Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Of course, at first Neil had been surprised. He didn’t think Roger Mudd even knew who he was. But Neil guessed Roger had heard how Neil had respected the man, how he’d handled his career and all. And when Roger had radioed him privately, coming through on Neil’s own radio that night, and told Neil not to get down on himself, that he, Roger Mudd, was going to contact Neil again, and tell him how to handle this mess, how to get out of it, Neil began to feel better.

  So Neil waited. He knew Roger was going to call again. He just knew it. But he was afraid. Because, without Roger, he didn’t know how he’d get along. Then it hit him. Maybe, Neil thought, maybe Roger meant I should radio him. Neil stopped on the sidewalk. He thought about that for a minute, then continued to walk toward the garage, now looming in the darkness at the corner.

  But how do I get him? I don’t know how. Neil decided that he could figure it out. There had to be a way. After all, Roger Mudd had found him.

  The cab smelled of some goddamn foreign food, not Mexican or anything from the Western Hemisphere. This smell came from like out of a desert tent, like rancid cabbage cooked over camel dung. Neil wondered how these fucking Arabs were able to get camel dung in this country. Maybe way down in the San Diego Zoo? I’d walk a mile for a camel turd.

  He rolled down the window, trying to get some air circulating in the car, but he knew from other nights that the smell was here to stay. It gets in the fucking vinyl and wraps itself around the vinyl molecules, and combines with them, becomes a new substance, a new chemical. One that would never go away. Like the smell of dog shit on the bottom of a shoe. Once you know you’ve stepped in dog shit, you always smell it whenever you wear those shoes again, no matter how you cleaned them.

  Fucking Iranians. They should stick to international terrorism. They’re better at that than cooking, for chrissakes.

  His dispatch radio scratched into voice, startling Neil. He reached for the volume button as he rolled along Santa Monica Boulevard, adjusting it to a bearable level. The guy that was driving the car just before Neil must have been deaf. Or had his burnoose tied too tight.

  Neil radioed in his position, then pulled into Century City, where he was supposed to sit and wait for his first call. He waited and waited. He turned off the engine, then put his head back. It was going to be a long, slow night, Neil decided. There hadn’t been one call since he got in, except for the location call. And Neil was tenth on line. He would have been twenty-second, but he had figured out the scam. If he paid off the dispatcher, he got moved up. So he had, but, still, he only had number ten. The fucking Iranians must have dropped a lot of rials tonight, to get so far ahead of Neil. Dollars aren’t what they used to be.

  He wasn’t sleeping, Neil knew that. He had his eyes closed, and his chin had dropped to his chest. There was a short rivulet of drool out of the corner of his mouth. But he hadn’t fallen asleep. The voice from the radio was familiar.

  “Roger, I hear you, go ahead,” Neil said into the air instead of the hand-held mike. Neil listened, while Roger told him the whole story. How he had been passed over and didn’t get the national anchor spot, just because he had the wrong family tree. His great-great-granduncle had been the doctor who treated John Wilkes Booth. How Roger didn’t have the right connections. Neil had read a little bit about it in the newspapers when it happened, he was sure, but now Roger was giving him the inside dope. Why he understood what Neil was going through. How the assholes of the world have a private club that gives them special membership discounts on bullshit. How the rich and connected were going to do away with all the little guys that wouldn’t allow themselves to be pushed around. Roger talked about Lila Kyle, and the other two. All the pretty women who had laughed at Neil, rejected him.

  Neil listened, not opening his eyes. Then Roger explained everything. About how unless your father owned the network, how unless you had connections or were very good-looking, you got fucked over. But Roger was now going to be Neil’s connection. Roger would take care of everything.

  It wasn’t till Roger told him what to do—exactly—that Neil opened his eyes. He jumped for the mike. He had to talk to Roger. Just to be sure he’d gotten the instructions right. He blurted into the mike, calling Roger’s name, but got no response. He began to play with the dials of the two-way radio, all the time screaming into the mike. He had to get back to Roger. “What’s the frequency, Roger?” he kept screaming over and over.

  “Hey, Car Forty, leave the radio alone. What you doin’ to it, man? You screaming over there. Leave it alone!”

  Neil put back the microphone on the stand, his hand trembling. Could Roger really have meant it? Neil thought for a moment. Yeah, Roger meant exactly what he said. No two ways about it. Neil made a mental note to talk to the guy in the garage that could get things. Neil needed something. Real bad.

  And now Neil didn’t feel alone anymore.

  25

  When the phone rang, Lila wasn’t surprised to hear Aunt Robbie’s voice at the other end. She just hadn’t thought it would be so soon. “Don’t hang up,” he said when she answered. Lila had no intention of doing that. To tell the truth, she was bored and needed some diversion. And if she was bored, think how bored Robbie had to be—he who’d put up with years of abuse from Theresa just so he could be the lackey of a star, so that he could be a witness to the action.

  “Are you there, Lila?” Robbie asked sheepishly.

  “Where the fuck did you think I was?” But the fact was that, just as Robbie needed to be a party to the fame and the action and the success, Lila needed him—or someone—to witness it. All the interviews, all the fan mail, all the offers, the invitations, the publicity—none of it seemed to be really happening to her if someone else wasn’t there to be excited and impressed by it. She would not hang up. Keep the line open, but don’t make it too easy for him. After all, she had to get him to agree to her plan. Her new perfect plan.

  “I was thinking, Lila…”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, examining her manicure.

  “I was thinking…I mean, we’ve been friends for years, since you were what? A baby? It’s silly for us to quarrel, Lila. I’m not mad at you.”

  “What does that have to do with anything, whether you’re mad at me or not?”

  “Well, I mean, after our fight and all. I mean, I have no hard feelings.”

  “Why should you?” she asked, letting the wonder roll over the telephone lines.

  “Well, you kicked me, but…”

  “You asked for that, Robbie.”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute. “Well, I admit I shouldn’t have brought up the subject of your mother, but, well, your reaction was a little extreme.”

  “I’m confused. Why are you calling me? To tell me I was wrong? That doesn’t seem very sensible, does it? I mean, Robbie, come on. It wasn’t me that was in the wrong.” Either he was going to crawl or he wasn’t. Lila wasn’t going to play this game much longer, so she decided to listen to one more sentence from Robbie. If he didn’t know how to do it, she was going to hang up on him. Not a loud crash, like he was important to her or anything. Just that low click that would make him think—but only for a minute—that they had been disconnected by accident.

  Robbie was getting it. “Look, I’m sorry, Lila,” he said.

  “For what, Robbie?” Like Theresa used to make Lila do when she was a kid and had been naughty. Make her apologize to the two dummies. Rub her face in it.

  “Lila, this is very difficult.”

  “Then maybe you should send a candygram or something, Robbie. If you’re having trouble finding the words.”

  She waited while Robbie took a deep breath; then the words began tumbling out. “I’m sorry I overstepped my bounds, Lila. I shouldn’t have tried to manipulate you like that. You’re right. Theresa did it to herself, I see that now.” Then he paused. “Forgive your old auntie?” he asked, in that fucking baby-talk voice that put her teeth on edge.

  Now Lila imitated it. “But Auntie’s
been a naughty auntie. She should be punished, shouldn’t she, Robbie? She’s been a naughty, naughty girl.”

  “Aunt Robbie should be punished, Lila. What can she do?”

  There was a pause, and when he spoke again Robbie’s voice had an edge of panic in it, as he realized they weren’t just playing games. “What, then? What do you want, Lila?”

  “Candy,” she said.

  Robbie laughed, relieved, “Oh, sure, I’ll get a box of Godivas—a five-pound box. We can sit up all night and eat chocolates.”

  “No, Robbie. I mean Candy…and Skinny.” Lila paused, feeling her breath quicken. “A kidnapping. You know where they are, Robbie. This is something only you can do.”

  “No, Lila. Your mother would…”

  “Fuck her!”

  “Lila, please.”

  “I mean it, Robbie.”

  “But why, Lila?” Robbie’s voice had tears in it. “What do you want them for? You know what that will do to…” He stopped himself from saying Theresa’s name. She heard the realization hit, and the acceptance. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “That’s the good auntie,” Lila said, in her baby voice once again.

  “Lila, now I need a favor,” Robbie said.

  Jesus. He simply didn’t get it, did he? “No, no, no. That’s not the way it’s done, Aunt Robbie. First the tribute, then maybe a favor. Ta-ta,” she said, and hung up.

  It would be a good punishment, and would keep him in his place. It would also be certain to put him on Theresa’s permanent shit list. There’s only one way to deal with traitors, Lila thought to herself sternly. And she realized she was smiling for the first time that day.

  26

  Bouncing back from the shit meeting with Ricky Dunn, Michael McLain had decided he had to take an action and take it fast. So he’d signed the contract with April Irons for Birth of a Star. He signed it, and then he sent it over to Sy’s office. Sy would be furious, but fuck him. Michael would leave him for CAA or William Morris or even for Ara if Sy gave him any more shit. April knew her stuff, the old film had been a classic, she was willing to pay top dollar, and she was getting Julia Roberts for the female lead. Michael signed, despite not having a finished script, despite Sy’s warnings.

  Now he was feeling actor’s remorse. He threw the script that had just been messengered over across the room, its pages fluttering like the feathers of a dirty pigeon. He’d read crap. He’d watched crap. Hell, he’d even been in crap. But he’d never had anything to do with crap as bad as this. Birth of a Star should be called Death of a Star, he thought angrily. This star. Me. It will pull me lower than Redford after Havana. Christ, it’s worse than Akkbar. And nobody, not any star in Hollywood, could afford two Akkbars. In his heart, he knew he should have followed Sy’s advice on the fucking Ricky Dunn movie. Eaten crow, given up on the billing issue. But screw it. He wasn’t ready to play sidekicks yet.

  Still, after this dreck, he might not get the option to.

  He almost shivered, then pulled himself together. All right, so the screenplay is shit. That’s a definite. He didn’t have to think anymore about that right now. If that was all that was wrong with this movie, then he wasn’t going to worry. Not just yet, anyhow. Scripts could be fixed.

  Michael always did this final analysis of a project perhaps a bit too late: after the contracts were signed, the dates set. Then, because there was no way out, his denial would break, and in fear and loathing he would let himself see the negative side. Up till now, when he was still pushing for the job, he would only consider the good aspects. In this case, one was the money, lots of money. And work, for the first time in over a year and a half. With the Dunn project blown, he needed a movie right away.

  Point two: the director. April had told him about Sam Shields, praising him to the skies, but Michael was definitely not impressed when they met. The guy had been an off-Broadway director in New York, not exactly an exclusive club. Then, somehow, he got himself hooked up with April and did Jack and Jill with her. Got good reviews, made some money, and even got Sam mentioned seriously in some Hollywood circles. But let’s face it, the guy had only busted his cherry: that didn’t make him a director. Jack and Jill had been a small movie. This was a big one. A real big one.

  Lousy script, half-assed director. Now he was down to one out of three. At least the stars would be top drawer—him and Julia Roberts. Her comeback and his. And if this May-September romance was a bit too much like Pretty Woman—well, the public had loved Pretty Woman. And it wasn’t as if she—or Michael—needed a lot of directing. All Julia ever had to do was walk in front of a camera and people fell in love with her. Luckily for her and everyone else, she could act and carry a project. So, while Sam Shields was no hotshot director, Michael was certain that he and Julia would be able to pull off Birth of a Star, given a few changes in the script. With his talent, and Julia’s star quality and likability, and considering that April, who was no fool, seemed to be able to lead Shields around by the gonads, this might not be so bad.

  Michael started feeling better. He went over and picked up the script again, flipping through the pages where he had earlier made margin notations in red. He picked up the phone and called April at home. He knew how to work as a team player. He’d call the coach and give her a pep talk.

  April answered her private line. Michael dropped his voice to his deepest baritone. He took an audible breath, then said teasingly to April, “Talk down and dirty to me. Say something that will make my blood froth over.”

  “You’re a lousy actor, Michael,” she said. “Is that down and dirty enough for you?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “Come on, what do you want, Michael? I was just about to brush my teeth.”

  “I thought you had them sent out. Both of them.”

  “I know you have something on your mind when you call all cutesy, Michael. What’s up?”

  “Julia Roberts. She’s signed for Birth, too, right?”

  “I never said she was signed, Michael. I only said we were talking.”

  “Talking? Listen, principal photography is supposed to start in two weeks, and you haven’t signed her?”

  “Actually, Michael, we decided you’re such a strong presence that Julia would be overkill. We needed someone newer, someone who would be a perfect counterweight to you.”

  He knew it. Goddamn it, he knew it! After over twenty years in the business, Michael McLain had a built-in shit detector. And he was waist-deep now, and sinking. “Uh-huh. Like who?” Michael said.

  “You’re going to love this, Michael. Jahne Moore.”

  Michael didn’t say anything for a long moment. It was too fucking much. Starring him with that TV tramp! “You’re wrong, April. I don’t love it.” In fact, he hated it. And he hated the bait and switch. He was too old to fall for it, but he had. “Jahne Moore is a nothing,” he said.

  “A nothing? I was sure you would be ecstatic. She’s the flavor of the fucking month! She’s beautiful, relatively unknown—in the movies, I mean—and you two have…”

  “She’s a lightweight, April. Television. It’ll all be on my shoulders. New director…”

  “Hardly new, Michael. He’s made me a lot of money on Jack and Jill.”

  “You made a lot of money on that because you had a nothing budget. Shields didn’t make it for you, the accountants did. And now you’re giving him—what?—a forty-million-dollar budget? And a dumb bitch from the Melrose Playhouse as my costar?”

  Michael couldn’t hold it in any longer. He was screaming now. “I see the plot. A real-life drama. Fading movie star. Young TV nothing. A slip yoke. Perfect for you, April. But I’m not carrying the weight for the whole fucking movie, April. I’m not fucking doing it!”

  “You don’t have to, Michael. All you have to do is show up every day and take direction. This movie is my responsibility; let’s be very clear about it. I’m the producer, and you’re the actor. And your contract is airtight. No costar approval. So you show up next Friday or prepare to
meet with our lawyers. Okay?”

  April hung up before he could say another word.

  Sy Ortis and Michael McLain sat at the best table at Via Veneto. Michael was getting loud. A lot too loud for this place, where the big money, the real heavy hitters, ate.

  Michael had been ranting for the last twenty minutes about his Birth deal. How April had baited him with Julia Roberts and switched him to Jahne Moore, how the script sucked, how he hated the director already, how he—Sy—had to find a way to get Michael out of the contract.

  Sy simply listened. He had known for over a month about Jahne’s role. If only Michael had not kept his talks with April secret from Sy. This served him right.

  “So, you got to get me out of it. Just get me out of it. I can’t do this piece of shit. I won’t.”

  Typical. Like a child. “I’m afraid you’ll have to. A lot of money is tied up in this, and if you back out now, it will cost.”

  “Tell them I’m sick.”

  “If they believe it, it will be around the Industry in an hour. Remember what those rumors did to Burt Reynolds’ career? What did Sydney Pollack say in The Player? How rumors were always true? And it won’t be so easy to get insured on the next one. If there is a next one.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Michael, you made your bed. You’ll have to lie in it. I told you not to do this movie. I begged you. Just like I told you not to insist on top billing with Ricky Dunn.”