by Stuart Woods
“I’ll be there, Leo.”
“I’m looking forward to introducing you to the guys, and they’re looking forward to meeting the producer who is putting so much money in their pockets.”
Michael had never been to a board meeting; he had no idea what happened in one. “What am I supposed to do, Leo?”
“Just agree with me, kid; vote my way.”
“Is there something to vote on today?”
“You’ll hear about it at two. See ya.” Leo hung up.
Almost immediately the phone rang again, and this time it was the special ring that identified a call from the front gate.
“Mr. Vincent, there’s a lady here to see you,” the guard said.
“A lady?” Michael was irritated. He had been dating half a dozen starlet types, but he didn’t like them showing up at the house unannounced. “What is her name?”
“She said to tell you Amanda.”
Suddenly Michael wasn’t irritated anymore. “It’s all right; send her in.” He walked quickly through the house to see that everything was neat. It was; it was always meticulously organized.
The front bell rang, and he went to the door. Amanda Goldman stood there in a wisp of a silk dress, her blonde hair falling around her shoulders, looking very beautiful.
“Good morning, sir,” she said. “Is it too early for deliveries?”
“Deliver yourself inside,” Michael said, smiling and kissing her softly. “You’ve been a long time coming.”
“I thought the anticipation would do you good,” she said. “Show me your house.”
Michael led her around the ground floor, down to the screening room, out to the pool and tennis court.
“Now show me upstairs,” she said.
Michael showed her upstairs.
Amanda nodded with approval as she walked around, then, when he showed her the upstairs deck with the hot tub, her eyes brightened. “Now this is what I’m in the mood for,” she said. She reached behind her neck, undid something, and the little silk dress fell around her feet. She was wearing nothing underneath.
Michael was immediately thankful for the Southern California female’s obsession with beauty and fitness. Amanda Goldman, in her early forties, must have looked much the same fifteen years before, he thought.
“Join me?” she asked, stepping into the hot tub.
Michael joined her.
The board of directors of Centurion Pictures convened at a little after 2:00, after some desultory chat among the participants. Michael had shaken hands with all of them before entering the boardroom, but Leo, nevertheless, made a formal introduction.
“It is my great pleasure to welcome today our newest director, Michael Vincent. I expect Michael to bring to this board the intelligence and creative thinking of a first-rate filmmaker, and, in addition, a lot of good old horse sense.”
There was a round of polite applause.
Leo remained standing. “Gentlemen, this is a special rather than a regular meeting of this board; I have called this meeting to consider a takeover offer.”
Michael was startled, but he immediately began thinking what this might mean to him; he didn’t think he liked it. It was plain from the expressions on the faces of the other directors that they were surprised, too.
“I would be very surprised,” Leo said, “if none of you had heard this was in the wind. These things have a way of getting around.”
A gray-haired man at the opposite end of the long table spoke up. “Well, I sure as hell haven’t heard anything about it, Leo, and I think I’m as well-connected as anybody else here.”
“Harry,” Leo said, “if you haven’t heard about it, nobody’s heard about it.”
There was a murmur of amusement around the table.
“The offer comes from the Yamamoto Corporation of Tokyo,” Leo said. He mentioned a very large figure.
Michael suddenly wished he owned some Centurion stock.
“Yamamoto?” a director asked. “I tend to get these Japanese companies mixed up.”
“The Yamamoto Corporation has wide interests—electronics, of course, real estate in this country and Europe, a car-manufacturing operation in Thailand, pharmaceuticals and the record business in Europe. They seem to think that a major American film studio would be compatible with their other holdings.”
“If they’re offering that, they’ll offer more,” Harry said from the other end of the table. “I move we tell them to stick their offer up their sideways Oriental asses.”
“There is a motion on the table to decline the offer,” Leo said. “Do I hear a second?”
“Second,” a voice said from down the table.
“All in favor,” Leo said.
There was a chorus of ayes.
“All opposed?”
Silence.
“Harry’s motion is carried unanimously,” Leo said.
“Leo,” Harry said, “just because I don’t like their offer doesn’t mean that I couldn’t be persuaded to like the right number.”
“Harry,” Leo said, “I want you and every member of this board to know that I will never accept an offer from a Japanese company. I don’t mean to sound racist, but the little bastards already have Universal and Columbia, and anyway, Centurion is just not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale, Leo,” Harry said, “even Centurion.”
“Not as long as I control fifty-four percent of the voting shares,” Leo said.
Harry said nothing.
“Now, gentlemen, there being no other business before this board, we are adjourned. Scatter to the four winds this afternoon, but remember, dinner is on me tonight. My house at seven.”
The directors stood and shuffled from the room, chatting among themselves.
Ten minutes later, Michael was alone with Leo in his office. “Tell me something, Leo,” he said. “Those men have come from all over the country for this meeting, haven’t they?”
“They have.”
“I know you must have a good reason for this, but I think if I were one of them and I were summoned out here for a five-minute board meeting, I would be somewhat pissed off.”
“I do have a reason,” Leo admitted. “This is not the last we’re going to hear from this Yamamoto bid. This particular group of Japs is one tough bunch of sonsofbitches. I wanted my board to know that I am not going to brook any leaning toward accepting such an offer. Not as long as I control fifty-four percent of the stock.”
“Why not, Leo?”
“Because this studio is me. It is my life. It is what I do and who I am. I’ll sell when I’m on my deathbed—if the offer is stupendous.”
“I see.”
“Good, because I’ll want you on my side, finding good business reasons to hang on to this studio.”
Michael walked to the door. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“See you at my house tonight,” Leo said, giving him a little wave with his cigar.
CHAPTER
44
Rick Rivera sat by the pool behind the house in West Hollywood and regarded the young woman who slept, naked, on the chaise next to him. She was slim, brown everywhere, and oily to the touch. It was only five o’clock on a Saturday, he reflected, and he had already banged her twice.
Rick lay back and reflected on the changes in his life since he had come to know Michael Vincent. He was only renting the house, sure, but he had an option to buy if he could come up with a substantial down payment. Cindy and the kid were taken care of now; no more squawks from her at alimony time, although she had been dropping big hints about a new car.
His sex life was athletic, thanks to his position in the movie business. The starlet as a life form would outlive the cockroach, he thought. As long as there were movies, there would be pretty women who wanted parts. If a hydrogen bomb fell on L.A. and wiped out all the studios, the next day those girls would be drifting in from Nebraska and Alabama, picking among the ruins, looking for a producer to fuck for a walk-on. He heaved a sigh
of great contentment.
The cordless phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Rivera?”
“Yes.”
“This is Miss Callahan at the Bank of America.”
A little knot of tension formed inside his stomach.
“Yes?”
“You’re a month late on your Visa payment,” she said. “When may we expect payment?”
“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” he said. “My secretary must have overlooked it. I’ll see that she gets you a check next week.”
“By that time you’ll be into the next billing cycle, Mr. Rivera. If you’re going to go on using the card, I’ll have to have a payment by the close of business on Tuesday.”
“Sure, sure, no problem. Sorry about being late.”
“Given the way the mails are these days, perhaps it would be best if your secretary took your payment to a branch.”
“I’ll see that she does,” Rivera said. He hung up the phone. Payday wasn’t until next Friday; he’d have to take the payment to a branch at the last minute and hope the check didn’t clear before he got his paycheck into his account.
The afternoon was ruined for him. A whole Saturday of sex and contentment ruined by a bill collector. It was amazing, he thought: when he’d been on the force, he’d been living from paycheck to paycheck, just barely getting by. Now he was pulling down a hundred and a half a year, and he was still living from paycheck to paycheck. At a different level, of course; he was driving a BMW instead of a Toyota, and his current address was a better one, but still, he was living right at the line. What he needed was to pump up his income, say, another fifty thousand a year. That would do it; that would put some money in the bank every month after the bills were paid.
Michael was spending one of his rare days at the office, working through a pile of phone messages and mail that had built up over the past weeks. He had cut the negative on Inside Straight, and it was good. It might not pull down a nomination for best picture, but it would make money and, with his points, and with the money Barry Wimmer was skimming off the top for them both, he’d be richer next year. The phone buzzed.
“Yes?”
“Rick would like to see you,” Margot said. “He says it’s important.”
He sighed. “All right, send him in.” Rivera was a pain in the ass.
Rick came bustling in and laid a fresh script on Michael’s desk. “Just back from the typists,” he said. “A shooting script, I reckon. When do we go?”
“We’ve wrapped on Inside Straight,” Michael replied. “I’ll put it into preproduction next week, if the script’s right.”
“Who’s going to direct?”
“I am.”
“Good, good. From what I’ve seen on the dailies of Inside Straight, you’re going to be a top director.”
Why did he have to sit here and take this syrup from this annoying ex-cop, Michael wondered. He’d like to give him the chop right now. Granted, he had finally gotten a shootable script out of Rivera’s treatment, but that was the only productive work Rivera had done since he had crowbarred his way into Michael’s offices. “Thanks, Rick. Was there anything else?”
Rivera got up and closed the door, then sat down again. “I got this call over the weekend,” he said.
“Yes?” Michael asked irritably.
“From an FBI agent in the L.A. office,” he lied.
Now Michael worried, but he tried not to show it. “And?”
“This agent says he did a records search on a guy named Callabrese, and he found out that I had done the same a while back.”
“Why would he do that?” Michael asked, alarmed now.
“He wouldn’t say, exactly; he just wanted to know if I had found out anything else about this guy—something that might not be in the FBI records.”
“Come on, Rick, don’t string this out; what do you think the guy has got?” There couldn’t be anything, Michael told himself. He had never committed a federal crime; he had never done anything that would bring him to the attention of the FBI, not in L.A.
“Well, I happen to know that this particular agent runs the wiretap operation in the L.A. office,” Rivera said. “I think he might have picked up the Callabrese name that way.”
“What else?” Michael asked.
“That was it,” Rivera replied. “He said to call him if I ever heard anything.”
“Fine; don’t worry about it. I’ve got some calls to make, Rick.”
“Ah, Michael, I was wondering—you’re going into production on my movie pretty soon. Doesn’t that rate a raise?”
“Listen to me, Rick. You’ve been on board here for a long time; I’ve paid you a lot of money, and you’ve come up with exactly one treatment. All you do is hold casting sessions for nonexistent films and screw whoever will go for your line. You might just give some thought to what you’d be doing now if you weren’t working for me, if I weren’t around to prop you up.”
“Listen, Michael, I didn’t mean…”
“Sure you did, Rick; you thought you could hold me up for even more money, didn’t you? Well, if you want to keep making what you’re making, you’d better start coming up with some filmable ideas, do you understand me?”
“Sure, Michael, I’ll get right on it.”
“See that you do, and I don’t want to see any more bimbos in your office. Run your casting scams somewhere else, you got it?”
Rick was backing out of Michael’s office. “Sure, Michael, whatever you say. And listen, there was this case I had a few years back…”
“Write a treatment and have it on my desk by the end of the week,” Michael said.
“Sure thing, Michael.”
“And if you hear from this FBI agent again, I want to hear the conversation.”
“I’ll report to you right away, if I hear from him.”
“Put a recorder on your phone. I want to hear the tape.”
“Sure, Michael, right away.” Rivera backed out and closed the door.
Michael sat and thought. After a moment, he knew that there was only one place he’d ever used the name Callabrese in L.A.
He left the office, got into his car, and drove until he found a working pay phone. He looked up a number in his pocket address book and dialed. The phone was answered by a beeping noise.
“Message for Mr. T.,” he said. “Call V. tonight from a good phone.”
He hung up, got into his car, and drove back to the studio.
CHAPTER
45
Michael stood at the front door and watched the stretch limousine follow the road from the security gate to his driveway. The car stopped, and the chauffeur leapt out and held the door for Tommy Pro, followed by a blonde.
Michael met them on the walk and hugged Tommy. “Jesus, man, you’ve slimmed down!” He held Tommy back and looked him up and down. “A new tailor, too; you look great!”
Tommy grinned. “Two grand a pop, paisan.” He turned and introduced the blonde. “This is Sheila.”
“Hi, Sheila,” Michael said.
“Hello,” the girl said. She was nervous and looked a little sick.
Michael turned to the chauffeur. “Take the bags in and to your left and out to the guesthouse by the pool.”
“Hey, hey,” Tommy said, looking around the house. “This is a number one pad; this is better than the Bel-Air Hotel!”
“I thought you’d enjoy staying with me,” Michael said, starting the tour of the house.
“Tommy,” Sheila whispered, tugging at his sleeve.
“Oh, yeah,” Tommy said. “Vinnie, did a messenger bring a package for me?”
“Right here,” Michael replied, reaching for a fat brown envelope on a hall table.
Tommy took the package and held it out toward the girl, then snatched it back. “Don’t overdo it,” he said. “We’re going to the Academy Awards, and you’re not going to be stoned out of your tiny mind.”
“I won’t, Tommy,” she said meekly.
&
nbsp; He handed her the package, and she trotted toward the guesthouse after the chauffeur. Tommy shook his head and laughed. “Junkies gotta have their junk.”
“Is she going to be okay, Tommy?” Michael asked.
“Sure, sure. She just had a long trip; she’ll be fine when she’s fixed.” He looked at Michael’s worried face and laughed. “Don’t worry, baby, I’m not gonna stick you with another bummed-out broad.”
Michael gave him the tour of the house, and after suitable praise from Tommy, he took him out onto the terrace overlooking the ocean. A man in a white jacket materialized.
“May I get you something, gentlemen?” he asked.
“Just a vermouth on the rocks,” Tommy said. He turned to Michael. “I gotta stay off the hard stuff; my weight, you know.”
“I’ll have a Pellegrino,” Michael said.
“You, too, huh?” Tommy laughed.
“It’s not a booze town,” Michael explained. “After a while you get used to paying five bucks for water.”
They settled into wicker chairs and looked out over the Pacific Ocean.
“This is really something,” Tommy said, shaking his head. “A whole ocean at your doorstep. A blue ocean, too. You know what you gotta do to get by the ocean on Long Island these days? Millions, and then all you get is the gray Atlantic.”
“You’re looking really well, Tommy,” Michael said. “I’ve never seen you so skinny.”
“Well, you gotta make an impression these days, you know?” He leaned forward. “I got a personal trainer comes to the house three times a week. Maria can’t believe it.”
“How is Maria?” Michael asked. “And the kids?”
Tommy waved a hand. “Ah, she’s Maria, always bitching, you know? The kids are great. Little Tommy got himself busted,” Tommy said, laughing.
“What?”
“Went joyriding in somebody’s Mercedes. Imagine, a twelve-year-old kid stealing a Mercedes!”
“That’s good,” Michael said, remembering that his own car-stealing record was why this meeting was taking place.
“Listen, I’m really looking forward to this Academy Awards thing. How’d you swing it?”
