“Candles in the rain?” asked Griffin.
“Under their umbrellas. The umbrellas are glowing like Japanese lanterns.”
“That’s nice,” said Griffin. “That’s a beautiful image. I’ve never seen that. It’s good.”
Oakley settled a bit in his seat and picked up his drink. He looked at it, considered a sip, and then put the drink down. “Okay, we’re inside one of the cars, and there’s a demonstrator blocking the way, a black woman, a real matron, you know from looking at her that she’s a good person. This isn’t some kind of wild riot, it’s very sober. The driver of the car is ready to nudge her with the bumper, but the guy in the backseat tells him not to. Then the woman sees the guy in the backseat, and he lowers his window. They look at each other. Then the car goes in. All right, it’s the night of an execution, and the guy we’re with is the D.A., who’s won the brilliant prosecution of a difficult case and is sending a retarded black nineteen-year-old to the gas chamber. He believes in the law, the crime was awful, there was no question the kid committed it, and now he’s paying the ultimate penalty. Which is, by the way, one of the working titles. Ultimate Penalty. Anyway, we see the execution entirely through the expression on the D.A.’s face, we hear the sounds of the doors being closed, all the atmosphere stuff, but watch the man responsible for this execution. It’s his first. And he doesn’t like it. Everyone congratulates him on a job well done, but he hates himself. And on the way out of the prison, he sees the mother in a hearse, leaving with the boy’s coffin. At that moment he vows that the next time he sends someone to the gas chamber, they’ll be rich, they’ll have the best attorney in the state, and he’s going to make sure the law is applied evenly. He wants to balance the scales.” Now Oakley took a drink.
Civella watched Griffin. “Not bad for a setup, is it?”
“You know it’s strong. But it’s easy to start strong. Where does it go? I want to hear the story.”
“We cut from the D.A. to a wealthy couple in Bel Air, and they’re fighting. It’s the rainstorm, the same bad weather that they’ve got at the prison. They go out into the night, he drives away in a fit, she should go with him but doesn’t, doesn’t want to, there’s a witness to the fight, maybe the kids, this part isn’t all worked out yet, and then he spins out on a road, and the car goes down a ravine, into a storm drain, and he’s drowned with the car, and his body is carried away by the current. When the car is examined, the police find that it’s been tampered with, and suddenly it’s a murder case, and the D.A. decides to go for the big one on this and put this woman in the gas chamber.”
“In twenty-five words or less,” said Griffin, “what is the story?”
“Come on,” said Civella, “give us a break. We’re professionals, you have to hear it all.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t have to hear any of it.”
“Then forget about it,” said Civella. “I have relationships all over town, and I know ten people who’ll sit for the whole pitch. I can think of two who’d give us a commitment based on what you’ve already heard. You’ve heard enough, is it yes or no?”
“Call your relationships and ask them if they’ll buy a pitch that’s only a first act.”
“Stop fighting,” said Oakley. “I can do it. I’ll get right to the third act. First of all, this is a procedural story, and we see a jury deliberating, a D.A. preparing his case, a woman on trial. Of course he wins, and of course she gets the death sentence. While the appeals are running out, something starts to nag the D.A. The body’s never been found, that’s why the case is so tough, he’s sending a wealthy white woman with the best lawyers in the country to her death and he doesn’t have a body. And then, the day before the execution is scheduled, he finds out the husband is alive. And now he has to get the husband, and then get a stay of execution. And to make a long story short, the final scene is: The D.A. breaking into the prison, running down death row and blasting out the windows of the gas chamber after the gas has been released. And at the end of the movie the husband is arrested for attempted murder, and when they ask the D.A. what the weapon was going to be, he says, ‘The State of California.’”
Oakley sat far back in the booth and finished his drink, pleased with himself.
“That’s more than twenty-five words,” said Griffin.
“Griffin, goddamn it, it’s brilliant,” said the manager. “You know that this is a breakout picture.”
He didn’t know that, no, he didn’t know that at all, but he didn’t want to tell them. It was the kind of moral thriller that would appeal to Larry Levy, even to Levison, and if Levy wanted to wrestle with a story that had no second act, and no credible chance for a love story between the D.A. and the accused woman, Griffin would happily let him assume the responsibility.
“Who’s going to write it,” asked Griffin. “You?”
Oakley spread his hands in a small arc of supplication. “It’s my idea.”
“We should get somebody else.”
“It’s his story, Griffin, come on, give him first crack,” said Civella.
“It’ll cost us too much money. We’ll need a rewrite. Don’t tell me we won’t. You’re a wonderful director, Tom, but Levison won’t trust you. He’ll want someone with a little more heat on him. I’m not saying you won’t get story credit, but I am saying that I have to tell you that he didn’t like your last film. And I wouldn’t tell you that unless I was serious about this story. It has a chance.”
“We had a lot of problems,” said Oakley. Griffin wished he had blamed himself for some of them. “But this is my idea. I started as a writer. I wrote three plays for the BBC. I can do this one.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, make a list of top writers you know and can work with.”
Civella was about to argue, but Oakley shot him a look to keep quiet.
Griffin excused himself to go to the bathroom. He liked the story, he wasn’t sure about the director. Oakley had good ideas and a nice haircut, and he was awfully fun to be with, but after his first movie his style had changed. His casting choices had been weak; it was okay to stay away from movie stars for the sake of balance in the picture, but his ensembles were soft. He worked hard, but his composition and camera angles were uninspired. Griffin would commit to a first draft written by Oakley only if he didn’t own the turnaround. It would be hard to beat him on that, but if he held out, the director might cave in. He’d still have points even if he didn’t direct it. It was worth a try. He’d give Civella a list of five writers.
When he got back to the table, Civella handed him a postcard of the hotel.
“What’s this?” Griffin asked.
“The maître d’ said, ‘A gentleman asked me to give this to Mr. Mill.’” Civella looked disappointed that Griffin hadn’t smiled at the impersonation. “What’s the deal, it’s a blank postcard.”
“Invisible ink,” said Oakley. “Invisible ink. That’s a good phrase, isn’t it? It would make a good title for something, don’t you think?”
Griffin nodded, turning the card over in his hand.
“Title,” said Civella, “we forgot to tell you the title. It’s Habeas Corpus. Habeas Corpus, is that a great title or what?”
“Go for it,” said Griffin.
“I don’t like Invisible Ink,” said Civella. “It sounds too much like the title on a development deal script. It’s the kind of title you see on scripts that get paid for but never made. It’s not a movie title.”
Oakley took the postcard from Griffin. “What’s this about?”
“It’s a signal from the person I was supposed to meet here tonight. He’s telling me that the reason he couldn’t have drinks with me was that he’s getting laid.”
“All that on a blank card?” asked Oakley.
“We understand each other.”
“You see,” said Oakley, “this proves what I’ve believed for a long time, that karma is really just coincidence. We’re hanging around the hotel with no parties to go to, bored, looking
for mischief. You come into the hotel with a purpose. Your friend makes one small change in his night’s plans, and now a movie is going to get made, and we’re all going to be rich.”
“I’m already rich,” said Civella.
“And the agent of all this happiness is …” said Oakley.
“Griffin’s friend?” asked Civella.
“No. The woman he’s in bed with.”
Griffin felt himself light-years away from the men at his table. “I have to be up early. Call me at the studio.”
“Is this real?” Oakley asked.
“Yes,” said Griffin, and he dropped two twenties on the table. “Buy yourselves another round.”
“You don’t want the receipt?” asked Civella.
“You keep it.”
On the way out, he asked the maître d’ if he’d recognized the person who gave him the postcard.
“I did not see him. I’m sorry, Mr. Mill. One of the bellboys gave me the card. Do you want to speak to him?”
The bellboy would describe someone who could be anybody. “No,” said Griffin, “I know who it is. Thanks.” He wasn’t sure why, but he slipped five dollars into the maître d’s hand. How much money did the Writer give the bellboy? Two dollars?
Griffin gave away another two dollars when the valet brought his car to the front. The Writer was watching him, he knew it. He was either in the lobby, which Griffin couldn’t see because of a crowd waiting for their cars, or he was down the driveway, in the darkness, standing in the cover of the hotel’s jungle, or he was parked in his car, waiting to follow. Maybe he’ll kill me now, Griffin thought. Maybe he has a gun and he’ll pull alongside me at a stoplight and shoot me. Maybe he’ll force me to go faster and faster up the canyon, trying to spin me out of control, into a tree.
Instead of turning west on Sunset, toward Beverly Glen, Griffin drove south toward Beverly Hills. There were headlights in the rearview mirror, one set that left the hotel at the same time he did, and a few more that joined him at the signal. At the next cross street, in a block of large houses, he made a left without warning, and then drove halfway down the block, to the alley and made another left, into the alley, back toward Sunset.
There were lights behind him. Would the police follow a Mercedes if it turned up an alley? These houses didn’t have garage entrances in the back anymore. If he drove quickly, and the car following was the police, he would be stopped. He knew he was shaky. If the police started asking him routine questions, they’d smell the two drinks he’d had and he didn’t want to risk an arrest. He dimmed the dashboard light so the glow wouldn’t betray his outline to the driver. No reason to be an even better target. He drove at what he thought was a safe shortcut speed, not so slow that he’d be mistaken for someone looking for unlocked gates. Sunset Boulevard was ahead, the traffic at a lull between two red lights. The tail car slowed down, two houses back, and Griffin checked his own speed, so as not to fall into the police’s trap.
The two cars stayed at this crawl for the rest of the alley; the traffic on Sunset surged again when the lights turned green. Griffin couldn’t burst into the flow, he needed a gap. Now, closer to the brightness of the boulevard, he saw the outline of the car behind him. It was not a police car. The driver reached out, and Griffin saw the gun as it went off. The back window of his car exploded, and there was an interesting delay before the windshield blew out, a section of time in which the bullet was in the car with him, a passenger. Small chunks of broken glass fell from the back of Griffin’s head into his collar and annoyed his neck.
For a few seconds neither car moved. Griffin knew that the Writer, frightened by what he had done, was waiting to see if Griffin had been hit. Griffin leaned forward, imagined that he might pass for dead. He pressed the gas pedal to the floor and entered the traffic on Sunset, thinking clearly, proud of that focus. He had been shot at, and instead of collapsing in fear, he had acted quickly; he was now free of a man with a gun, a man who had shot at him, who had tried to kill him. If Kahane had been this strong, thought Griffin, he would have defended himself, he would have beaten me up, or escaped from me and perhaps have run to the police and had me arrested.
The Writer did not follow. Was he crying? Was he blowing his own brains out? Griffin hoped so, but then realized that the Writer’s apartment would be searched if he killed himself, and would yield a treasure of unsent postcards, drafts of completed cards, and a diary with lurid entries about Griffin Mill. The Beverly Hills police would visit him, and if no one else put it together, Walter Stuckel would see the parallel between the writer murdered after Griffin had seen him, and the writer who killed himself after a secret correspondence with Griffin.
And here they were, two police cars and a private security company car coming from the east on Sunset. There were more driving north on Rexford, sirens hysterical. Griffin drove east and made a U-turn back toward the alley. He needed to see if they’d caught the Writer. That would be horrible, too, the Writer alive, with a recently fired gun in his car, and an alley filled with broken glass. What would he say? None of your business? They’d put the Writer under psychiatric observation for a few days if he didn’t tell them who he was shooting at, and if he did, they’d lock him up and provide Griffin with a guard in case a sharp lawyer got him released. Until the arrest they’d alert all hospitals and emergency rooms to watch for gunshot wounds.
Griffin drove slowly past the alley. The police were out of their cars; a helicopter circled overhead, throwing a hot, white beacon on the scene, as bright as a klieg light at a premiere. The Writer was gone. A man in a dressing gown, the owner of one of the houses, talked to a cop who held a notebook. No one had seen anything, of course, and even with the evidence of the broken glass, there was nothing any one official could do. They’ll say it was a mob fight and wait for a body to show up at an airport parking lot in the trunk of a stolen Chevrolet. Or would they know that the glass belonged to a Mercedes?
Griffin turned up Benedict Canyon, in case a police car saw his shattered windows, and headed for home through the back roads between Beverly Hills and Bel Air. He was glad the Writer was free. It was better to live with the threat of assassination than with the Writer in jail and his obsession with Griffin exposed.
The wind inside the car was pleasant, like an island vacation, the ride at night in the jeep from the humid airport to the resort, passing the soldiers with machine guns, when an easy vacation has the feel of adventure. He was away from the Writer, and he turned on the radio. He scanned the dial for an electric guitar. The Eagles were almost right; “Hotel California” reminded him of why he’d moved to Los Angeles, and his early years in town, parties in the hills, drugs, the poignant consciousness of the speed of his success reflected in the self-pity of slower friends. He didn’t want the sound of the past. Then he found Van Halen in the middle of the dial. Music to fill an arena, party music for sixty thousand losers. The guitar kept rising higher; was it only an illusion of mastery, a cheap vaudeville, or was it real virtuosity, did it need to be loud to be good? He turned up the volume, and the wind sucked the music out the empty space behind him. He liked taunting the mansions with his noisy wake. If only he could be a guy who makes eighteen thousand dollars a year and lives in someplace unspecific, a town that was like a lot of other towns, where he could be an auto-parts supply-house manager, with a big belly and a truck, dirty ashtrays on the coffee table, a girlfriend with a rose tattoo on her left breast, friends who break into empty summer houses, a long-haired prole who knows that all the power of the universe is here now, because God manifests himself in electric guitars. He wished he could remember riding a bike down a steep hill, arms outstretched, the rush of air, the potential for disaster.
He’d bring the car to a body shop and have the glass replaced tomorrow. With both windows blown out, they’d know what happened. Griffin would tell them a convincing lie.
Not a rose tattoo. Maybe a little map of Texas, or a snake, or a jungle animal. A jet fighter attacking (protec
ting?) her nipple. The unexpected.
Eight
He had been shot at, almost killed, but after his windows were fixed, he couldn’t believe that the Writer had ever stalked him. One day he thought he was being followed again, and he took a taxi home from work, but he had to take three cabs that night, to dinner, to a screening, and then home, and another to the studio in the morning. He went back to driving his car the next day.
Danny Ross called at around five the day after Griffin had been shot at. Jan told him that Ross was on the line, and she said his name doubtfully; he must have told her he was returning Griffin’s call, but she knew better than to let someone through using that line, it was an obvious trick. Griffin told her to put the writer through.
“Danny Ross!” said Griffin cheerfully.
“Yes, you called?” Ross sounded hesitant.
“When can you come in?”
“For what?”
“I’ve been thinking about you. You’re a talented guy. I’m sorry we couldn’t work on that last idea, and I want to hear what else you’ve got. Or read whatever you’ve got.”
“What idea?”
“The idea you pitched last October.”
“I never pitched to you.”
“I’m usually the one who forgets.” What was Ross talking about?
“No. We were supposed to have a meeting, but you canceled in the morning, I think you had to go to New York. Something like that. And then you never rescheduled.”
Griffin looked at Jan’s calendar. Ross was right. He had flown to New York to see a play that Levison was interested in, and Jan hadn’t crossed out Ross’s appointment in the book. Ross’s appointment had been on a Friday, Griffin was in the office again on Monday. Just keep plowing on, thought Griffin.
“Well, Danny,” he said, “you’ve got a good reputation, people talk about you. I heard your name recently, and I remembered it, and I guess I just got confused. When can you come in?”
The Player Page 9
