The Hollywood Trilogy

by Don Carpenter

  “You gimme your script, I pass it to Karol, Karol drops it on Elektra, and Elektra hands it to Rick.”

  Toby began to sing the Marine Hymn, but with new words:

  From the cesspools here in Hollywood,

  To the shores of Malibu . . .

  He laughed wildly. “What a parlay!”

  Jerry wondered how the hell he was going to keep this “parlay” from happening without losing Toby’s friendship. Well, at first he would temporize. “I’m not finished yet,” he said. “But when I do . .”

  “Crap,” said Toby.

  Helen came over and turned her head to look at the magazine, Queens on Parade, but Toby slipped it under his newspaper again.

  “Not for your tender eyes,” he said to her.

  “Oh golly, I’ve seen about everything,” she said, but walked away blushing.

  Toby turned back to Jerry. “Lemme ask you a question, what’s this script of yours about?”

  “Well, it’s kind of complicated,” Jerry said.

  “Strip it down for me . . .”

  Jerry did not want to.

  Toby was impatient. “What is it, love story, fantasy, Western, gangsters, what?”

  Blushing as redly as Helen, Jerry told him a bald, simplified version of the story he was working on. As he stripped it of its nuances Jerry realized once again how corny it was. After a couple of sentences he stopped.

  Toby looked thoughtful, and then said, “Dynamite. It’s a great idea. I think you got a property there, my boy.”

  “Don’t say anything to anybody, okay?” Jerry asked. Toby had to get back. He slapped Jerry on the shoulder.

  “Hurray for . . . Holly-wood!” he sang, and left.

  Jerry looked helplessly at Helen, who blushed and stared into his eyes until he had to break contact.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RICK’S OFFICES were on the top floor of the Hendricks Building on La Brea just below Santa Monica, a four-floor building devoted to the motion-picture arts. Rick had the best suite, and his private office had belonged to a number of moguls before him, which accounted for the luxurious frosted blue glass backbar with the intaglio Venus emerging from the waves, and the huge (for an office) bathroom with its deep blue Mexican tile shower—big enough for two. There was even a tiny bedroom behind a sliding panel, with a view of the parking lot in back, and beyond that, the Goldwyn Studios, a block away.

  With Rick’s inhabitancy the office blossomed out in movie posters and modern art, furniture from the teens and twenties, all beautifully cared for and all in the best taste. It was normal for someone in pictures to put up movie posters, but only of movies one has worked on. Rick did more than that: he put up posters of movies he wished he had worked on. The biggest, right behind his desk and covering part of the panel which concealed the secret bedroom, was The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Beneath the poster was a low credenza filled with books, and upon it was the golden Oscar Rick had won for the screenplay of The Endless Unicorn. Rick had also produced and directed the picture, but those awards went to others.

  Rick was paying an arm and a leg for these offices, and although everyone who came to see him on business was terrifically impressed, still no deal had been made, and Rick was still a one-picture wonder boy, someone to be watched, but meanwhile, where was his next biggie? And the rent had to be paid.

  In the other offices were Rick’s employees, three secretaries, two script readers, and his friend Jose Gonzala, a graduate of the UCLA Film School (3.6 grade average) and a director looking for a project. They hoped of course to make a picture together, with Rick as executive producer, the marriage broker, as it were, but so far none of the properties they had looked at had rung any bells.

  Input was tremendous, of course. First, when a new producer begins to make waves, the agents send him routinely all the loose scripts, in some cases stuff that has been lying around for years. In Rick’s case, since he seemed to have a handle on the young, he got a lot of scripts and treatments for “youth-oriented projects”—most of it nakedly exploitive, some of it good but dated, but most of it just plain unreadable.

  At first he swore he would read everything that came into the office, but in no time at all the huge stacks of red, blue, grey, black and green screenplays, the galley proofs from hopeful publishers, the old novels, the presentations and the treatments overwhelmed him, and he hired readers. Readers had been one of the things about “the old Hollywood” that irritated Rick. “You write a novel, see, break your ass on it;. and then some punk making fifty a day reduces it to a paragraph with a recommendation at the bottom, which the big boss reads while he’s picking his teeth after lunch, and burp!—there goes your property!”

  But he had to do it. Out of self-defense.

  Jose Gonzala did not read any of this stuff. He spent his days searching for an original property among his friends. He was determined to find a project dealing with El Barrio in a reasonably commercial manner, and for this to happen, the writer, he felt, should live in El Barrio or at least have been raised there, as Jose had.

  But a year had slipped away somehow, and Rick’s telephone log got shorter. Not that he wasn’t plagued with telephone calls, it’s just that the calls were now coming in from people he had never heard of, or from agents who did not, frankly, represent the major talents in the business. Top agents and studio heads, first-run independent producers and heavy talent were not calling these days. One day Rick realized that he had called everybody back who had called him, and that he was even with the log. There had been a time when he left the office around six in the evening, with two hundred calls unanswered.

  And the overhead rolled on. Jose alone was costing him a fortune, when you added up his deal, plus his secretary, who spent most of her days sitting out there making artificial bouquets of flowers out of tiny glass beads, plus the office rent, the rental on the hot-and-cold machine for coffee and water, and the refrigerator for the Dos Equis, telephone bill, etc. It had been a joyful moment when, a year ago, Rick had called Jose and coolly drawled out his offer, which Jose had leaped at. Rick had fancied that after a few weeks to settle down, Jose would begin his project, but alas, every script, every treatment, was somehow wrong. Fortunately, they were only paying the writers a little bit, flattering them with office space and daily conferences, but never signing a contract or paying Guild wages. Time enough for that when Jose and Rick approved the property. Then the sky would be the limit, the young novice writer would join the Guild, get an agent (if he didn’t already have one) and start collecting the big dollar bills.

  But somehow these underpaid young beginners did not seem to be able to come up with anything. Rick tilted back in his desk and looked up at a poster for Gun Crazy. John Dall with a gun. That was Hollywood at its best, the illusion beyond illusion.

  Abruptly, Rick got to his feet. He did not knock on Jose’s door, since it was open a crack. Jose was behind his desk in his totally Mexican office, his feet on his desk, a bottle of Dos Equis in one hand and an open book in the other.

  “You’re fired,” Rick said.

  “No habla Englis, “ Jose said. He put down his beer and closed the book. His eyes betrayed no emotion. He folded his hands in front of him, his feet now carefully placed under the desk.

  “It’s not your fault, Jose,” Rick said, his own hands in his hip pockets. “I been running this place on the wrong basis. The lawyers can work it out.”

  “Okay, fuck it,” Jose said. He grinned and held out his hand. “I’ve been waiting for the axe to fall for months.”

  “You’ll make your picture,” Rick said.

  “Yeah, but I’m not hungry enough, pal.”

  The two friends were delighted to discover that they were still friends, after the worst had happened. A little more conversation and Rick went back to his own office. He looked at his list of potential projects, the ones he had not yet given up hope on. To be an executive, you have to know how to make up your mind. Rick studied the list for a few
minutes, and then picked one. He shuffled among the papers on his desk until he found the favored project—now in three-page treatment form. This he held in his hand. He pressed the intercom.

  “Joyce, could you come in for a minute?”

  His secretary came in, a wary look in her eyes. Word must have already leaked out. He smiled reassuringly.

  “I want every project cleaned out of this office by the time I get back from lunch.”

  She stared at him.

  “We’re going into high fucking gear around here,” he said.

  When he got back from The Port, where he had feasted on chicken in wine sauce, all the projects were gone. He waited for Joyce to get back from lunch, reading and rereading his three-pager. Then he heard her come in.

  “Joyce, see if you can get Alexander Hellstrom.”

  It would be an interesting test. Rick felt excited about his afternoon for the first time in a while. Would Hellstrom call him? He would have to sit there and wait. The odds were terrific that Hellstrom, if he called at all, would do so tomorrow or the next day. But he had to wait.

  How important am I?

  It is not often you can find out the answer to such a vital question.

  “Joyce, see if you can reach Elektra . . .”

  “Mr. Hellstrom on two,” she said. “Do you still want me to try to reach Elektra?”

  “Hell yes, and tell her to hold!”

  Rick laughed wildly, and then had a sip of ice water to clear his throat. He pressed extension 2.

  “Hello there,” he said in his deep charming voice.

  “Mr. Hellstrom will be with you in a moment,” said a dry female voice. But before Rick could feel anything, the voice of Alexander Hellstrom boomed over the phone:

  “What can I do for you, young man?”

  “I thought we should make a picture together,” Rick said charmingly.

  “You don’t need our help, from the way I hear it.”

  “I have to confess,” Rick said, “this one is too big for me. I’d at least like a chance to talk to you about it, give you the property to read, and then maybe we could make a deal.”

  Sweat was pouring down Rick’s body. Why? He did not know. There was a long silence at the other end. Finally:

  “I looked at my schedule. How about lunch Friday?”

  “Terrific.” Rick started to say something else, but the telephone clicked. Busy man, no time for goodbyes.

  Joyce: “Elektra Soong on three.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Hi, baby,” came Elektra’s sleepy voice.

  “Guess who just called me on the telephone!”

  “JOYCE, SEE if you can reach David Novotny, please,” said Rick into the intercom. David Novotny was his agent. He wondered how long it would take David to answer his call. Probably all afternoon, but that was all right. Things were starting to roll. He would have David exercise his option on the property, called so far Witherspoon, a love story about a daffy young man and the daffy ways he tries to attract the girl. Needed work, but it was something any young person would be attracted to, so long as they didn’t soup it up too much, or treacle it down too much.

  The screen treatment had been written by a college professor of English Literature at Florida University in Gainesville, a man who poured out a constant stream of low-grade short stories, movie treatments, screenplays, teleplays, series ideas, novels and articles. His success percentage was low but his output was high, so he must have been making pretty good money. He was also represented by David Novotny, and went under a number of aliases: H. J. Cromwell was the one attached to Witherspoon.

  According to David, Cromwell (or whoever) had come to Hollywood once years ago, fresh-faced and eager, brought out by the producers of Bonanza, where he had sold several scripts. Bonanza wanted to try him out as a story editor, and set him down in a room at the Beverly-Wilshire Hotel with a failed script and instructions to “make it work” by Monday morning, when they had to start shooting. Cromwell came into the office at Paramount early Monday morning with a fine shooting script and a vicious hangover, and left Hollywood that night, forever.

  Anyway, he was an old pro and would understand when they exercised their option, paid him his bucks and kissed him off the picture.

  “Yes, Joyce?”

  “David’s office says he’ll be in meetings all afternoon.”

  “That was nice of them.”

  “Uh, I told Elena about you and Alexander Hellstrom, was that all right?” Elena was David’s secretary and a good friend of Joyce’s.

  “I think that was a very good thing to do,” Rick said. “I’m out for the rest of the afternoon—no, I’m in a meeting,” he laughed.

  “In a meeting, yes, Rick.”

  The office was silent again. Rick went to the ornate and expensive equipment along one wall, turned on the FM radio. There was a black station that played good stuff. He fiddled around until he got it, and then went back to his desk and began rolling a joint from the crisp sensimilla he kept in a cherrywood box in his top desk drawer. Rick was good with his fingers and took pleasure in rolling cigarettes. He looked at his handiwork, a smooth medium-sized joint, admired it for a moment while Joe Williams sang the blues, and then lit up. A thin cloud of smoke drifted into the bars of sunlight that cut through the middle of the room.

  “Ah,” he said. The afternoon was his.

  Joyce. Hm, Joyce. Thirty, blonde, good-looking, a little broad in the hips and slightly underbuilt in the breast department, but attractive. A damned good secretary, one of those cool efficient Hollywood secretaries who knew everybody in the business, could find anything, from a print of Greed to a reservation at Amelio’s, in fifteen minutes, knew where all the bodies were buried, knew whom to put through and whom to put off. But of course she wanted to be a producer. Most of them, the good ones, wanted to be something else.

  Joyce was married to a key grip who worked regularly over at CBS on a television series. Rick had met him once, a nice man, stocky, hairy and bland. He wondered if the guy thought Rick was fucking his wife.

  Probably not, Rick thought.

  There was a tapping at the door. Rick said, “Come in,” and Joyce came in and closed the door behind her, leaning on it and looking at Rick through the smoke with a tentative smile.

  “I just wanted to say congratulations,” she said.

  “What for?” Rick had smoked dope in front of her before, but up to now she had always refused him. He waved the joint at her in a vague gesture that could have meant anything. She smiled again and crossed the room, sitting on Rick’s couch. Rick came over and sat beside her, offering her the joint. She took an expert pull at it, a double hit, and held it in. Slowly she exhaled, looking fondly at Rick.

  “They want you,” she said. “Every lot in town wants you. Did you see how fast he answered your call?”

  They smoked marijuana quietly for a few minutes while Charlie Parker played for them.

  Joyce said, “I’m just so happy for you.”

  Rick said, “Thank you. I’m so happy I could just fuck you.” He hadn’t meant to say that, it was just a joke. Why had he said that?

  Joyce looked down and said, “Um, okay, I guess that would be all right.”

  Rick stood up, amazed, and watched as Joyce, ever the efficient secretary, opened the sliding panel without catching the corner of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, checked to see that the little bed was made, gave Rick an encouraging smile and started to get out of her clothes. Rick had been wrong about her figure. In nothing but her underpants she had a wonderful body.

  “Oh, just a sec,” she said, and while Rick undressed she got on the telephone and had one of the other girls cover for her. “We’re in a meeting,” she said. She giggled and came into Rick’s arms, soft and sweet and utterly relaxed.

  “Boy, that’s sure good marijuana,” she purred as they fondled each other.

  Rick had to suppress the desire to say, “I’ll send you a pound!” He did not kn
ow where to find a pound of this stuff, and besides, this was not the time to play grandee.

  “Wait a minute,” Joyce said, sliding down his body, kissing his belly button lightly, “I’ve been wanting to do this for a year!” She began giving him a blow job.

  That was fine with Rick. He lay back and watched her, amazed at what had been right there in the office all the time. She was good, my God, she was good, and she liked her work, letting her hair tickle him, looking up into his eyes from time to time, making little murmurs of delight. Rick responded to this kind of treatment enthusiastically, and when she seemed to have had her fill of straight cocksucking, he grabbed her and crammed himself into her with a savage grunt.

  It was a terrific fuck, they both agreed afterward, and to seal the bargain they fucked again, and then later, drinking beer, very stoned and just a little zizzed, Joyce gave him the full-length slow-going thorough blow job he knew she had in her, making him come, even for the third time, with a fullness that made him cry out.

  “God, I love to do that,” she said. “I love men’s cocks, they’re so beautiful, even when they’re little and soft.”

  “I can’t get over how long we waited,” Rick said.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me, I won’t make trouble. We have a good thing going here, we have to protect ourselves. This is just my way of saying congratulations.”

  Later she dressed and kissed him and said she had to get back out there, ever the good secretary, sensing that he wanted to be alone.

  Whew, thought Rick. What a day!

  RICK SAT on the beach alone. He was naked and cross-legged on his towel, his hands resting gently on his knees. He faced the water, which was about twenty feet away, down a gentle slope of white sand. The sun was hot, but the slight breeze from the ocean kept it from being uncomfortable.

  Therefore, why couldn’t Rick meditate? He did not pursue the question, but put it out of his mind. He had told himself long ago that the ability to meditate was one of the few things he really wanted to accomplish in his life, one of the real challenges to his energy and intellect. It could free him the way money never could, and once he learned it, he would be beyond this world, the world of samsara, the wheel of sorrow, the suffering he knew was to come.