L.A. Times

by Stuart Woods

  “Barry, I want you to go now and get the set ready for the drawing room scene.”

  “Which drawing room scene—the singing one or the alternate?”

  “We’re going to do them both—the alternate first.”

  “Has anybody told Bob Hart?”

  “Leave that to me. I want Eliot to be able to light the set in an hour. We shoot at ten-thirty. Eliot, the schedule calls for three cameras for today, right?”

  “That’s right. I wanted to get Bob on one, then use the other two for simultaneous reaction shots from Vanessa and the little audience.”

  “In the singing scene, we’ll use all three cameras on Bob, then shoot the reaction shots later. Tell the operators, Barry.”

  “Whatever you say,” Barry said, rising.

  “Make sure Bob doesn’t hear about it until I’m ready to tell him.”

  “Right.” Barry left.

  Eliot looked frantic. “Have you told Susan about this?”

  “She’s due here at ten, and she’ll be fifteen minutes early. I’ll break it to her then.”

  “You’ll keep her off my back?”

  “She won’t be at the shooting.”

  “How are you going to keep her off the set?”

  “Leave it to me, Eliot. Now go talk with your people and make sure the cast and crew are ready at ten-thirty sharp. Have Anton standing by to play piano; find him a costume.”

  Eliot left, shaking his head.

  Michael went to his briefcase, found a small bottle of Valium, and shook two into his hand. Reconsidering, he added a third. He found a coffee cup in the wet bar and, using the butt of his fat Montblanc fountain pen, crushed the pills into a fine powder. He added a few drops of hot water from the tap and stirred until the tranquilizer had completely dissolved; then he poured the liquid into a bar glass and returned it to its place on the shelf. If this didn’t work, he’d slug her, if he had to.

  At a quarter to ten, Margot showed Susan Hart into Michael’s office. He put her on the sofa and gave her the pages to read. “Hot off the fax machine from Mark,” he said. These were the pages he had removed from the first draft of Adair’s script. She began to read.

  He went to the wet bar. “Something to drink?”

  “No thanks,” she said, reading rapidly.

  “Fruit juice? Perrier?” Come on, lady, he thought; the alternative is a quick chop to the neck.

  “Oh, all right, I’ll have a V-8.”

  He took down the prepared glass, opened the juice can, and poured the contents into the glass, giving it a quick stir with a spoon. Then he poured himself a Perrier and went to the couch. “Here you are,” he said, placing the glass in her hand.

  Susan sipped the juice idly and continued to read. Finally, she put down the pages and smiled. “I think it’s so much better than the singing scene, don’t you?”

  “If you say so, my darling.”

  She drank more of the juice. “What time are we shooting?”

  “One o’clock sharp. They’re putting the new set together now.”

  “Why don’t we go over and take a look at it?”

  “I promised George Hathaway we wouldn’t see it until it was done. If you have any objections, there’ll be time to make changes.”

  “Good.” Susan yawned. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  You’ll sleep well today, Michael thought. “Relax. I’d like you to read something, if you have time.”

  “Sure. Something for Bob?”

  “Not really. I’d just like another opinion.” He handed her the screenplay for Inside Straight. “You’re the first to read it—not even Leo has seen it.”

  She took the script. “I like the title.”

  “Just read the first act, and tell me what you think.”

  “Sure.”

  “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ve got to attend to something.”

  “Go ahead, I’ll read.” She sipped the V-8.

  “More juice?”

  “No, this is fine.”

  Michael left the office and closed the door.

  He waited ten minutes, then returned. Susan Hart sat on the sofa, her head on her chest, snoring lightly. Michael put a cushion at the end of the sofa, lowered her head gently onto it, then lifted her feet onto the couch.

  He went to a cupboard, removed a gift-wrapped box, and left the building. He walked quickly down the street to the bungalow occupied by Robert Hart as a dressing room, knocked, and was invited to enter.

  Bob Hart was sitting at his makeup mirror reading a newspaper. “Come in, Michael,” he said. “We ready to shoot?”

  “In a few minutes, Bob.” He held out the package. “This was on your doorstep.”

  “Who from?” Hart asked, accepting the package.

  “I don’t know. Go ahead and open it.”

  “I hear we’re shooting the alternate,” Hart said. He tore away the ribbon and foil wrapping, then opened the box.

  “That’s right.”

  “Where’s Susan?”

  “She’s in my office, reading a script.”

  The actor looked into the box gave a little gasp. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said, “look at this.” He held up a bottle of wine.

  “I don’t know much about wines,” Michael said. “Is it something good?”

  “It’s a Château Mouton Rothschild 1961; a lot of knowledgeable people would say it’s the greatest wine of this century.”

  “I’ve certainly never tasted anything like that,” Michael said. “I suppose you’ll save it for a special occasion.”

  Hart removed two glasses and a corkscrew from the gift box. “Have some right now,” he said. “Taste it for me; tell me what you think.”

  “I’d love to,” Michael said. He watched as Hart lovingly removed the cork, wiped the lip of the bottle, and poured a glass. He swirled the red liquid in the glass and sniffed it deeply.

  “Magnificent nose,” he said. He handed the glass to Michael.

  Michael accepted it, held it to the light. “Beautiful color,” he said. He sniffed the glass. “You’re right; it has a wonderful bouquet.” He tilted the glass back and sipped the wine. “My God,” he said. “I’ve never tasted anything like it!”

  “Is it truly wonderful?” Hart asked, his envy obvious.

  “You know, Bob,” Michael said, “in this scene the doctor is supposed to have had a couple of glasses of wine.”

  “I shouldn’t,” Hart said regretfully. “I’m on the wagon.”

  “Of course,” Michael said, watching the actor closely.

  “Still, if it would help the scene, I don’t suppose half a glass would hurt.”

  Michael picked up the bottle and filled the second glass. “I don’t see how it could possibly hurt,” he echoed.

  Hart sniffed the glass again, then took a sip, sloshing it around his mouth. “Perfectly wonderful,” he pronounced. “A hint of blackcurrants, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would.” Michael had no idea what blackcurrants were.

  Hart took another sip. “Fills the mouth; and a very clean finish. God, what memories this brings.” He took another, deeper draught of the wine. “Ahhhhhh,” he breathed. “You know, Michael, I have been more worried about the singing scene than I may have let on.”

  “Oh? It certainly never showed.”

  He drank from his glass, and Michael refilled it. “Yes, I’m afraid I let Susan carry the can on that one. I mean, it went well enough in rehearsal, but I was worried. It’s been thirty years since I sang in front of an audience—even an audience of actors.”

  “Well, nothing to worry about now.”

  “I know, but I really would have liked to see it on film. I mean, I wouldn’t like for anyone else to see it, but I would have found it interesting.”

  “If you like, one of these days we’ll shoot a test.”

  “Yes, maybe.” Hart emptied his glass.

  Michael walked onto the set with Bob Hart and called Eliot Rosen ove
r. “Do one quick take of the alternate,” he said. “No more.”

  “All right, everybody,” Rosen called to the cast and crew. “Let’s shoot one; this is not a rehearsal.”

  They went through the scene: the doctor interrupted a recital, with Vanessa at the piano, and made his speech to her.

  “Cut!” Eliot called. “Print it! That’s a wrap, it’s all we need.”

  There was a buzz as the actors rose from their seats.

  Michael walked onto the set. “Just a minute, everybody!” He turned to Hart. “Bob, I wonder, just as a little treat for us all, if you’d sing ‘Dein ist mein ganzes Herz’ for us.”

  “Yes, yes,” some of the supporting cast cried.

  Hart, who was showing a little pink under his makeup, looked around as if to see if his wife were present. “Well, all right; I’d love to. Just give me a moment.” He walked out of the lighted area.

  Michael was waiting for him. He handed the actor a glass of wine, then raised his own. “Your good health.”

  “Thank you, Michael,” Hart said, raising his own glass. He emptied it, then turned back to the set. As he walked on, there was a round of polite applause from the supporting players.

  Michael looked at Eliot Rosen, who nodded. All three cameras were trained on Hart. “Just for fun, let’s shoot it,” he said.

  “Whatever you say,” Hart replied with a wave of his hand.

  Anton, dressed in period costume, took his place at the piano.

  “Quiet, please!” the assistant director called out. A hush fell on the stage.

  “Roll cameras,” Rosen said quietly.

  “Speed,” each operator called back.

  “Action.”

  Hart waited a moment, then made his short speech. He nodded to Anton, who played a short introduction, then the movie star began to sing.

  Michael stood entranced. The music had the same effect on him as it had the first time he’d heard it, and as he looked around, it was clear that the audience of supporting actors was rapt, too. Hart, as the doctor, played the scene expansively, singing his heart out, and as the song drew to a close, tears could be seen running down his cheeks. The little audience burst into spontaneous applause, something that had not been in the script.

  Eliot Rosen waited a full minute before calling, “Cut! Wonderful, Bob! For all of us, thank you so much.”

  Michael took him aside. “Shoot the reaction shots now, to playback. Wrap it as soon as you can, and get the film to the processors. I want to work on this tomorrow.” He went forward, separated Bob Hart from the little throng of actors who were fawning over him, and walked him toward his dressing room.

  “Bob,” he said, “that was a thrilling moment for me. I only wish your public could have seen that scene.”

  “I only wish Susan could have seen it,” the actor replied. “But don’t tell her I did it.”

  “Don’t worry, Bob. Mum’s the word.” Michael left Hart at his dressing room door and began walking toward where his car was parked. As he got into the car he glanced back and saw Vanessa knocking at Hart’s door. Hart opened the door, and she went inside.

  Michael was unaccustomed to being cuckolded. He drove back to his office in a quiet fury.

  CHAPTER

  40

  Michael watched as Bob Hart leaned over his wife and kissed her on the lips. “Come on, sleeping beauty, wake up.”

  Susan Hart opened her eyes and looked at her husband. “Hello. Is it time to shoot?”

  “We’ve already done it,” the actor said. “Got it in one take; I think it’ll be good.”

  She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and looked at Michael. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “You were exhausted; I didn’t have the heart.”

  “You didn’t sleep well last night, you know,” Hart said to her.

  “That’s right; I was so tense about this last scene. When can I see it?” she asked Michael.

  “Not until Monday,” he replied. “I’ve told everybody to go home and relax. We’re on schedule, so there’s no need to work this weekend.”

  She suddenly looked sharply at her husband. “Bob, have you been drinking?”

  “Just a glass of wine,” the actor replied. “A fan sent a bottle.”

  “You shouldn’t have,” she said worriedly.

  “It’s all right. Come on, let’s go home.”

  Michael saw them to their car. When he got back, Rick Rivera was waiting for him. “I hear it went well,” the former detective said.

  “It did. What did you want to see me about, Rick? I’m very busy.”

  Rivera laid some pages on Michael’s desk. “I’ve done a treatment based on a case I had a couple of years ago. I’d like your reaction.”

  “I’ll get to it as soon as I can,” Michael said. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Sure.” Rivera left Michael’s office.

  Michael glanced at Rivera’s treatment, then dropped the pages into a drawer.

  The phone rang. “Michael,” Margot said, “it’s James Fallowfield; will you speak to him?”

  “Yes.” Michael was excited about the call. After weeks of looking at photographs of furnishings, of approving fabric and paint samples, the new house was approaching completion. “James? How are you?”

  “I’m extremely well, Michael. Let’s see, it was six weeks ago tomorrow that you gave me the assignment, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s finished. When do you want to see it?”

  “I can be there in an hour.” Michael hung up and walked out of his office to Margot’s desk. He handed her a key. “Margot, I’d like you to find a couple of men and a van on the lot, then go over to my apartment and remove my clothes and take them to the new house.”

  “It’s ready?” Margot asked.

  “It is.”

  “Shall I move Vanessa’s things, too?”

  “No.”

  Margot looked surprised. “As you wish.” She found her purse and left the building, passing Barry Wimmer on the way out.

  “Barry, my office,” Michael said. Once inside, he closed the door. “How much?” he asked.

  Barry dug a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Michael. “A little over a million three,” he said. “I kept twenty percent as agreed and shipped the rest as you instructed.”

  “It should have been a million five,” Michael said.

  “I could have done it, but it might have been noticed,” Barry said. “I used my best judgment.”

  “All right,” Michael said. “Is Eliot still shooting the reaction shots?”

  “Yes. He’s done the supporting cast; Vanessa’s shots are next.”

  “Go and see Eliot. Tell him to keep Vanessa working for another couple of hours.”

  “She’s a quicker study than that.”

  “Just do it.”

  “All right. By the way, we’re throwing a little wrap party when Eliot finishes Vanessa’s shots. Will you come?”

  “Thanks, but I can’t. Give my best to everybody, and send me the bill.”

  “Right; thanks.”

  Michael took Rick Rivera’s treatment from his desk drawer. “Read this over the weekend, will you?” he said, handing Barry the pages. “I want to know what you think.”

  “Sure, I’ll be glad to.”

  “Barry?”

  “Yes?”

  “Has Rick ever shown any interest in the budgets?”

  “He asked me what we were spending for Pacific Afternoons.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “It was no secret.”

  “If he ever asks you about budgets again, I want to know.”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s all.”

  The production manager left.

  As he drove toward Malibu Michael felt the same thrill of anticipation that he had felt when he was on his way to L.A. for the first time. He had never owned anything but clothes and a car; now he was about to become a home
owner.

  The guard at Malibu Colony admitted him quickly, and Michael drove toward his new house. He parked in the circular drive and opened the front door with his key. Although he had approved of everything that had gone into the house, Michael had made a point of not visiting the place while James Fallowfield was doing his work, so it was as if he were entering the place for the first time.

  The designer met him in the hall and walked him through the house. Michael followed him silently, drinking in the atmosphere of his new home. Everywhere there was handsome, comfortable furniture, plush rugs, good pictures. Already the house seemed an extension of him.

  When they had finished, Fallowfield faced him anxiously. “You haven’t said a word,” the designer said.

  “It’s absolutely wonderful, James,” Michael said. “You’ve done exactly what I asked you to do.”

  Fallowfield exhaled sharply. “Thank God. You scared me badly there. I’ve never had a silent client.”

  Michael walked the man to the front door and stuck out his hand. “Thank you so much,” he said.

  “There’s champagne in the fridge,” Fallowfield said, then left.

  As Michael was about to close the door, a van pulled up, followed by Margot’s BMW. Michael showed the men where to put his clothes, then came back downstairs. He looked through the house until he found Margot standing in his study, staring.

  “It’s very beautiful,” she said. “In a strange sort of way, Fallowfield has made the place like you.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know—it’s very handsome, even sexy, but it tells me very little about you.”

  Michael liked that. “Excuse me, I have to make a call; don’t leave.” He picked up a phone, dialed the studio, and asked to be connected to the soundstage where Eliot was still shooting. When the director was on the phone, Michael asked, “Are you finished?”

  “Only just,” Eliot replied.

  “How did it go?”

  “Beautifully. Vanessa was very good.”

  “I want the film back tomorrow morning, and I want a rough cut by Monday at nine.”

  “We can do that,” Eliot said.

  “Congratulations; you did a fine job.”