L.A. Times

by Stuart Woods

  “Good, there are going to be a lot of them. By the way, I was very impressed with your presentation of Pacific Afternoons. Script, storyboards, costumes, production design—it all looks great. And on a nine-and-a-half-million-dollar budget, too. It’s a fucking miracle!”

  “It’s the way I plan to shoot everything, Leo. I think too much money gets spent in this town.”

  “My philosophy exactly, kid. We’re going to make beautiful music together.”

  “You bet,” Michael replied.

  “Listen, kiddo, I think the studio owes you a little reward. Why don’t you find a house for yourself, something nice. The studio will buy it, then sell it back to you for fifty cents on the dollar.”

  “Leo, that’s very generous.”

  “No, it’s not; it’s good business. You and I are going to make a lot of money together, kid.”

  “I believe we are.”

  “You start looking for a house tomorrow. Call Marie Berman, she’s the best real estate lady in town.” He scribbled the name on the back of his card. “Remember, now—something nice. You can go to, let’s say, five million.”

  “You’re a prince, Leo.”

  “I’m a king, kiddo; you’re a prince.”

  Michael liked the sound of that.

  CHAPTER

  37

  Michael was already dressed when Vanessa woke up. “It’s Saturday,” she said. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve got some things to clear up at the studio before we leave for Carmel tomorrow,” he said, brushing his hair briskly.

  “I thought we’d have lunch today,” she said, pouting.

  “Not today, Vanessa.”

  “Where did you and Amanda disappear to at the party last night?” There was petulance in her voice.

  “She wanted to show me Leo’s wine cellar.” He slipped into a linen jacket and inspected himself in the mirror.

  “Did you screw her?”

  Michael looked at her. “In a wine cellar?”

  “That wouldn’t matter to you; it wouldn’t matter to her, either.”

  “Vanessa, you’re beginning to sound like a wife.” He had considered and rejected this option long ago.

  “So? What’s wrong with that? I want to be a wife.”

  “Vanessa.”

  “Why not, Michael? We’d be the golden couple of Hollywood.”

  “We can be that without being married.”

  “If you’re working today, why are you all slicked up?”

  “I’m casually dressed, Vanessa; it’s a Saturday, remember?”

  “I want to go to the studio with you.”

  “And what would you do at the studio but keep me from working? You’d be bored stiff.”

  “I want to go.”

  “No. I’ll see you later.” He walked out of the bedroom before she could reply. The place was a mess, he noticed on his way to the front door, and the maid had come only yesterday. Vanessa would live like a pig if he’d let her. She really was beginning to be a pain in the ass.

  He gave the Porsche to the doorman at the Beverly Hills Hotel and found the coffeeshop. Marie Berman was waiting for him. He sat down and ordered a Danish and coffee.

  “So,” the real estate agent said, “you want to see houses in the four-to-five-million-dollar bracket?”

  “I’ve thought about it, and I’ve changed my mind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to look at houses; I want to look at one house.”

  “One house?”

  “Just one. Sift through your mental files and find the best house in town for under five million.”

  She looked thoughtful. “What do you want, exactly?”

  “I want big rooms, sunshine, nice gardens, a pool, and a tennis court. I’d like the guest rooms to be away from the master suite.”

  “How do you feel about the beach?” she asked.

  “Love it.”

  “Finish your breakfast.”

  He followed her car out the Pacific Coast Highway through Malibu. He kept expecting her to stop at one of the hundreds of beach houses, but she kept going. Finally, she turned left and stopped at a security guardhouse. The guard raised a gate, and they drove in.

  He followed her past a number of beautiful homes, then she turned into a circular drive and stopped before a very impressive contemporary house. They got out of their respective cars.

  “Do you know where we are?” she asked.

  “I’m fairly new in town; tell me.”

  “You’re in Malibu Colony. This little peninsula contains the biggest and best houses; it has the best beach and the best neighbors.”

  “Looks good,” Michael said. “Let’s see the house.”

  She fiddled with a key safe hanging on the front doorknob, then opened the door. Inside, the hallway ran straight through the house to the beach. They walked through, her high heels clicking on marble floors. On the ground floor there was a huge living room, kitchen, dining room, and, best of all, Michael thought, a large library. It would make a spectacular home office.

  She led him down a stairway. “Wine cellar through there, temperature-controlled year-round, and here—” she threw open a set of double doors. Beyond was a screening room with two dozen seats and the latest projectors.

  Upstairs there was only one enormous suite, with bedroom, sitting room, kitchenette, two dressing rooms, and two baths; there was also a sauna, and a big whirlpool tub on a high deck overlooking the Pacific.

  She led him back downstairs and outdoors. Enclosed by a high wall were a two-suite guesthouse, a pool, and a tennis court. Michael had never played any sport except for stickball and handball, but tennis appealed to him. He liked the clothes, for one thing, and he liked to watch beautiful women play.

  “There are servants’ quarters on the other side of the house, off the kitchen,” she said.

  “How much?” Michael asked.

  “This house cost seven million dollars to build three years ago. The owner was a studio head who got chopped. It’s been vacant for nearly a year.”

  “Sounds too rich for me,” Michael said regretfully.

  “Leo Goldman is a good friend of mine,” she said. “I’d like to do him a good turn. I happen to know that the bank that holds the mortgage wants out very badly. The market in big houses has gone to hell in this recession. If I make them an offer that covers most of the mortgage and my commission, I think they’d be willing to take a loss.”

  “What would it take?”

  “You’re not going to be able to get a mortgage for this place in today’s climate,” she said. “It would have to be all cash on closing.”

  “How much?”

  “Offer them four million six,” she said, “and a quick closing.”

  “Make the offer,” Michael said. “I can close immediately.”

  “I’ll call the bank president at home.” She walked into the kitchen and produced a small cellular phone from her handbag.

  Michael walked around the pool, peeked into the cabana. He walked onto the tennis court and inspected the surface. Perfect, like everything else about the house. He looked back toward the kitchen and saw Marie Berman gesticulating, pacing the floor. He glanced at his watch; she had been on the phone for five minutes. She hung up.

  Michael watched as she came through the sliding doors toward him. It didn’t work, he thought.

  She stopped in front of him. “If the studio will close on Tuesday, you’ve got a deal.”

  Michael’s heart leapt. “I’m delighted to hear it,” he said, smiling broadly.

  She handed him the keys. “As far as I’m concerned, the place is yours from this moment. Who’s going to decorate it for you?”

  “Who’s the best?”

  “James Fallowfield,” she said. “If you’re willing to spend at least half a million.” She dug into her purse. “Here’s his number.”

  “Does he work on Saturdays? I’m leaving town tomorrow for three weeks.”
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  “Maybe.”

  Michael handed her back the card. “Call him for me. Tell him I’ll spend a million dollars if he’s here in an hour.”

  She whipped out her little phone and dialed. “James? It’s Marie. Good, and you? Glad to hear it. Listen, I have a new client for you, but he’s in a hurry. No, listen to me, James; it’s a million-dollar budget. Right. Malibu Colony in an hour; there’s a black Porsche parked out front. Your client’s name is Michael Vincent.” She hung up. “He’s on his way.”

  “Thanks, Marie, I appreciate that.”

  “Don’t mention it; I appreciate the commission. Should I call Leo about the closing?”

  “If you would. He’ll know where to reach me if you need to talk to me. And Marie, I don’t want anyone to know about this but Leo and me. I don’t want to read about it in the trades.”

  “I understand. If you don’t need me further, I’ve got a house to show in Bel-Air.”

  “I’ll be fine, thanks.”

  They shook hands and she left the house.

  While he waited for the designer, Michael toured the house again. It looked even better than before.

  James Fallowfield arrived half an hour later.

  “The budget is one million dollars, and not a penny more—and that includes your fee,” Michael told him.

  “My fee is ten percent of whatever you spend, and I’ll get you a lot of stuff at cost plus ten.”

  “Okay. Six weeks from now, I want to walk in this house and find it furnished to the hilt—dishes in the cupboards, towels in the baths, books on the shelves, pictures on the walls. I don’t want to have to go shopping for a thing.”

  “No problem,” Fallowfield said. “Any preferences as to style?”

  “Rich, elegant, subdued; soft, comfortable furniture. I’d like a Steinway grand in the living room. Don’t buy everything new; I want the place to feel lived in. I want to walk in and feel that I’ve always lived here.”

  “Will there be a woman living here?”

  “Yes, but she won’t be involved in the decorating.”

  “I won’t have to get a woman’s approval on anything, then?”

  “No, just mine.” It was easier this way; he’d surprise Vanessa when Pacific Afternoons wrapped.

  “That will save an enormous amount of time.”

  Michael wrote in his notebook, then tore out the page and handed it to Fallowfield. “I’m going to Carmel tomorrow; this is where I’m staying. Send me sketches of what you’re doing; the bills go to my office, to Margot Gladstone. I want a detailed accounting of everything as you go, then Margot will check everything off as it’s delivered.”

  Fallowfield looked at his watch. “I’d better get started,” he said.

  “You do that.”

  The man left, and Michael walked around the house again. Perfect.

  CHAPTER

  38

  Michael stood on the beach at Carmel and watched Robert Hart approach on horseback. Vanessa waited for Hart in the foreground of the shot. The sun was a huge red ball sinking into the Pacific behind them, lighting the scene to perfection. Hart dismounted, kissed her lightly, then took her hand and led her and the horse down the beach toward the façade of the cottage that George Hathaway had designed.

  “Don’t cut,” Michael whispered to Eliot Rosen. “Shoot whatever’s in the camera; we can use this footage behind the titles.”

  Eliot nodded. “Good. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  “That’s it,” the camera operator called out. “Want to do another one before the light goes?”

  “Print that and wrap,” Eliot called back.

  The man gave a thumbs-up sign.

  Michael took Eliot’s arm and walked him down the beach toward the cottage. “You’ve done a fine job up here; I want you to know that.”

  Rosen blushed. “Thanks.”

  “When we start the interiors at the studio next week I want you to deal a little differently with Bob Hart.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All during the exteriors you’ve been properly deferential to Bob, and that’s good, given your relative positions in this business. Also, most of the exteriors have shown the doctor in charge of things, confident. But in the interior scenes, the doctor is less certain of himself, because he doesn’t know if the girl can ever want him. Bob, given his natural mien, will appear confident and in charge in almost any scene, and you cannot let him do that in the interiors. I want you to crack the whip with him, rattle him; don’t let him get away with a thing; do an extra take or two, even when it’s unnecessary.”

  “I don’t know if I can treat Robert Hart that way,” Eliot said. “Do you think he’ll sit still for it?”

  “He will, because he knows he should. Susan won’t.”

  “Oh, shit,” Eliot said. “I have to tell you, I’m scared to death of her.”

  “And it shows. I’ll keep her off your back as much as I possibly can, but if she starts getting to you, just tell her, as calmly as you can, that you’re the director, and what you say goes. If she won’t take that, tell her to see me. I’ll back you all the way.”

  “All right, if you say so,” the young man said. “Michael, I haven’t told you this, but Susan has been at me about the singing scene. She really doesn’t want Bob to do it.”

  “I know, and nothing you or I can say to her will change her mind. But we are going to shoot it.”

  “I’m worried that her attitude will erode Bob’s confidence in his ability to do it.”

  “That can work to our advantage, Eliot. The doctor begins the scene shakily anyway, then gains confidence. Bob can bring it off; I’ll see to it.”

  “I don’t know how you’re going to do that,” Eliot said, “but I wish you luck.”

  “You crack the whip on everything else; leave Bob in that scene to me.”

  When the crew moved back to L.A., Michael’s offices were a hornet’s nest of activity. Besides himself, Margot, and Rick Rivera, Michael had two production assistants on board, and he was working every day in the editing room with Eliot Rosen, the film editor, and her assistant, editing the exterior footage. The business of making Pacific Afternoons exhilarated Michael, and his concentration was complete.

  But when he finally left the studio late in the evenings, he had Vanessa waiting for him at home. She hadn’t had a lot to do in the exteriors, and she had been fine then, but now that the burden of shooting rested as much on her as on Robert Hart, she was nervous, tense, and bitchy. Michael had read lines with her for a while, but finally, when her insecurity had driven him nearly mad, he’d hired one of the supporting actresses, an old pro, to work with her, and he took to sleeping in his office.

  Leo always sat in on the dailies with Michael, Eliot, and Margot, who took notes. He was protecting his investment, and he seemed pleased. Near the end of shooting, he asked Michael to stay behind in the screening room when the others left.

  “Michael, I think it’s going beautifully,” Leo said.

  “I’m glad you think so, Leo.” He thought he knew what was coming, and he was not wrong.

  “Kiddo, Susan Hart came to see me this morning.”

  “Right on schedule,” Michael said, smiling.

  “I think she may have a legitimate concern, Michael. She really doesn’t think Bob can bring off the last scene, and God knows, she knows him better than anybody. She was frantic this morning; I’ve never seen her like that.”

  “She’s been getting short shrift from Eliot, and I haven’t been very sympathetic, I guess. I’ll try to placate her.”

  “I don’t think you can do that, not if you shoot that scene.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Leo,” Michael said irritably, “I made a deal with her; I told her that if she and Bob weren’t entirely happy with the scene, I’d shoot an alternate. What more can I do than that?”

  “Maybe you ought to just shoot the alternate and forget the singing scene.”
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  “No, absolutely not.”

  Leo lit a cigar and blew smoke at the screen. “I think the problem is, she doesn’t want footage to exist in which Bob makes a fool of himself. She’s worried that it might get around town. When Bob was drinking, he wasn’t exactly everybody’s sweetheart; he has enemies.”

  “I see.”

  “I hope you do. You’re going to have to find a way to get past Susan on this, or she’s not going to let Bob do the scene.”

  “I’ll work on it.”

  “You better, kiddo.”

  Michael sat in a rehearsal studio and listened to Robert Hart sing “Dein ist mein ganzes Herz.” Anton was at the piano, and Michael thought it went well. Hart, in fact, sang better than Michael could have hoped. His voice was a light baritone and quite pleasing. Anton liked it, too, he could see. Susan Hart was there, and she motioned Michael outside.

  “Michael,” she said when they were in the hallway, “I don’t want Bob to do this scene.”

  “Susan, we have a deal.”

  “Not anymore, we don’t. The scene is driving Bob crazy. You don’t see it, but I hear about it when we get home. I won’t let him do it, and that’s final.”

  “Didn’t you think he sang well?” Michael sighed. “All right, Susan. We wrap the day after tomorrow. I’ll cut the scene; we’ll shoot the alternate.”

  “Good,” she said, pecking him on the cheek. “When do I see it?”

  “I want Mark to do a polish first. How about ten o’clock Friday morning, my office? We have to do a set change, and we won’t be ready to shoot until after lunch.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise. The scene will be waiting for you.”

  She gave him a big smile, then walked down the hall toward the ladies’ room.

  Michael watched her go. He was thinking hard.

  CHAPTER

  39

  Michael slept in his office again on Thursday night, and on Friday morning, the last day of shooting on Pacific Afternoons, he held an 8:00 A.M. meeting with Eliot Rosen and the production manager, Barry Wimmer.