The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel

by Iris Rainer Dart

  David smiled. He'd been sitting in the apartment that day after he put a new battery in the Falcon, trying to decide what to do. Rose was an okay guy. He didn't have to call like this to help him. And Rose was right. Chuck Larson was big-time. He only had twelve clients and everyone of them was a major star.

  "I'm telling you, Arch. I've heard he's looking for help and it beats the hell out of being part of the crowd at William Morris, or GAC. You know?"

  Chuck Larson was looking for help, but it wasn't the way David thought it would be. And when he told Larson yes, he'd take the job, he had a nagging feeling that it wouldn't work out. Maybe it was because as lowly a job as he thought mail boy was, in his mind secretary was lower. And that was the job Chuck Larson offered him. Secretary. Women and fags had that job.

  Sure David could type. He'd learned in high school so he could do his term papers. And answering the phone was okay. But making the goddamned coffee in the mornings. And serving coffee to people who came in to have meetings in Larson's Beverly Hills office. That was the fucking lowest.

  Chuck Larson wore a three-piece suit and a tie every day to work. He was tall, with coal-black hair and gray-green eyes. And he looked as though he were a star himself rather than an agent for stars.

  David liked being around Larson and watching him operate. He was amazed that no matter what happened Larson never raised his voice. The agent's tone was always even, despite the fact that the words he was saying were tough. David would hear Larson negotiating for an actor.

  "Yes. He's available. Make an offer," he would say sweetly. Then he would listen. "Mmm. Mmm. Hmm." He jotted some numbers on a pad.

  "Sorry," David heard him say sometimes, with a smile in his voice. "But I won't even address myself to that offer. Maybe you should think it over and call me some other time."

  Larson was known for his soft style, the spectacular deals he made for his clients and, above all, the way he pampered the clients, all of whom had been with him for years. None of his stars ever arrived at an airport anywhere in the world without being picked up by a driver with a limousine. Not one of them could even have a cold without Larson personally delivering a gallon of chicken soup to them from Nate 'n Al's deli. Frequently the soup was accompanied by a puppet or a doll or a battery-operated car, or a stack of books from Hunter's, or even a print of a not-yet-released film, which the poor sick client could watch in the privacy of his or her own projection room, so as not to spread the cold germs.

  Larson's days were very full. He started early, having breakfast meetings with producers at the Polo Lounge, after which he made stops at the various studios to visit with clients who were working. Then he had lunch with clients who weren't. His afternoons were spent meeting with writers, discussing potential projects for his actors, and late in the day he came back to the office to return phone calls and set up meetings for the next few weeks.

  David was required to stay in the office from eight thirty in the morning until seven thirty at night. He was allowed to leave from one o'clock to two o'clock to have lunch, and have the answering service take the phone calls, but there was no one for him to eat lunch with, so usually he had a sandwich sent up from a nearby coffee shop instead.

  By the time he got out of work at night, he would have just enough energy left to do errands, like grocery shopping, or picking up his clothes at Holloway Cleaners, which he used because they stayed open late, have a thrown-together dinner and get into bed with a couple of scripts. He started reading scripts right after the conversation he had with Larson.

  "Good properties, David, are what this business is based on," Larson said. "They're hard to find, but it's worth the search, because one good one can make even a so-so actor into a giant star. If you want to get ahead, you should read. Read. Everything you can get your hands on. You'll have to wade through a lot of mundane shit, but that's how you learn what the valuable material is, and how to assess it." Then Larson picked up the scripts that were on his desk, and David realized he had seen Larson take home a big pile of scrips every night. Maybe if he took home scripts, too, and read them, and then discussed them with Larson and proved that he was bright, Larson would think of him as more than a secretary. Move him up. There were always dozens of scripts coming in the mail. Literary agents sending scripts with the hopes of getting them to Larson's stars. Writers sending their own scripts to the star clients in care of Larson. Yes. He would read. Every one of them, and then maybe he could get Larson to make him his assistant. Call him his assistant. Assistant. In reality it was probably the same job as secretary. It just sounded better. More important.

  Allyn Grant was an assistant. Harold Greenfield's assistant. Jesus Christ. David hadn't even been able to call her after he heard that. And after he let week after week go by without calling to tell her he no longer worked at Hemisphere, and she didn't call him, he figured she knew he'd been fired. Maybe even that he was a blackmailer. Or that once he nearly shot a man. She probably knew all of that and thought he was the lowest. So what? He didn't care about her. He just used her to get to Greenfield. Didn't he?

  But she was soft in bed that night they had been together. And even with the bedroom in darkness, the light from the street came through the window and the sight of her beautiful body made him wish he could fuck her a hundred times. Be inside her, outside her, touching her, drinking her up. He remembered looking down at her pretty face sucking his cock, and the long thick black hair was spread on her naked back. He remembered touching her hair while she sucked him. Feeling hotter and harder. And feeling he would come as she took his hand and sucked his fingers and then his cock and then teased him more by stopping and starting again. She was so incredibly good at it.

  David was getting hard remembering. Maybe he should try to see her tonight. Or on the weekend. No, he wouldn't call her. She was an assistant. He was only a secretary.

  It was six thirty and the phones had stopped for the day. David was reading scripts in the office during his quiet times there as well as at home now, and when he finished the last page of a script called Wild Ride, his mind began to race. Rue. Yes. It was a perfect script for Rue McMillan. And David would tell Larson. Larson couldn't have read it himself yet because it just came in the mail this morning.

  Rue McMillan was a superstar. He was a well-loved tough guy whose films were box-office gold. He'd started out playing heavies on television cowboy shows, always too sinister to play the leading man. But when he was cast in a low-budget feature called Bad Joe where the leading role happened to be the role of a heavy, Rue emerged as a charismatic screen idol. And Chuck Larson represented him.

  Larson would be back in the office any minute and David would run into his office waving the script of Wild Ride. No.

  That wasn't the way to do it at all. He'd go over the script again. Carefully. And make notes. Then he'd type up the notes very neatly. He'd capsulize the story of the script so that Larson wouldn't even have to read it if he didn't want to. Then he'd describe the character that he thought Rue should play in detail. Then he'd give reasons why this would be a good part for Rue to do, for his image, etc., and then he'd give the script to Larson.

  Larson came in to return calls and by seven thirty that night, as he was about to leave for the night, David handed him the three-page synopsis he'd just typed up about Wild Ride. Larson looked at it closely while David stood in front of his desk. It didn't take him long to read it and when he had, he looked up.

  "Wild Ride," he said. "Sounds good. I'll read it."

  And that was it. No assistantship. No "Great job, well-done, Kane." No "Wait until Rue sees this." Larson just took the script home and David never heard another word about it. Shit.

  But he continued to read himself to sleep every night, and rush into the office and read some more, and type all of Larson's correspondence, and make sure Larson had a daily schedule of which client was where, doing what, and take all of the phone calls that came in.

  "Chuck Larson's office."


  "Is Mr. Larson in, please?"

  "Who's calling?"

  "This is Allyn Grant in Harold Greenfield's office."

  David froze. He was positive she didn't know it was him. Yet.

  "He's not here right now," he said nervously. Good Christ. Maybe she did know it was him. Maybe the word was out that he was a secretary. Maybe Ashman had seen her and told her.

  "Allyn, this is David Kane."

  There was a long silence.

  "What?"

  "It's David."

  "David, my God. What are you doing there?"

  She didn't know. Her surprise was real. Or if it wasn't, she was a good actress.

  "You didn't expect me to stay in the mail room forever, did you?" he said, hoping he sounded jovial.

  "Well, of course not," she said. "But I guess I thought you'd get a job at Hemisphere." She didn't know. "Oh, David, I've been wondering where you were. I'm really glad to hear your voice."

  "Yeah," he said, trying to sound casual. "I'm having a great time over here working with Chuck." He deliberately said with instead of for. Maybe she wouldn't ask what his job was.

  "What's your job?" she asked.

  "Uh . . . I'm his assistant," he lied.

  "Great!" she said. "And I'm Harold's. Isn't that marvelous?"

  "Yeah. Marvelous," David said.

  "The head honcho's out somewhere," David said, "anything I can handle?" Christ. If Larson heard him.

  "I think Harold wants to talk to him about Doug Hart doing a cameo in a feature. It must be important or Harold would have had the producer call. Do you think Hart would do it?"

  David had not only not met the young TV star Doug Hart in person, he'd never even taken a phone message for him, because Hart was constantly working and never in need of advice or encouragement from Larson.

  "Could be," David said, "could be. Why don't I toss it out to Chuck and have him get back to you?"

  "Great," she said.

  David was already wondering how he'd explain to Larson why he had the information about what Greenfield wanted, when his job was merely to write down the names of people who called. He hadn't figured it out yet when Larson burst in the door, very preoccupied.

  "Who called?" he said as he walked straight into his office.

  David nervously rattled off the list of names to him. Harold Greenfield's office was last. Larson usually left the door to his office open when he made his outgoing calls, but he got up and walked toward the door to the reception area and closed it.

  David was worried. Larson would call and speak to Allyn Grant. He'd say my secretary told me you called, and she'd say, but I spoke to your assistant, David Kane, and David said he'd discuss the Doug Hart thing with you. And Larson would say, Why would I discuss anything with him? My secretary. Did he tell you he was my assistant? Yes, he did. And Larson would fire him.

  No, that was crazy. Anyway, assistant and secretary. They were both the same. Larson couldn't be angry at him for something that small. But what if he was?

  David watched the clock nervously. Larson was very precise. At 8 P.M. he left the office no matter what.

  The door opened. Larson emerged.

  "Night," he said to David and disappeared out the front door.

  David sighed. Everything was okay.

  A few weeks passed and David noticed an item in the trades that said Doug Hart was doing a cameo in a Hemisphere film. Greenfield and Larson had come to some kind of deal. And David still had his job. So the lie he told probably never even came up. That must have made him braver because after that he tried the word assistant out on a few more people. Once he even told someone he was Larson's "associate."

  He was deeply involved in reading a new script that just came in the mail, when the front office door opened.

  "All right, Chuck, you tough ten percent son of a bitch," the man in the doorway said, "come out fightin'!"

  It was Rue McMillan. His big body filled the doorway.

  "He's not here," David said.

  Rue McMillan. Oh, man. David had seen plenty of stars on the Hemisphere lot. Even Frank Sinatra that day in the commissary. And all his life at friends' houses, or just shopping in Beverly Hills, he had seen celebrities. But there wasn't anybody like Rue McMillan. Now David knew where the expression "bigger than life" came from.

  "Ahhhh," Rue said, disappointed. "Fuck him."

  Rue had been drinking.

  "I was gonna surprise him," Rue said. " 'Cause I was down the street lookin' for a new car, and I thought seein' I was around, hell, I'd come up and visit the bastard. When's he due back?"

  "Usually at six thirty."

  Rue looked at his watch.

  "It's three thirty. I'll wait."

  He was a little tipsy, but still coherent. And smart. And very funny and he and David talked about everything. Television, women, films, sports. David couldn't believe it. Rue McMillan was actually sitting on the sofa across from him, telling him jokes, and swapping stories with him about boyhood, and David was calling him Rue, as if they were old friends. It was wonderful. It made David feel good about himself. Important. Rue McMillan liked him. He could tell. Now they were talking about movies.

  "According to that deal I made with them," Rue said, talking about one of the studios, "I still owe them a picture. Maybe two pictures. I'll ask Chuck. If the son of a bitch ever gets here."

  "I have one for you," David said. He did. Wild Ride. It had been a while since he'd read it, but he remembered very clearly thinking how perfect it was for Rue.

  "What is it?" Rue asked.

  "It's called Wild Ride. It's by some new young writer. I gave it to Chuck to read—but he never said anything to me about how he liked it."

  Larson never told David how he liked anything. But David didn't say that. He was too high. Too caught up in the excitement of meeting Rue McMillan. Trying to find something that would create a bond between them.

  "I'll look for it," he said, going into Larson's office.

  One entire wall in Chuck Larson's office was nothing but bookshelves containing scripts that had already been read. Part of David's job was to make sure the scripts were shelved properly, so he knew just where Wild Ride would be.

  "Here," he said, offering it to Rue. "You'll love it." Rue took the script, leafed through it, promised to read it that night, and the two men continued their conversation.

  When seven o'clock rolled around and Larson wasn't back yet, Rue was getting restless.

  "I better run, ol' boy," he said to David. "You tell Chuckie I was here, and I'll stop by another day, but I sure did enjoy meetin' you, my friend." He shook David's hand.

  "Same here," David said, getting up. Rue McMillan had to be six foot five. "Hope to see you again."

  David's head was still spinning a half hour later when Chuck Larson got back. He read Larson the list of calls, then casually told him that Rue McMillan stopped by to say hello.

  Larson nodded and got on the phone.

  The next day David had lots of correspondence to take care of. It was work he was supposed to be doing when McMillan was there the day before, and when he finished that, he starting reading a pilot script someone had submitted for Carol Denning, a young television actress who was represented by the Larson office. David had just opened an envelope from Paramount when Larson came in. He was about to read Larson the list of calls when Larson said, "David, will you come into my office, please?"

  David recognized the tone. He'd heard Larson use it many times. It was his sweet-killer voice.

  It was the voice David heard him use when he was very angry but refused to show it. David got up and walked into the office.

  "Sit down," Larson said. Larson was smiling. It was strange. David sat in the Eames chair across from Larson's desk. He was nervous.

  "David," Larson began. "You're a very ambitious boy. Lean and hungry, as Shakespeare so aptly put it. And I respect your ambition, even though I'm aware that it sometimes causes you to stretch the truth by tryin
g to better your position in the eyes of the people who telephone me."

  Larson paused as if he were waiting for David to understand what he'd just said. David was silent.

  "But that's not what I want to discuss. Why did you give Rue McMillan a script?"

  "Because it was a great idea for him and I—"

  "Listen to me, David," Larson said. He was still smiling. "As Rue's representative, I feel it's important for me to be the one who decides what's good for him and what isn't. So from now on, I'll do my job and you do yours. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Promise?"

  "Promise."

  This was ugly. It was all being said softly but it was ugly.

  "I managed to convince Rue when I saw him today that the script you showed him called Wild Ride was no good, despite what you said."

  David was getting angry.

  ''But it was good and I—"

  "David," Larson said, "you're a very young man to already have enemies in this business. I hired you in spite of that. Don't make me your enemy, too."

  Larson knew. He must have called Greenfield before he hired David and now he knew something. Whatever bad thing Greenfield said. And he knew about the lies, too. Assistant. Associate. David wanted to run out of the room.

  "If you do as I say, Kane," Larson went on, "and you learn to behave, maybe someday you won't have lie about your job. I'll make you my associate."

  "I'm sorry, Chuck," David said, smiling humbly. "I'm sorry if I was out of line." He thanked Larson for showing him what he'd done wrong. But inside he was screaming. From his guts he was screaming.

  Don't hold your breath, Larson, you shit-heel, because being your associate is not what I'm after. One of these days I'll be so fucking big I won't even know who you are.

  twenty-three

  "Would you care to purchase a cocktail, sir?"

  "Huh?" Barry was on the seven o'clock PSA flight from Hollywood-Burbank to Las Vegas. "No, thanks!"

  The stewardess smiled at him. It was the man next to Barry she was asking.