L.A. Times

by Stuart Woods

  Michael was near to losing his temper now; he was getting too much flak from women today, and he didn’t like it. “Your contract remains as it is,” he said. “If you don’t trust me, then go fuck yourself.”

  Margot turned white, then she stood up. “I’m glad to know where I stand,” she said coldly. Then she walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Michael went back to his script, but he had trouble concentrating. Finally, he got up and opened the door that joined their offices. “Margot,” he said, “I’m sorry, I…” He looked around the room. She was gone.

  CHAPTER

  60

  Michael stood at the mirror and expertly tied his black silk evening tie. The phone rang, the private number that only a few people had.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Tommy.”

  He sounded unhappy, Michael thought. “Hey, Tommy, how are you?”

  “Not so good. I just had a drink with Norman Geldorf.”

  “And?”

  “He won’t sell the trust’s stock.”

  “Wait a minute, I told Amanda Goldman to tell him to sell everything, including Leo’s stock.”

  “She didn’t get the message.”

  “Look, Tommy, I can fix this.”

  “I don’t think you’re getting the message either, Vinnie.”

  “Look, she’ll do whatever I tell her to; I’ve got her wrapped around my little finger; she thinks we’re going to get married.”

  “Geldorf told me it was her express wish that she hang on to the stock, just so she can keep you in power at the studio.”

  “Tommy…”

  “In fact, Geldorf had the distinct impression that you were playing her along, just to get her to do that.”

  “Tommy, that’s not so; I…”

  “Good-bye, Vinnie,” Tommy said. “Or maybe I should say good-bye, Michael. That’s who you are these days, isn’t it?” He hung up.

  “Tommy…” Michael crashed the phone down on the receiver. “Goddamnit!” he screamed at nobody in particular. He grabbed his dinner jacket; he was already late for an industry dinner at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

  He ran down the stairs to the garage, to find the chauffeur working under the hood of the car. “What the hell?” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Vincent. The starter’s not getting any juice from the battery; I think there’s a broken wire.”

  “Never mind, I’ll drive myself,” Michael said, getting into the Porsche.

  He roared out of the garage, flashing his lights at the security guard, who got the gate up just in time, then drove down the Pacific Coast Highway, forcing himself to keep it at eighty, lest he be arrested. He was receiving an award tonight for his support of the campaign against AIDS in the Hollywood community, and he didn’t want to be late for his own party.

  At the predinner cocktail party he stood in line for a gin and tonic, chatting with whoever came up to him. Everybody was there this evening, the big-time players—the studio heads, talent agency heads, top actors, agents, producers. There were no more than fifty women in an audience of five hundred, he reckoned.

  Margot Gladstone was one of them. She came up as he was talking with an agent and waited discreetly nearby until she could catch his eye.

  “How are you, Margot? I wanted to talk to you…”

  “That’s over,” she said.

  He looked around and managed a smile, not wanting anyone to catch the hostility in their exchange. He took her arm. “Listen, let’s talk after this; come out to the house, and…”

  “It’s over,” she said sharply. “The only reason I’m here is to tell you that face to face. My resignation is on your desk.” She pulled her arm away from his grasp. “All bets are off,” she said, then she smiled. “Good-bye, Michael.” She turned and made her way through the crowd.

  Michael was about to go after her when an amplified voice said, “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats for dinner.” A studio head he knew took his arm and guided him toward the head table.

  Late that night, after the speeches and his acceptance of the award, Michael finally was able to disengage himself from the congratulators and get out of the ballroom. He walked out of the hotel and waited for five minutes while the Porsche was retrieved from its parking place, then, tipping the valet parker twenty dollars, he got into the car and started down the drive toward Sunset Boulevard.

  He was a little drunk, he knew. It had been hot in the dining room, and a waiter had kept bringing him fresh gin and tonics. He took a few deep breaths and tried to clear his head.

  Driving carefully and not too fast, Michael turned onto Sunset and headed toward the freeway that would take him to Malibu. He released the levers that held the top down and pressed the button that retracted it. The cool night air made him feel better, and the perfume from the lush gardens along Sunset made him feel happy to be in Beverly Hills.

  He was right where he wanted to be, he thought. He held the reins of a great studio in his hands, and he could make any movie he wanted to. He would get square with Tommy tomorrow; this was only a little tiff between lifelong friends, and he would make it right. He would talk to Margot, too; she’d come around. He’d even give her the contract she wanted—anything to keep her happy. He needed her, after all.

  A red Corvette was overtaking him on the left and, it seemed to him, crowding him a bit. Not in an aggressive mood, he gave way a little to let the sports car pass. Then, suddenly, inexplicably, the corvette veered sharply to the right, as if to ram him.

  Michael yanked hard on the wheel; he would run onto the sidewalk, if necessary, to avoid this maniac. Fortunately, there was a street to his right, and, shifting down, he turned the corner, swearing loudly. But he was still not all right. Directly in his path, two cars were stopped, side by side, taking up the whole dark street. He stood on the brake, ready to scream at these people, and, suddenly, the Corvette was beside him. Two men got out of the car and walked to either side of the open Porsche. Panicky now, Michael slammed the car into reverse, but a glance in the rearview mirror showed him another car stopped directly behind him.

  “Put your hands on your head,” a young voice said. An automatic pistol appeared near his head, and it was wearing a silencer.

  Michael obeyed, then looked up into a face that might have been his own a few years before. He looked to his right: another such face—young, hard, free of any conscience. How could this happen to him?

  “This is a robbery,” the young voice said. “Let’s have your wallet.”

  Michael slumped with relief. This was no hit; he’d already be dead if this were a contract job. He fished his wallet from his inside pocket and handed it to the young man.

  “Very nice,” the gunman said. “Thank you, Vinnie.”

  Startled, Michael looked up into the young face. “How do you…”

  Then the young man moved the barrel of the gun from Michael’s head, pointed it instead at his lap, and fired twice.

  Michael screamed. His lower belly was on fire. He grabbed at his crotch, then jerked his hands back. They came away crimson with his own blood.

  Michael screamed again and again. He was only vaguely aware of the cars around him roaring away, even less aware of reaching for the car phone, dialing 911.

  CHAPTER

  61

  Michael sat at his desk, going over the budget for a film he would soon put into production. He ran through the figures, using his lifelong faculty for numbers, mentally comparing them with the figures for other, past productions, making a note here and there, indicating that the number should be discussed later with the production manager.

  There was a soft knock, and Margot came through the door from her office.

  “Time for the screening,” she said. “Everybody’s waiting for you.”

  Michael looked up at Margot, cool, elegant as ever. She dressed better these days on her new salary. She moved behind him.

  “Shall I…”

  He
raised a hand. “No!” he barked. “I’d rather do it myself.” He was more and more irritable these days, especially since there was no longer any sex to relax him, to take his mind off work. He grabbed the joystick and reversed. The chair rolled back from the desk. He moved the stick forward, and the chair rolled toward the door. Margot was there to open it for him, and he guided the chair expertly down the little ramp that had been built for him, right into the screening room.

  Tommy Pro and Mr. Yamamoto turned to watch him enter.

  “Hiya, Vinnie,” Tommy said as Michael rolled into the place where a chair had been removed to accommodate him.

  “Good morning, Tommy, Mr. Yamamoto.” He made a little bow from the neck in Yamamoto’s direction. How he hated the smooth little man.

  “Ready?” Tommy asked.

  Michael picked up the phone. “Roll it, Max.”

  He sat and numbly watched the film, a sorry, violent mess, riddled with car chases and shootouts, starring a kung fu expert who, until recently, had been Tommy Pro’s personal trainer. Tommy was looking very trim and fit since he’d moved his operations to L.A.

  The film ended and the lights went up. Yamamoto was the first to speak.

  “Veddy goood, veddy goood,” he said in his Oxford-accented English.

  “I’m glad you liked it, Mr. Yamamoto,” Michael said.

  Tommy leaned over. “Vinnie, there was a car crash I saw in the dailies—the one where the guy hits the school bus?”

  “I didn’t think we needed it,” Michael said. “It seemed a little too much.”

  “I liked it,” Tommy said. “Put it in.”

  Michael died a little more. “Of course, Tommy,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  62

  Michael straightened his desk, squared away the legal pads, scooped up the pens, and placed them in the small Acoma pot he used for a pencil holder. Satisfied that all was neat, he pushed back from the desk and lifted the heavy briefcase onto his lap, then wheeled himself across his office toward the door to the conference room for what would be his last board meeting at Centurion.

  As he took his place at the center of the long table (he no longer sat at the head of the table—Tommy Provensano now occupied that seat) he felt a certain peace in knowing that his work at Centurion was nearly completed.

  Certainly he felt no joy in the fact that he had publicly presided over the studio’s rapid decline in the quality of its productions and the growth of its debt; he did not take it kindly that his own name was now synonymous with schlock; he felt no affection for the men—and one woman—who had sucked the very viscera from the studio that had been the preeminent maker of quality Hollywood films and turned it into an industry joke. Still, he felt a certain peace, knowing that it was nearly all over. He placed his briefcase on the conference table.

  “Gentlemen,” Tommy said, “please be seated.”

  The dozen men and one woman took their places at the table—Tommy Pro at the head, and Margot Gladstone to his right.

  “This regular monthly meeting of the board of directors of Centurion Pictures will come to order,” Tommy said. “The vice-chairman of the corporation, Ms. Gladstone, will act as recorder for this meeting.”

  Margot gave first Tommy, then the others at the table, her warmest smile.

  “This meeting,” Tommy continued, “will be brief, since there is little business to conduct. We…”

  “Mr. Chairman?” Michael said.

  Tommy looked irritably in Michael’s direction. “If we could just stick to the agenda,” he said, and his tone brooked no argument.

  “Mr. Chairman,” Michael continued, despite Tommy’s warning. “If I may interrupt for just a moment. The board is aware that today is our chairman’s birthday, and I have been asked to say a few words and present a small gift.”

  Tommy looked startled, then smiled. “That is very kind of you, Michael. And may I thank all of you?”

  “I will not dwell on the chairman’s years,” Michael said, to light laughter, “but it is well known to all of us that he has a keen interest in the weapons used in Centurion’s films, so I have asked our special effects department to supply something which will be used in our forthcoming production, Armed Force, one that our chairman is taking a particular interest in.”

  Tommy leaned back in his chair and smiled broadly. “What do you have for me, Michael?”

  Michael released the locks on his briefcase and opened it. Inside lay two gleaming automatic weapons and a number of accessories. Michael picked up one of the guns and began screwing a suppressor onto its barrel. “This, Tommy, is a prototype of the production model of a new automatic weapon developed by the CIA, in conjunction with the Drug Enforcement Agency. I was able to persuade the Director of Intelligence to allow us to use it in Armed Force.” He passed the weapon down the table to Tommy, who received it gingerly.

  “Is it loaded?” Tommy asked.

  Michael began screwing a suppressor onto the second weapon. “Of course, Tommy—but only with ammunition formulated by Special Effects. I assure you, it would be quite safe if you raked the conference table with automatic fire.” He slid back the bolt on his weapon and released it. “It cocks like so.”

  Tommy stood up and cocked the weapon. “I hope you don’t mind, Michael, if, in light of previous events at this studio, I don’t point it at anyone.”

  “Of course, Tommy,” Michael replied. “Try that beautifully panelled wall. I assure you, it will come to no harm.”

  Everyone stood and backed away from the table as Tommy raised the weapon. “All right; let’s pretend that all of the New York film critics are lined up against that wall.” He pointed the machine gun at the wall and pressed the trigger.

  The weapon exploded in Tommy’s face. Pandemonium broke out in the boardroom. Some board members dived under the table, others rushed to Tommy’s aid. Margot Gladstone dragged him away from the table and propped him up against a wall.

  “Tommy!” she was crying, “Are you alive?”

  Tommy was, indeed, alive, though his face was ruined, and he seemed able to make only croaking sounds.

  “Thank you for your tender efforts on Tommy’s behalf, Margot,” Michael said, then he fired a short burst in her direction. Margot spun around, bounced off a wall, and fell in a heap before Tommy, who was still trying to speak.

  Michael swung his weapon toward a group of directors who were now huddled in a corner of the room. “Now, Mr. Yamamoto,” he said. “You may join your ancestors.” He fired a long burst at the group, sweeping back and forth across the corner. The gun stopped firing, and the bolt locked. Michael reached into the briefcase for another clip, then reloaded and cocked the weapon. He swung his wheelchair back toward Tommy. “I don’t want you to think that the exploding weapon was designed to kill you, Tommy,” he said.

  There was a hammering on the door leading into the hallway, which, as Michael knew, was always locked.

  “I have kept that particular pleasure for myself.”

  Tommy roared something, but his words were unintelligible. One or more persons was now attempting to break down the stout mahogany door.

  Michael pointed the weapon at Tommy. “On behalf of movie lovers everywhere, I give you this,” he said. He fired, and Tommy’s body did a little dance under the withering rain of large-caliber slugs. After a few seconds, the weapon was again out of ammunition.

  Michael was reloading for the final coup when efforts to break down the door succeeded. Michael hurried, but he was not fast enough. Two uniformed security guards were emptying their weapons in his direction.

  Michael felt himself fly sideways out of his wheelchair.

  EPILOGUE

  Michael slowly opened his eyes. He had been aware, over the past days, that heroic efforts had been made to save his life. He had been in some sort of intensive care room that was noisy and busy at all times, but now he was in a quiet place. He tried to lift his head, but the muscles would not work. He tried gripping the sides
of the bed with his hands, but that didn’t work either. He tried moving his toes, to no effect. In his rising panic, he tried to scream, but couldn’t.

  Michael spent some moments calming himself; then he swiveled his eyes around to take in as much as he could. There was a stand next to his bed that held a plastic bag of some sort of fluid; apart from that, he could only see the ceiling. He closed his eyes, and a few minutes later he dozed.

  A noise awakened him; a door had opened, and now it closed. Footsteps approached his bed. Michael swiveled his eyes to try and see who it was. Amanda Goldman’s face moved into his vision.

  “Oh, my darling,” she said, “you’re awake.” She moved a finger back and forth across his field of vision.

  Michael’s eyes followed the finger.

  “You really are awake, aren’t you? I’ve been visiting you for weeks, and they’ve always told me not to expect any response. Something about brain damage.”

  Michael’s eyes widened.

  “Can you hear me?” she asked. “If you can, blink once for yes and twice for no.”

  Michael blinked once. He could communicate! If he could communicate, then there was some way out of this!

  “Can you move?” she asked.

  Michael blinked twice.

  “My God, you know me, don’t you?”

  Michael blinked once.

  “I want you to know what’s been happening,” she said. “A lot of Japanese turned up at the studio, and they’ve been running things.”

  Michael closed his eyes.

  “I’ve been taking care of your personal affairs,” she said.

  Michael opened his eyes again.

  “My lawyers got a trust established to run your affairs, and I’m the trustee. Somebody found the will you left, naming me as beneficiary, so the court appointed me.”

  Michael stared at her.

  Amanda sat on the bed and positioned herself so that he could see her easily. “I’m all right, I guess. Michael, there’s something I want to tell you. I feel that I can confide in you more than anyone else.”