The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel

by Iris Rainer Dart

  "Call for you, Mr. Rose," came a voice over the P.A.

  Stan was worried as he headed for the phone. He'd tried to get Beau to host the show. This was a pilot, important, could decide what the show's future would be, and Beau was still a big draw to the kids. Great to look at, slinky, sultry, perfect. But Barry and Beau were in Europe. Rumors said, maybe even getting married. So Stan had called around trying to find someone equally impressive as Beau.

  Agent after agent called him. "How 'bout Neil Slocum?" one agent asked.

  "No," Stan said.

  The Slocum Brothers Band. They were trouble. Drugs. Fast cars. A history of near-miss accidents in the Ferraris they bought with the money they got from their first hit albums. Neil Slocum, the eldest brother, was the current bad boy of rock 'n' roll. In and out of jail, doped out and then into rest homes for a few months and swearing in an interview in Rolling Stone that he was clean. No. Not Neil Slocum.

  But during the time that passed, as Stan tried to reach this unreliable star or that, Neil Slocum's first album alone, without the Brothers, shipped platinum, and the agent called again.

  "He's clean," the agent said. "I swear to God it's cool. I'll bring him there myself."

  Stan picked up the backstage phone.

  "Hello."

  "Uh, Stan. It's Freddy Britz." The agent who had sworn to God. "Uh, listen," Britz said. "Neil is—uh—he's running a little late today and—he won't be able to make the rehearsal."

  Stan bit his lip. "Freddy," he said. "You swore to me that—"

  "I know. I know. He'll be there. He'll be fine. He'll be there in plenty of time to do the show. I swear to God. But he just can't make the rehearsal. See you soon. I will. I'll be there real soon. With Neil. Honest to God."

  Stan put the phone down. Matty Greer, the director, stood a few feet away.

  "Problems?" Greer asked.

  "You said you wanted to run the show down just for the order," Stan said. "Well, Neil Slocum's going to be late."

  "Shit," Greer said. Greer was a television director. Very tan with gray curly hair. He'd been directing TV variety shows for years. The word on him was he wasn't a genius, but he took pretty pictures. And after years of working with temperamental television stars, and being pushed around by television producers and network brass, he rolled with the punches.

  "Why don't you just walk it through for me then, Rose?" he asked.

  "Me?"

  "You know. Just kind of block it out for me so I can make sure my boys have it all down, and the groups know when to get on and off so we don't have to keep stopping later. Okay?"

  "Yeah. Sure."

  * * *

  Some more people had arrived from the groups. Their "old ladies," friends, and also the concessionaires. They were all milling around and Greer rolled the tape with the theme music on it and Stan walked out onto the stage. Most of them knew him so they began to whistle and applaud. And Greer was on the truck watching and the crew was laughing. And Greer said to Stan over the P.A., "Okay, Stan, bring out the first act."

  Stan grinned because he caught sight of himself in a monitor.

  "Hi," he said, "I'm sure you know I'm not Neil Slocum because my eyes are focused."

  Everyone out on the vast grassy area laughed.

  "I'm Stan Rose," he said, "and this is Stan Rose Presents."

  More people had come in. Everyone was applauding.

  "Tonight my guests are the beautiful Bishop Brothers Band, featuring Jay Tarmack." Wolf whistles from the crowd. "An old favorite, Magic Hat, and my special friends, Twilight. So get ready to rock, right after this word."

  Greer's voice came over the box. "You're great, Stan, just great. But I'm putting my money on the freak with the guitar."

  Stan walked through the rest of the rehearsal easily, making jokes, teasing the acts, poking fun at the director in the booth. Even telling a brief story now and then about the first time he'd seen his group or that one, and what guy had a new old lady, and giving away well-known secrets that made everyone laugh. It was late morning when the rehearsal was over. The show was scheduled to start taping at noon.

  "Any sign of Slocum?" Stan asked a group of his employees who were backstage.

  "Yeah," one of the Stan Rose Presents henchmen said. Stan didn't like the look on the kid's face that went with the yeah. He headed for Slocum's dressing room and knocked on the door.

  "Whosit?"

  "Stan Rose."

  "C'mon in."

  Freddy Britz, the agent, looked nervous.

  "Uh, hi. He's here. He's in the john."

  "Britz," Stan said. "If anything is wrong, you better tell me now, because—"

  "Hey, man, nothing is wrong," Neil Slocum said. Stan had left the door open and Slocum was standing in the doorway. His long black hair flowed down his back. He was very pale, and he wore a flowered caftan. He looked like a refugee from the sixties.

  "My man," he said to Stan. Stan had used the Slocum Brothers as an opening act on one of the earliest Rose and Barton Concerts, and many times since then. When Stan took Slocum's hand to shake it, he could feel the rock star trembling.

  "You okay, Neil?" he said.

  "Oh, shit, yes," Slocum assured him.

  Stan remembered that at one of the early Slocum Brothers Concerts Neil had come by the hall early to do a sound check alone. It was at Santa Monica, and after the sound equipment was in order he asked Stan to have dinner with him, and the two of them went to a restaurant on the pier. They had a few beers and talked about growing up, and Slocum told Stan that he was from Florida too. Jacksonville. Stan knew some guys from the University of Miami who were from Jacksonville. When he mentioned their names and Slocum knew them well, it seemed weird to Stan that someone as freaky as Slocum had a childhood that sounded a lot like his own.

  "We start in about an hour, so relax," Stan said. "There's cue cards so you can read off those, and I'll be around in case you need any help with anything else."

  "Thanks, man," Slocum said.

  Freddy, the agent, gave Stan a smug smile, and Stan walked out to visit the other dressing rooms before the show. As he passed the stage area again he could see the hordes of kids beginning to crowd through the newly constructed gate that surrounded the field.

  "A beautiful sight," he heard a voice say. Harold Greenfield was watching the kids come in. "Say, Rose," he said, "you were a great host. I was out there watching your rehearsal."

  "Thanks, Harold," Stan said. "It was fun."

  "You ought to be the one who hosts the show. You were funny. Charming, I might add."

  Stan smiled.

  "Gee, Harold. Next thing I know you'll want to star me in one of your pictures."

  "I mean it," Greenfield said. "All those stories you told. The kids would love those."

  "But I'm too shy, Harold," Stan said, and opened the door to go into Magic Hat's dressing room.

  "We want Neil! We want Neil!" the kids in the audience were screaming, and Slocum stood in the wings with Freddy Britz and Stan Rose and Magic Hat, who were waiting to make their entrance, and Harold Greenfield. It seemed funny to Stan to see Greenfield in his three-piece suit with that group of rock people.

  "We want Neil! We want Neil!" The screams were loud now, as Stan put an arm around Slocum to wish him well. The man was trembling a lot now, but before Stan could ask him if maybe he wanted to sit down and relax for a while, to let Greer go out and do an audience warm-up, Slocum pulled away from him and walked onto the stage.

  The thousands of kids who were sitting on blankets spread on the grass jumped to their feet when they saw him. Cheering. Screaming with adoration, "Neil! We love you, Neil!" And Neil Slocum smiled at them weakly. He raised a hand to wave, and then, as if in slow motion, sank to the ground. There was a horrified reaction from the crowd and people running toward the stage, until one of the Magic Hat group and a member of their road crew ran out, lifted Slocum's limp body and carried him off. Greer's voice came over the P.A. to ask that ever
yone please sit down.

  As Slocum was carried offstage and past him, Stan held his breath. Bizarre. Was it the music business that was bizarre or just the whole world in general? At least once a day someone asked Stan the question, Why is a straight guy like you involved in this world of freaks? And he would laugh. Now he was wondering what the answer was. He looked at Harold Greenfield. Greenfield must be wondering the same thing about himself. The old man really looked at a loss.

  "Say something," Greenfield said to Stan and turned him toward the stage and marched him forward. Shoving him. And Stan found himself on the stage holding the microphone. The kids were very loud.

  "Neil is okay," Stan said very loud into the microphone, hoping he was telling the truth. "Just exhausted," he added. The crowd was getting a little quieter. "So if you're very cool, in about five minutes, we'll start shooting the show again. I'm Stan Rose and we've got really terrific acts coming down today, so hang in. Thanks."

  Stan walked off. He could hear the ambulance making its way through the Valley traffic toward the studio to get Slocum. Greenfield and Greer were waiting for him in the wings.

  "Slocum's dead," Greenfield said. "But we won't tell the kids. Let them find out on the news when they get home tonight."

  Stan was numb. Neil Slocum. Another casualty in the world of the music business. In the last ten years he'd seen so many it didn't even startle him. Neil Slocum. Stan's reaction to the news came out as a joke.

  "I guess that means he won't be going on," he said.

  "That's right," Greenfield said. "You are."

  "You're crazy, Harold."

  "Rose, you were great out there in rehearsal. If you stink we'll forget we ever tried it, and if you're even half decent, you'll be a star."

  Stan was laughing nervously.

  "What'll I wear?" he said. "I can't go on a television show. Look what I look like." He was wearing a plaid shirt and khaki pants.

  "Rose, this is Hemisphere Studios," Greenfield said. "I can make you look like Errol Flynn or King Kong within ten minutes. I've already sent for makeup and wardrobe."

  The network wasn't sure about the show. Neither were the sponsors. That guy. The emcee. No one ever heard of him. They decided to test it at a preview center where they brought in audiences who were hooked up to computers, which recorded their responses. They ran the test for only seven days, because on the eighth day, the head of the preview center called Harold Greenfield to tell him that they would be unable to test "Stan Rose Presents" tonight, because last night the audience was so excited by it they had overexerted the computer. When they heard that, the network and the sponsors reconsidered, and the show was scheduled to go on the air.

  forty-five

  Allyn looked at the gold face of her Rolex watch. She loved that watch. David had given it to her the day after Mandy was born. To make up for the fight they had had in the hospital about the name. "It's too soon, David," Allyn said to him. "Too soon to name the baby after your mother. I know you loved her, but we mustn't treat our daughter as if she's a reincarnation of Marlene. She's not. And calling her Marlene seems unhealthy to me." David was furious. He stormed out, and Allyn was relieved. Maybe now she could get some sleep.

  And in the morning he was back. Sheepish, loving, apologetic, with the box from Tiffany's. He'd somehow managed in that short amount of time to have the watch engraved, too. On the back it had the date and then the words "Thank you for Amanda." Capitulation. Amanda. The name Allyn wanted to use for the tiny orange-haired baby girl. The name her mother and grandmother wanted for the baby. After Abraham Cutler, Allyn's grandfather.

  The Rolex cost David more than two thousand dollars, and it ran fast. Now it said ten. Close. Maybe it was a few minutes before, and David was on the phone with his lawyer Ben. Allyn could tell because the light on the phone was still lit under the seven eight three number and Ben had called David on that line two hours ago. It must have been important because David closed the door to the den and gave Allyn the look which meant she shouldn't disturb him with anything mundane like good-nights from Amanda. Allyn decided to go and look in on Amanda, but as she got to her feet, she saw the phone light go out, and heard the door to David's den open.

  "Allyn?"

  David was hurrying up the stairs. Unusual. He opened the door to her office. He was smiling.

  "That was Ben," he said.

  "I know. What did he want?"

  "Remember that conversation I told you I had with Mel Eastman last week?"

  "Yes."

  Mel Eastman was the chairman of the board of Premier Films. He was an idol of David's. A studio bigwig who was vital, tough and smart. A man David had observed from afar and admired enormously. After they'd met, and Eastman praised David's work, even Wild Ride, which David felt now, two pictures later, was only a primitive effort, David rushed home to tell Allyn. I met him. I met Eastman, David said, and he had the same look on his face Amanda had on hers when she walked into the toy department at Bullock's and saw Santa Claus for the first time.

  "Eastman called Ben. He's offering me a job. I mean Premier is. They want me to be president."

  "What about Neiman?"

  Wayne Neiman was the current president of Premier Films.

  David shrugged. "Moving on, I guess. Ben says Eastman wants me so much he thinks we can ask for the moon."

  Allyn smiled. "That's wonderful, David, I'm really proud of you." She was. Her husband. He was just thirty years old and he'd already produced three major motion pictures. One which was nominated for an Oscar, and the other two which were critically acclaimed for their excellence.

  Yes, excellence. David was committed to that. He would become riveted to a project, consumed by his need to make it perfect. So that even after hiring the best director and film editor and cinematographer, and finding the perfect cast, and handpicking the crew, still he would be watching, checking, examining every frame, considering every beat. To prove that he wasn't just a businessman, but a skilled overseer with a discerning and critical eye. And mediocrity would never slip past him. Well, now it was paying off. He was hot. Becoming. Emerging. Verging on enormity. Fight back the rest, Allyn thought. Fight back the part that begins with the words Yes but at the expense of . . . She loved him. She knew what he was, but she loved him. She would tell him and maybe they would celebrate his potential new job by getting into bed now and making love. It had been weeks.

  David paced back and forth across Allyn's tiny office.

  "I love you," Allyn said.

  "Ben told me he's going to write a contract that'll blind those bastards, it'll be so dazzling. But he thinks they'll buy it. They want me." His eyes were dancing. He hadn't heard her.

  "And I want you, too," she said.

  This time he did.

  "Ahhh, honey," he said, taking her in his arms. "I wouldn't be anywhere without my sweet wife and my little daughter Mandy."

  "Thank you, darling," she said. She recognized those words. She'd heard them before. They were part of his never-used-but-often-rehearsed Oscar acceptance speech.

  "Let's go to bed, David," she said. Why, she wondered, was she trying to seduce him when he was so uninterested? So obviously into his own moment. Maybe so she'd feel more as if she were a part of the high he was on.

  "Naah," he said distractedly. "You go ahead. I want to do some reading."

  He gave her a pat on the arm and ran back downstairs.

  For the next few days it seemed as if David was either out somewhere at a meeting or, when he finally arrived home at night, exhausted. He would stand in front of the refrigerator, forage for leftovers, then close himself into his den and get on the phone. Sometimes Allyn would walk past the den and stand at the door, hoping David couldn't tell that she was there, and that maybe she'd overhear a part of his conversations. "Stock options" was a phrase she heard repeatedly. "Control." He said that one a lot. Sometimes with the word "creative" in front of it. Must have full Creative Control.

  Eventually she
would tiptoe away and go upstairs and try to fall asleep without staring at the light on the phone under the seven eight three number. By the time she woke up in the morning, David would be gone for the day. And the only clue that he'd actually slept in the bed with her was the rumpled sheet on the other side.

  Allyn would get up, feed Mandy breakfast, give instructions in broken Spanish to Berta, the housekeeper, and sit down and try to work.

  Work. Was she kidding herself about the goddamned work? Ever since the day she left Hemisphere and stopped getting a steady paycheck, it didn't feel right to call the writing she was doing at home her work. She tried to make it seem more like real work by setting up an office for herself in the new house. A desk. A lamp. A filing cabinet. A perma-plaqued picture of the cast of her TV show on TV Guide, which had been signed to her by each of them, and a perma-plaqued eight-by-ten picture of herself with Jay Masters, the star of the show. But perma plaques couldn't cure the crippling feeling she had about writing a script. The way when she finally got herself to sit down, to ignore the chores in the house that suddenly seemed very important, she couldn't get herself to write. She started countless times, and filled her wastebasket with crumpled pages that always sounded pitifully sophomoric and made her furious at herself. Why couldn't she just be happy being Amanda's mommy? Happy as the lady of this beautiful Brentwood house? Mrs. Kane. Wife of producer David Kane, and now maybe studio head David Kane. My God. There was a time not so long ago when that would have been the answer to her every prayer. A time when having a husband and a child was all she wanted. Phil Gruber. Allyn smiled. She hadn't thought of him in a very long time. About two years ago, Allyn's mother had told her on the phone that she was going to have her eyes checked. She went to Phil Gruber.

  "Divorced," she told Allyn.

  It was amazing to Allyn that simply by the way she had spoken that one word, her mother had managed to convey, not only the information that Phil Gruber was divorced, but also the message you-should-be-glad-you didn't-end-up-with-him-because-he-couldn't-even-stay-married, as well as her opinion of people who got divorces, which was that they were failures.