The Hollywood Trilogy

by Don Carpenter

  My God, if you judged people by their behavior in this business, who would there be left to work with?

  For some reason this made him think of the President of the United States, and he laughed, the first really good belly laugh he had had in a long time. On the tail end of it, in came Richard Heidelberg.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Alexander chuckled, and blew his nose. “I wasn’t laughing at you.”

  “It’s all right,” Rick said, and sat.

  “Willi, bring us a couple of Cokes, okay?”

  “I’ll have to send out for them,” came her voice over the intercom. Had she been listening when Dr. Fieldstone had been talking to him? Maybe it was better not to know. “That’s fine,” he said, and turned once again to the young man trying to relax across the desk from him.

  “So no Dael Tennyson,” he said. “Travolta is still a possibility. And there are others.”

  Rick looked him right in the eye and said, “I’ve come to the conclusion that this project is fucked. The idea’s weak and the script is boring. Let’s not waste any more time on it.”

  Alexander’s stomach sweetened and his mood rose sharply. This young man had guts!

  ALEXANDER LISTENED quietly as Rick outlined his proposal to remake The Lady in the Lake and offer the part of Philip Marlowe to Peter Wellman. The thing was to be done period, World War II, and no expense would be spared developing the fun of period. Rick stressed the importance of the new tragic romance element and pointed out the popularity of Witness for the Prosecution, with its series of lurching volte-faces. That was to be the structure of Lady, too, with the additional shattering effect of having Marlowe confronted at once by the woman he has allowed himself to fall in love with because she is dead (with all that that implied) and the white knight ethic that makes him turn her in.

  Alexander nodded gravely from time to time, but when Rick was finished with his pitch, he only said, “Let me sleep on it. Who owns the rights?”

  “Endless Unicorn Company,” Rick said. “We closed the deal with M-G-M yesterday.”

  “You can’t shop this around town, you know,” Alexander said. “You owe us a picture.”

  “I’m hip,” Rick said.

  “Well, I’ll sleep on it.”

  Rick stood up. Alexander did not feel like standing up. He stared at the young man. The proposal was a candy store, of course, anybody who liked making movies would have a fine time with it. But whether it would make a profit Alexander could not foresee, and the little tickle of intuition he depended on in such matters tickled him not.

  “I don’t have to sleep on it,” he said abruptly. Let’s see how tough this kid really is. “I pass.”

  “You mean, no?”

  Rick was actually goggling at him.

  “I mean no,” said Alexander. Now he was sure of himself. “And you can take it anywhere you want. I release you from your commitment.”

  Rick continued to goggle, and then he drew himself together. He looked tough now, like a street kid about to get into a knife fight. “You mean you’re kicking me off the lot?”

  Alexander laughed easily. “Oh, hell no, Rick. I’m just turning down your proposal, that’s all. You aren’t very much used to the word no, are you?”

  Alexander stood up, just as Willi came in with the two Coca-Colas on a tray, with two glasses of ice.

  “Make us a couple of drinks, will you, Willi?” he said. “What’ll it be, Rick? Bourbon over ice?”

  “I don’t have to take this shit,” Rick said, and started out the door, but Alexander’s hand snaked out and grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around. Alexander was smiling his deadliest smile, and his fingers gripped Rick’s shoulder hard enough to really hurt. Rick did not flinch. The two men glared at each other, Alexander showing his teeth and Rick with his mouth a tight white line.

  Willi made the drinks unobtrusively and got the hell out of there, closing the door behind her.

  Alexander said, “Now I slap your face, and you say ‘Thanks, I needed that.’” He let go of the shoulder, picked up his drink and tossed about half of it down his throat. It burned sweetly. He walked over to the couch and plopped himself down. “Come on, kid, relax. It’s not the end of the world. You just think it is.”

  Rick was making a visible effort to get control of himself.

  Alexander finished his drink and watched him. Finally Rick sat and sipped his drink like a man.

  “That’s better,” Alexander said. “We don’t want to lose you, Rick, you’re a good filmmaker and you’re going to be a better one. Hell, someday you might have my job, you’ve got the makings of an executive, or whatever the hell it is I’m supposed to be. Did you know I was a tank commander in World War Two? Nineteen years old, breaking my ass for Georgie Patton?”

  He regaled Rick with a couple of wild tank commander stories, hooked him completely, fascinated him as only Alexander, if he did say so himself, could fascinate. They each had another bourbon: “Bourbon’s a man’s drink!” Alexander drank both Coca-Colas, burped loudly and said, “Come on, we can’t work anymore today, let’s get the hell out of the office.”

  “I still don’t understand why you turned me down,” Rick said. “The project’s really a good one.”

  “Quit pitching. I have to go watch some dailies, you want to come with me?”

  But that was not to be the end of it. Alexander had assumed that Rick would take his project to another studio, with the whole town knowing that Alexander had turned it down and that M-G-M had given the project up without a fight. Alexander didn’t think he would have much luck against those odds, but you never knew, and he hoped it would all turn out well.

  But no, that was not what happened.

  Rick, instead, went to Donald Marrow. Right over Alexander’s head, taking Elektra Soong and flying to New York the very next day.

  By sheer coincidence, Teresa di Veccio was on the same plane.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JERRY COULD not live on hate. Gradually the seething disturbances in his belly went away and his life fell back into order. Richard Heidelberg should not be blamed. His silence was, if anything, informative. Making movies was a dirty business, and things like manners or politeness had no place. Thus, decent people like Jerry had no place. He moved back in with Barbara, got back into running and making love, and if Barbara did not understand his soul, perhaps that was the way it had to be. But every once in a while, he would feel a morsel of self-pity. Alas, the artist, even the unsuccessful artist, is ever misunderstood.

  But then, without his willing the process to begin again, he found himself toying with a new idea, a tough idea, one that struck at the heart of our civilization. Jerry had long been fascinated and revulsed by the fate of chimpanzees, the funny cute little animals you see on television. Chimpanzees were very intelligent and very strong. Jerry had read somewhere that after the age of eight or nine, the animals were usually destroyed because they were likely (and with excellent reason) to turn on their captors. And then one day Jerry had found himself with a girl at a zoo, and out of curiosity, he looked up the chimpanzees. He was unprepared for what he saw. The animals were as big as he was, in strip cells, tiny cells containing nothing the animal could throw or destroy. For the animals wanted to throw and destroy, and having nothing else to throw, threw their own excrement at the humans. There was a sign out front warning the humans. Jerry made eye contact with one of the full-grown chimpanzees and saw with intuitive shock and horror that the animal knew where he was, and what was being done to him.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the girl he was with.

  “I, uh . . .” was all he could say. He staggered to a bench and sat, horrified with himself, disgusted with humanity. “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ,” he said over and over.

  The girl never did find out what was bothering him.

  All right then. We have this full-grown chimpanzee (Jerry would never use the word “chimp” again) who is being used as part of a scientific experiment, some
thing clean, like linguistics, to make the point all the sharper. The scientists in their white smocks see themselves as heroes, good guys, even though they have to lock down their animals and be extremely careful around them. So the chimpanzee, one dark night, escapes into the forest behind the university (Berkeley would be perfect). The movie would be about the chimpanzee’s efforts to find his freedom, and the good-guy scientist who knows him so well he can think like him. Question: Which is the animal?

  This was no Planet of the Apes movie. This was serious stuff. At first Jerry laughed at himself for having such an idea, but the idea wouldn’t go away. Jerry kept seeing the eyes of that imprisoned animal, telling him in the universal telepathy of all animals, Get me out of here!

  What the hell, it didn’t matter if Jerry worked on the story or not, nobody was going to make the movie. Just another dreamland fantasy, just another gallop down the endless tatters of his mind.

  He wrote eight pages and the script congealed. Nevertheless, to keep his freedom intact, he spent three nights a week at Fountain, mostly reading Playboy, drinking whiskey and wishing the script would write itself. It was either a piece of trash or a great idea. Enough whiskey and it was a great idea, but no son of a bitch like Richard Heidelberg was going to get his hands on it. First, complete the first-draft screenplay, then take it to Harriet Hardardt at the Novotny Agency. Insist on creative control, and because the script will be good enough, you’ll get it. Direct the picture, and then won’t they all eat their hearts out? Jerry had to laugh.

  Now at Barbara’s, Jerry sighed, took another drink of whiskey and lay back torpid on the couch. Walter Cronkite spoke to him of many wonders, and from the kitchen came the smells of corned beef and cabbage. Afterward, he knew, there would be a small scoop of delicious mint ice cream. Yet he was trimmer and firmer than ever, and he actually looked forward to his morning run before the hot shower and work.

  Barbara was singing under her breath in the kitchen, Jerry did not recognize the tune. Obviously she was happy with the arrangement, and had said nothing about marriage for weeks. She was an ideal mate for him. Because he was such a child, and she mothered him. But when he needed to be treated like a man, she treated him like a man. And when he needed to be alone . . .

  But she did not treat him like an artist.

  Jerry sat up. There was one shot of whiskey left in the bottle. He drank it and went to the kitchen door.

  “I’m gonna run down and get some booze,” he said. “You need anything from the store?”

  “Just hurry back, things are almost ready,” she said without looking up. He gave her a warm gentle hug from behind as she chopped vegetables for the salad, kissed her on the nape of her neck, felt a momentary dizziness of desire, and left the place, forever.

  Forever. And yet went to the big Ralph’s market three blocks away and bought a bottle of Old Crow 100-proof and found himself driving back to Barbara’s.

  Bastard, but not bastard enough, was his thought as he pulled open the front door and was greeted by the exotic smells of freshly made corned beef and cabbage.

  “I’m home!” he cried, not at all depressed.

  It was as if he had been waiting for this test of his bastardliness, marking time until he could discover in himself some reason for thinking that what he did was important. Not just the after-hours pastime of a larger-than-average ego. Because Barbara didn’t understand this part of him didn’t mean he had to take failures out on her. He grinned to himself in the dark, and felt for her warmth. She made a little noise, and turned away from him. He could snuggle up to her spoon-fashion and ride that coziness into sleep.

  The image of Richard Heidelberg, laughing, brought him up out of sleepiness, and a tickle of anger ran through his gut.

  The next morning he asked for and got two hours off, driving through the ten o’clock Hollywood traffic to the west end of the Strip, Agent Country, driving down into the garage at 9255 as if he belonged there. He rode up in the elevator urging himself to have the guts to ask the girl to validate his parking ticket and then forgot all about it the moment he entered the cool silent dark-paneled but somehow terribly tacky offices of the David Novotny Agency.

  Fifteen minutes of sitting sweating coldly into his clothes, and Harriet Hardardt came out of her office and wiggled her finger.

  He jumped up and entered her office, with its homey atmosphere of books and scripts piled everywhere.

  “I’m glad to see you,” Harriet said. “Sit down and tell me in five seconds what’s up, because I have to run downstairs to a screening about ten minutes ago.”

  But she sat down and smiled at him, and he was no longer nervous.

  “I made a mistake, I think,” he said. It no longer mattered to him that he would look foolish—the thing was to get that hatred off his back, and return to his writing. He explained what he had done.

  “And you haven’t heard a word from Mister Heidelberg?”

  “Not a peep,” he said. “I know how foolish I look.”

  “Don’t worry about that. But you should have come to me . . . well, you were under pressure. I’ll tell you what, I’ll look into the matter and get back to you. Do I have a complete set of addresses and phone numbers for you?”

  He gave her his numbers, including Barbara’s place, and she stood up, grinning, and held out her hand.

  “Welcome to the David Novotny Agency,” she said.

  My God, I have an agent! he thought with a thrill as the two of them waited for the elevator. Harriet shook his hand again when she got off at the second floor, and Jerry went on down to the garage numbly.

  “I forgot to get validated,” he said to the garage man. “I could go back up, I guess . . .”

  “Naw, you look kinda distracted,” the garageman said. Jerry tipped him two dollars and the man saluted with warm irony. “Careful out there,” he said.

  Sunset Boulevard never looked so fine.

  “IT’S FOR you, Jerry,” said Richard, handing him the phone but not tilting his chair back up, just sitting there waiting for the action. Jerry had no time for Richard, however.

  “Jerry Rexford,” he said.

  “Will you hold for Harriet Hardardt?”

  Within seconds: “Jerry, are you busy for lunch today?”

  “Not at all,” he said numbly.

  “You work over on Hollywood Boulevard, why don’t we meet at Musso’s, in the bar, at twelve-thirty?”

  “Sounds fine to me,” Jerry said.

  “David Novotny and Richard Heidelberg will be joining us,” Harriet said.

  “I’ll be there,” Jerry said. “Uh, where is it?”

  “You’ve never been to Musso’s? Well, this will be a double treat for you, then.”

  She told him how to find the place. It was two blocks down the boulevard. Jerry would never have guessed that an important Hollywood restaurant would be right here in the heart of Hollywood. But here it was, a frescoed high-ceilinged Italian restaurant, split down the middle, with the good room on the left and the good room on the right, red leatherette booths to one side, white tablecloths to the other. The place was beginning to fill up with industry people, many recognizable, and the busy warm chatter of busy people filled the place pleasantly.

  Jerry walked up to the long bar and sat down. He was ten minutes early, and sweating. This would be a good place for a shot of bourbon—no, this would be a terrible spot for a shot.

  “Perrier, please,” he said to the barman. He turned on the bar stool and gave the room his frank appraisal. He had worn his best dark suit, and he was pleased to see that he did not look out of place.

  At the tick of 12:30 Harriet Hardardt walked in from the back.

  “I’m going to have to have a Martini,” she said. “I have a full day. Well, how are you?”

  “Just fine,” Jerry said.

  After Harriet had taken a sip of her drink she said, “Well, here’s the basic situation. Richard Heidelberg didn’t forget you. I suppose in his own way he was tryi
ng to be kind. So much of this business is bullshit, you know, he didn’t want to bullshit you along and then have to backpedal if things went into turnaround. He’s just gotten back from New York, with a deal to proceed with the development of The Lady in the Lake from Donald Marrow, and through me, he’ll make you an offer.”

  Jerry wondered if he would ever know the truth of it. But what difference did that make? He was on the way to a deal. He asked Harriet a couple of questions and found out that Richard Heidelberg was also a client of the David Novotny Agency. He wondered how ethical all this was, but had the sense not to ask.

  They were escorted to their pristine white-tableclothed corner table in less than ten minutes, and only moments later, in came Richard Heidelberg and David Novotny, stopping at only a few tables as they made their way across the room. Jerry did his best to appear calm, to appear as if he belonged in this room. He stood up to shake hands with the two new men, Richard in jeans and a soft blue velour and David, like himself, in dark blue three-piece. Only of course Novotny’s suit made Jerry’s look like something out of the free bin.

  They all got themselves settled in a pleasant bustle of waiters and menus, and Jerry was conscious that a lot of people in the room were sneaking looks at him. Who was the lucky guy? Immediately he stopped sneaking looks at other tables. It was beneath his dignity, and besides, the conversation was starting to heat up.

  “You probably want to kill me,” Richard Heidelberg said with a friendly grin.

  “Whatever for?” David Novotny said. He flashed Jerry a smile that Jerry could feel all the way down to his toes. “You only hung the man out to dry for a few months.”

  “Slowly twisting in the wind,” Harriet said.

  “Oh, I didn’t mind,” said Jerry.

  “That second draft of yours is nothing short of brilliant,” Richard said. “You have me crying all over the place, laughing, yelling. Damn good screenplay.”

  “Thank you,” Jerry said.