until the scrape was clean. The smell of the alcohol blended in with whatever Chuck had been drinking.
“Do you think I could have some of that stuff in a glass?” he asked.
“Sure.” Michael filled a glass with ice and poured vodka over it. “Tonic?”
“Just ice will do.”
Michael gave him the drink and showed him to one of the facing sofas. “I didn’t know you were in L.A. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I’ve been here a couple weeks,” Chuck said, taking a big gulp of his vodka. “Heard there was a screening of my movie tonight.”
“There was, earlier,” Michael replied. “It was over an hour ago. I wish I’d known you were in town; I’d have invited you.”
“Bad timing, as usual,” Chuck said. “How’d they like it?”
“The reaction was mixed,” Michael lied.
“‘Mixed,’ huh? So it’s going nowhere?”
“Too early to tell.”
“How’s the lovely Vanessa?” he asked bitterly.
“All right, I guess,” Michael replied, then changed the subject quickly. “How are things going? What are you working on?”
“I’ve written another screenplay,” Chuck said, staring into the cold fireplace.
“Good; I’d like to read it.”
Chuck opened his briefcase and tossed Michael some bound pages.
Michael looked at the cover. “Inside Straight. Nice title; what’s it about?”
“I’d rather you’d read the whole thing without my telling you too much.”
“All right; I’ll try to get it read over the weekend.”
“I can’t wait that long.”
“Beg pardon?”
“I want to sell it to you now.”
“But I haven’t read it yet.”
“It’s better than Downtown Nights,” Chuck said. “You can trust me on that.”
“I don’t doubt it, Chuck, but I can’t buy it without reading it.”
“Why not? Don’t you have any authority around here? I can’t imagine you making a deal, Michael, that didn’t put you in the driver’s seat.”
“I have the authority, Chuck, but don’t you think it’s a little unfair to ask me to buy it sight unseen?”
“I need the money, Michael.”
Michael was stunned. “Chuck, the last time I saw you, you had something like three quarters of a million dollars in cash. What do you mean, you need the money?”
�
��I just need it.”
“Why?”
“There are a couple people pressing me.”
“What sort of people?”
“Very insistent people.”
“What happened to all the money, Chuck?”
“Well, there were a couple of bad investments and some slow ponies. And there was this very expensive lady,” Chuck said. “She and I picked up this little habit.”
“Coke.”
Chuck nodded. “God, I just don’t know how the money could have gone so fast.”
“I would have thought that after seeing what happened to Carol Geraldi you’d have stayed away from coke.”
“Look, it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’m going into rehab next week—got a spot nailed down at a clinic up the coast. I just need to pay a few debts and get myself tided over until I can start the program, you know?”
Michael flipped quickly through the screenplay. There was no way to judge it so quickly, but it looked well organized, at least. And Chuck Parish was a very talented writer.
“How much do you want for it?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. I’m into a shark for over fifty grand, and there’s a connection or two who’s looking for another thirty or so.”
Christ, Michael thought; he really was in deep.
“How about a quarter of a million?”
“Chuck…”
“I know, I know, you haven’t even read it. Believe me, Michael, it’s my best work. It’s terrific.”
“How soon do you need the money?”
“Now.”
“Now? Chuck, it’s nine o’clock in the evening; I can’t get a check cut at this hour.”
“First thing tomorrow morning, then?”
“I can’t pay you a quarter of a million dollars for this sight unseen.”
“How much?”
“You really owe eighty grand to these people?”
“At least.”
“All right, Chuck, I’ll give you a hundred thousand for it, sight unseen.”
“I’ll take it,” Chuck said without hesitation.
Michael went to his desk and found a standard boilerplate rights contract, then came back to the sofa. He placed the contract on the table and handed Chuck a pen. “Sign right here,” he said, pointing.
“There are a lot of empty blanks,” Chuck said.
“I’ll fill them in later.”
“When do I get the money?”
“I’ll get a check cut first thing tomorrow morning.”
“I need cash, not a check.”
“All right, meet me at the studio’s bank at the corner of Wilshire and Beverly Glen at, say, eleven. No, make it noon.”
“Noon. You promise?”
“Of course.”
Chuck signed the contract.
Michael took the contract back to his desk and put it into a drawer. “Chuck, I’d like to talk longer, but I’ve got to be somewhere.”
Chuck stood up. “I want to direct it,” he said.
“I’d like you to direct,” Michael said, “but I can’t commit on that right now.”
“Where’s my copy of the contract?”
“I’ll complete it and bring your copy to the bank. Now you’ll have to excuse me, Chuck.”
They shook hands and Michael walked him to his car. “Noon tomorrow,” he said.
“Noon tomorrow.”
Like hell, Michael thought. Not unless this is a real winner. He waved good-bye, went back to Leo’s office to say good night to everybody, then went back to his office, found a legal pad and a pen, adjusted a reading lamp, and stretched out on a sofa. Now let’s see if this thing is any good, he thought, opening the screenplay. If it’s not, Chuck will have a long wait at the bank.
Two hours later, Michael put down the screenplay and leafed through his notes. Chuck had been right; it needed some work, work that he could do himself, but it was terrific. Inside Straight was going to be his next picture, right after Pacific Afternoons. He drove home feeling great.
CHAPTER
31
Michael got to the office early the next day and began working up Chuck’s contract. As soon as Margot came in he gave her the signed copy and asked her to fill in the blanks, then he called Leo Goldman.
“Great screening, huh?” Leo chortled.
“It seemed to go well.”
“Well? It went terrific, kid; I’m smelling Academy Award nominations!”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“How’s Pacific Afternoons going?”
“Extremely well. We’ll have a finished script very soon.”
“By finished, do you mean approved by Susan Hart?”
“I do.”
“Good going. She’s not easy to handle, but you’re doing a great job. Let me give you a tip about the Harts: Bob is a lot weaker than he seems. He’s been through a couple of drying-out programs, and he does fine for a while, but as soon as he’s faced with a role that scares him, he’s back on the bottle. His particular weakness is fine French wines. Susan made him sell his cellar at auction earlier this year, and the sale brought over a million dollars. The man had the largest collection of 1961 red Bordeaux in the United States; he’d been collecting them for years. I bought some of them myself, before the auction, but I can’t serve them when the Harts come over. The man is helpless in the presence of a Mouton Rothschild.”
“He seemed quite confident at our first script meeting; very much in control, not yielding to her.”
“The man’s an actor, and a good one; remember that. Susan is not a monster, she just wants to avoid any situation that might get Bob drinking again. She puts a lot of effort into that. When you start shooting, whatever you do, keep Bob away from wine.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” He certainly would.
“Any idea what you’ll do after you wrap Pacific Afternoons?”
“That’s why I’m calling, Leo; I’ve bought a script—only last night, in fact.”
“What is it?”
“It’s called Inside Straight, and it’s about a friendly weekly poker game where three of the players conspire to take one of the others for everything.”
“Who wrote it?”
“Chuck Parish, the guy who wrote Downtown Nights.”
“Sounds good; what did you pay?”
“Two hundred thousand, and it would be worth half a million if some agent were shopping it around.”
“Great!”
“One thing, Leo, Chuck is in some sort of a bind, and he wants his money in cash. I told him I’d meet him at the bank this morning with a check that he can cash right away.”
“Have you got a signed contract?”
“Yep.”
“Have you got the screenplay in a safe place?”
“I do.”
“I’ll call Accounting and get your check cut; I’ll call the bank, too, and tell them you’ll want to cash it.”
“Tell them we’d like a private room for the transaction.”
“You got it. Listen, kid, do you want me to read the screenplay before you do this?”
“I’d love you to read it when I fix a few things, but believe me, it’s not necessary now. I don’t want to option it, either.”
“I trust your judgment, kid. Your check will be ready in an hour.”
Michael was at the bank at 11:30 with his own briefcase and a cheap plastic one. He sought out the branch manager and introduced himself.
“I’m glad you called ahead,” the manager said. “We needed some time to put that much cash together.” Michael handed the man both briefcases. “Ask your people to put a hundred thousand in each one,” he said. “I’m expecting a Mr. Parish, and I’ll give you the endorsed check as soon as he arrives.
“I’m glad you brought two,” the manager replied, taking the cases. “We didn’t have a lot of hundreds, so most of it is in twenties and fifties.” He showed Michael to a conference room and left with the briefcases. He was back in five minutes. “I’ll have
to have the check, of course, before I turn the money over to you.”
“Of course,” Michael replied. “Why don’t you keep the money at your desk until I get the check endorsed by Mr. Parish?”
“Glad to.” The manager left with the two briefcases.
Chuck arrived at five minutes before the hour and was shown to the conference room; he didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Did you bring the money?”
Michael took an envelope from an inside pocket. “I’ve got the check right here; you’ll have to endorse it.” He took the check from the envelope, turned it face down on the conference table, and gave Chuck a pen. “Sign right here.”
Chuck hurriedly signed the check; his hands were shaking, and he looked even worse than he had the evening before.
“I’ll be right back,” Michael said. He left the room and took the check to the manager’s desk. “Here’s your endorsed check,” he said.
The manager examined it. “Do I have your assurance that you know this man to be who he says he is?”
“You have it.”
The manager handed over the two briefcases.
Michael returned to the conference room with both cases. He entered, placed his own case on the floor beside the table, then put the plastic one on the table top. “I want you to count it,” he said to Chuck.
Chuck opened the case, shuffled briefly through the money, then closed it. “Looks okay to me; I’ll trust you.”
“It’s all there,” Michael said. He took more papers from his jacket pocket. “Here’s your copy of the contract with my signature.” He handed the folded papers to Chuck, who put them in his own pocket. Michael produced another sheet of paper and placed it on the table. “I’ll need you to sign a receipt, and then the money’s yours.”
Chuck signed the receipt without looking at it, then stood up. “Thanks, I’m out of here.”
“Chuck, before you go, there’s something you had better understand.”
“Yeah?”
“The contract and the receipt state the amount as two hundred thousand dollars.”
“What?”
“I’ve put that figure in for my own reasons, and for all practical purposes I have just given you and you have just received two hundred thousand dollars.”
