Blood is Pretty

by Steven Paul Leiva

  “Fr—fraud? No. I wrote it. Just me. Uh—uh—look…” He jumped to a desk drawer, opened it, and pulled out a sealed envelope that had been mailed. “I have this. ” He handed it to me. “I read to do it in a writer’s magazine. It’s the treatment, mailed to myself and left unopened. The postmark establishes…”

  “Only the date that you mailed it. ”

  “Yeah, but…”

  It was dated about a week before he had sent the e-mail to Finch. Not final proof by any stretch. But it was so sincerely what an amateur would do. “Can I keep this?”

  “Oh—sure—yeah. No extra charge. ”

  I chuckled at his little attempt at humor – now we were friends. “Okay. Then I think Mr. Hinckley would be very happy to have me hand you this check. ” I did so. He took it; looked at it a second; then folded it and placed it in his shirt pocket as if it was not much more than the address of a recommended chiropractor. I was still curious. “So, Craig, you truly don’t want a career in Hollywood?” Maybe I had lived in Hollywood too long. Maybe it had become too much the center of not just my universe.

  “No, that’s Dave’s ambition. ”

  “Then why did you write the treatment?”

  “Oh—well—I mean, I like film. We—we all did, Jim, Dave and I. We were movie buddies. Every Saturday matinee we went together as kids. And we talked about film a lot. And Dave kind of got me into it and got me excited and was always talking about writing something together, but—but we never did. But after I was back up here, this idea came up, so I—uh—did it up, and—and I sent it to Dave, you know, because he was saying that he was meeting people in the industry. And, you know, I thought if I could sell it, it would help me, cause, you know, I’m not making a lot of money on the fishing trips, and, so, I thought, if I could just sell it, you know, I would have some money, and—and, hey, it worked. ” He patted his shirt pocket. “But, as to getting—sucked into that world—uh—no. ”

  “Did you get to show the treatment to Andy Rand?”

  “Uh—what? Excuse me?”

  “I believe you were going to see Andy Rand at the creativity conference. ”

  “How—how did you know about that?”

  “Did you give the treatment to Rand? Did you take him fishing?” My guess was that he hadn’t. But if he had, I had the second agreement in my pocket.

  “Uh—no—I didn’t. I mean I was too shy to approach him. ”

  It was an apology. But for far more than the lack of action it referred to. Although inundated with the same film and television images that have made the Man-in-the-Street such a slick commodity, Craig York seemed to be one of those individuals who just couldn’t keep pace with the onward rush of civilized humanity to all be as smooth, well spoken, wise and knowing as the next guy, especially the next guy on camera. It’s not just Warhol’s fifteen minutes of fame. It’s a lifetime of being, “On the Air. ” Craig York had to live on the river, be among nature, dwell inside abstract thoughts. Craig York had to get out of the way of the rush. Otherwise he would be pegged dysfunctional—our modern world’s eighth deadly sin—and be trampled under foot.

  “Okay, Mr. York. Enjoy the money. I imagine the cost of living up here is manageable. Spend it right and it should last you a good long time. ”

  “Oh—yeah—it will be great. I mean this is real isn’t it? It’s not a hoax?”

  “You put that money in the bank, you’ll see how real it is. Also, you put that money in the bank then we have a contract. A contract I expect you to honor. So I truly hope you are repulsed by Hollywood and never want to come near it. For if you ever try to communicate with Paul Hinckley about anything, he will not respond to you. I will. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, yeah. Don’t worry. ”

  “I never worry, Mr. York. Because I master any situation. ” I turned and started to leave.

  “Oh—and—and what was your name?”

  I stopped and turned and looked at Craig York for what I assumed would be the last time. His embarrassed hesitation had never left him. I was not about to let him get comfortable now. “Good Bye, Mr. York,” I simply said, then turned and walked off the houseboat.

  Chapter 5

  Formula 12-72

  Paul Hinckley was one lucky bastard. It’s not everybody who gets to anoint themselves—especially with the blood of such a willing sacrificial lamb. And it could have gone the other way. He could have gotten himself a real bleater.

  But then, if you can’t have talent, you better have luck, because Hollywood is a town that loves luck. Possibly because it is filled with people who either don’t have talent, have just enough talent to be truly dangerous, or who have talent but are so insecure they attribute their success to luck anyway. And then, of course, there are those who just don’t trust luck and strive mightily to make their own, an admirable quality among the talented, but the cause of chaos otherwise.

  Was it worth the half million Hinckley would wind up paying? Certainly.

  If “V” was even half of what he thought it was, he might be able to sell it to a studio for that alone. But, more importantly, if a studio really wants it, given Hinckley’s sometimes success, he could probably negotiate a comfortable back end of gross points from first dollar. Then, if his limited talent didn’t get in the way of the film, and if the film was a huge success, he could wind up realizing 30 million or more in profits. Two big ‘Ifs,’ of course—two big ‘Ifs’ Hinckley wasn’t even considering in his plans.

  I thought these thoughts while I was flying home from Portland munching peanuts. Short commuter flights are the only time I ever munch peanuts. I don’t really like peanuts. I like cashews. You would think the strong competition for the flying dollar would have led the airlines to upgrade to cashews. I began to calculate the cost of maintaining a private jet.

  We had just reached our cruising altitude when the CNN business news came on the various monitors spaced throughout the cabin. At the top was coverage of the resignation of Andy Rand from NewVue Pictures.

  “Filmland wunderkind Andy Rand has shocked Hollywood by resigning as President and CEO of NewVue Pictures, the budding, but hugely successful, entertainment conglomerate founded by Norwegian media mogul, Torvald

  Engstrand. In twelve years, Rand has been able to take NewVue from an upstart foreign film company to a Hollywood studio in the truest and most old fashioned sense of the word: one with an actual physical plant of sound stages, recording studios and post production facilities. Not that Rand and Engstrand have ignored the new-fashioned worlds of cable television and interactive media. It was, everybody in Hollywood thought, the dream job. Everybody, it seems, but Rand. ”

  The well-manicured-French-garden face of the thirty-ish female news anchor was replaced by a shot of Rand at a hotel podium.

  “It has been a great ride, and I am very proud of what Torvald and I have been able to accomplish in these past twelve years. But the time comes when one must reassess his world and his position in it. Therefore I have decided, effective immediately, to resign as president and CEO of NewVue Pictures in order to make such a reassessment. Torvald will take over my duties until such time as he appoints a new president. I leave not without regret, but with an unwavering confidence that excitement and challenge wait for me in the future. Thank you. ”

  Reporters shouted out questions, but Rand made a smooth and quick exit.

  The anchor returned and gave a brief history of Rand, then turned to an entertainment business analyst for punditry. The analyst assumed what I had, that Rand was putting himself on the market with the price tag being power. And that NewVue’s stock would drop.

  “Pork belly futures. ”

  “What?” I said turning to the man in a blue suit who sat next to me. He was a very fat man and I had been contending with his left elbow the whole flight.

  “Business news use to be nothing but reporting on pork belly futures. Now they report on Show Biz. Used to be Show Biz was covered by the same reporters who covered
crime. ”

  “Failed actor?” I asked.

  “Successful salesman. Which is acting on commission. ” He thrust out a big, pudgy hand. “Mac. Mac MaCarthy. Dinosaurs. ”

  “Dinosaurs?”

  “Plastic; stuffed; with flesh; without flesh; build your own; already assembled; battery operated; purely kid powered; realistic; cute. The only thing I don’t carry is life-size, ha-ha-ha! Name and biz?”

  “Bob Hopkins. Dried Fruit. ”

  “Dried fruit?”

  “It lasts. ”

  “I see,” Mac said, looking at me with questions forming. I guess somebody from the exciting world of extinct animals found it hard to relate to a mundane man of dried fruit. But not for want of trying, “Well at least you’re not in Show Biz, where the pandering prostitutes of Hollywood are bringing down our culture and corrupting our morals by spewing out their despicable lowest common denominator entertainment. ”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Personally, I have nothing against lowest common denominator entertainment. ”

  “You don’t!?”

  “Would you rather have the people it entertains bored and on the streets?”

  “Well—uh… ”

  “Don’t answer now. Just think about it. ”

  He took my admonition to heart and went back to his in-flight magazine and an article on “The Top Ten Easy Listening CDs of All Time. ”

  *

  Roee picked me up in the Town Car a good comfortable passenger ride.

  “Roee?”

  “Yes. ”

  “You’re fully certified on jets, right?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Just something I’m giving some thought to. ”

  “If you’re thinking of buying, I can get you a discount. ”

  “What? You have an uncle in wholesale?”

  “Please, Vaudeville does not become you. I just happen to know that my old employer is upgrading and will be putting some used ones on the market. ”

  “Well, I actually wasn’t looking for a fighter. More something to commute in. ”

  “I know what you want, Fixxer. My old employer has diplomats as well as soldiers, you know. Lot of secret shuttle stuff between the Children of Moses and the Devotees of Allah. ”

  “Good buys, huh?”

  “Please! And with my connections I can make sure they don’t strip out the special electronics. ”

  “All right. Make some inquiries. ”

  “Will do. Here. ” He handed me a package. The return address stated: Uncle Al’s Live Spider Farm. “From Petey. ”

  “Oh good. ” Reality suddenly became the face of Anne Eisley. I settled back in my seat and caressed the vision as best as possible. It was at times like this that I wished I could draw. To be able to put pencil to paper and form a beauty your inner vision only tenuously held onto would be a god-like joy.

  “Should I put in a call to Paul Hinckley?”

  I was not happy to have Hinckley upstage Miss Eisley. “What?”

  “I assume the trip was successful?”

  “It was. ”

  “Shouldn’t you inform Hinckley?”

  “I should. But he’s up at his ranch. Let him be anxious for another day.

  Do him good. ”

  Then home for some rest before what I assumed would be at the very least an amusing evening at Anne Eisley’s.

  *

  Anne Eisley had used her TV money well. She had purchased a very secluded, if small, house on Elusive Drive, a private road reached via Lookout Mt. Road off Laurel Canyon Blvd. It had a commanding view of the hills surrounding it that stretched onto a vista that took in slices of the basin. On a clear night the diamonds-on-black velvet feel of L. A. probably made it worth the price. Anne had sent a key to Norton and I told her that when she got back with Crane from their “date,” I would be in her bedroom waiting. She was to offer Crane a drink, get him settled in the living room, and then come into the bedroom to “Get into something more comfortable. ” Although I had requested that she not actually use that cliché. “Don’t worry. I won’t,” she assured me. I got to her house about an hour before she and Crane were due.

  Being alone in someone else’s house can either be uncomfortable or interesting, depending on your nature. Those made uncomfortable are usually those who find the intimate details of another person’s life a bad fit. They are the one’s who always find other people’s tastes, loves and interests unfathomable and—in what surely must be a genetic mishap—insulting. Others—and I count myself among these—can’t pass lighted windows on an evening’s stroll without being deeply curious as to what the occupants have done to make a house a home, and what it might say about them and their personal march, or stumble, through life. Add to that my training and I’m sure you won’t fault me for my casual walk through every room in Miss Eisley’s house, my poking through, and my ruminations.

  The house was wonderfully female in its look, colors and smells. Not in that exaggerated or caricatured manner that some single women adopt, turning their homes into something close to a 17th Century seraglio, but in a subtle manner of simple beauties, pleasing shapes and calm colors, all very well matched, but not regimented. The walls featured very tasteful posters from the world’s leading museums, with a particularly interesting one in her kitchen from the Detroit Museum of Culture announcing an exhibit called “The Automobile in Toys. ” It was bright and colorful and showed a Barbie doll in her pink Cadillac convertible smiling her killer smile and waving to all the happy folks of the 1950’s. It had, intended or not, a nice ironic twist about it. And I was willing to bet that Miss Eisley placed it on her wall understanding that twist completely. That was heartening, for if anybody could claim to have made Barbie’s plastic body flesh, it was Miss Eisley. Barbie was empty-headed, of course, which is to be expected of a doll, whereas Miss Eisley’s head seemed full of thoughts. Some direct, energetic and commanding, others crouching in dark recesses. Not in fear. In waiting.

  Her bathroom was of interest. Besides its mundane functions, it was a staging area for her public “self”—the one she would allow the world to experience. She did not have a jumble of cosmetics cluttering up the counter, but a neat row of one brand, the various matching bottle, jars, and tubes laid out, I would guess, in the order of their use. This was a woman rarely at a loss.

  I settled in her bedroom. It was simple and functional, with a grouping of easy chair and ottoman, a very good floor lamp, and a side table with a stack of magazines and books being more the rationale for the room than the bed itself. Her reading was eclectic. The Hollywood trades, of course, Time Magazine, some fashion magazines, respectfully popular fiction, and Hollywood biographies of strong women who fought the system. Nothing dumb—nothing overly intellectual.

  I heard a car pull up. By the sound of the engine it was a Mercedes SL 500. Two door slams, some laughter, the front door opened.

  “Come on in,” I heard Miss Eisley say.

  “You’re sure it’s not too late for you now? I can go home,” came Crane’s mushy, accent-less voice.

  “Fred, you’ve been chasing my ass long enough that you shouldn’t have to be coaxed. ”

  “That’s what I like about you Anne, you’re very up front. ”

  “And do you like what I have up front?”

  “Sure. It’s not just your ass I’ve been chasing. ”

  “Fred, you’ve been an absolute charmer all evening. ”

  “I’m glad you’ve finally noticed. ”

  “I was a fool, I’ll admit it. ”

  “I suppose I had to get to a certain level of power before you could ‘see’ my charm. ”

  “No, Fred, that was certainly not it. I was—I was in love with someone else. ”

  “And what happened to him?” Crane said with no hiding of his cynicism.

  “He died. ”

  It was a beautiful line reading. Even without being able to see, I knew it sliced through Crane’s guts. And that
he immediately saw an emotional opening he could crawl into.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. ”

  There was an appropriate moment of awkward silence. So much of acting is timing.

  “I can feel your compassion, Fred. Thank you. Maybe later, when we know each other better, I’ll tell you the story. I think I would like to share it with someone. But—but later. ”

  “I’ll always be there for you, Anne. ”

  “I know. But, speaking of stories, I was fascinated by the story of your life. ”

  “Well, it has been interesting. ”

  “And your whole take on this town, and all your plans. Very—very stimulating”

  “I don’t hide my ambitions, Anne. I fully intend to take over this fucking town. So we’re talking about a lot of power and a lot of money. I wouldn’t mind it if you found that attractive. ”

  “Fred, what I find attractive is that even though you talk like a shark—you retain your boyish charm.

  “Yeah. A killer combination, huh?”

  “Would you like a drink? I know you had a lot at dinner, but, you know, one last one. ”

  “One last one would be just fine. ”

  “Good. The bar is right there. Make yourself one. Make one for me, too, whatever you’re having, and let me—”

  “Slip into something more comfortable?”

  “Please, Fred. No clichés. ”

  She entered the bedroom and found me sitting in the chair, a Time magazine open on my lap. She was wearing an attractive dress with a tee-style top, mesh from the cleavage up, form revealing spandex below until a metallic taffeta skirt took over until mid-thigh. She wore dark hose and spike heels. Exactly what you would wear to a very expensive restaurant in the company of a man of power, real or imagined.

  We, of course, had to talk in whispers.

  “This better work,” she said as she tossed a fur coat on the bed. “I’ve had the most boring evening of my life. ”

  “It’ll work,” I said, standing up.

  “Okay, what do you want me to do? You said I had to get intimate with him?”

  “That’s correct. ”

  How intimate?”