by Joe Keenan
He raised his glass in a toast.
“To partnership!”
We toasted limply, then Claire said, “So, your script...?”
He wagged a cheerful finger. “ Our script! Don’t forget that— especially when we meet Bobby. That’s tomorrow at two by the way.”
“As we’re supposed to have cowritten it, perhaps you might tell us a bit about it?”
“Happy to!” said Gilbert, refilling my glass. “It’s basically a good old-fashioned love story, but funny, with strong suspense elements and — oh look! I think your room’s ready!”
I turned and saw the desk clerk crossing the lobby toward us. Gilbert rose then, glancing at his watch, bugged his eyes like the bad high school actor he once was.
“Gosh, I’d better run if I’m going to get home and make myself pretty. Dress up, kids! We’re going to the hottest place in town. I’ll pick you up at eight!”
“Perhaps,” suggested Claire, “you might bring along a copy of ‘our’ script?”
“Good idea! I can’t wait for you to read it!”
And with that he left, walking, we agreed, a touch briskly for a boy with nothing to hide.
TEN MINUTES LATER CLAIRE and I sat nibbling from the complimentary fruit plate in my large, sunny suite while dissecting Gilbert’s story, which was, we concurred, fishier than last week’s seviche.
“He says he wrote it in three weeks?!” snorted Claire. “As if he could finish a letter in that time!”
Most preposterous of all, we agreed, was his assertion that, having hit the Hollywood jackpot, he’d decided in a ft of altruism to give two-thirds of his winnings to us. This was just goofy talk. It was not often that Gilbert came into money, and when he did philanthropy was not his first impulse. Gilbert, as a rule, used money the way women use pepper spray; he liked having some handy but only produced it when physically threatened. If he was sharing the wealth now there could be only one reason: he needed us. The question was why, or rather why both of us when he could have flown just me out and only parted with half the take? We donned our deerstalkers and sifted the evidence.
A mere ten seconds later Claire smiled and said, “I’ll tell you why our names are on that script, ducky.”
“Why?”
“Because we wrote it.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard his description—romance, intrigue, comedy. Sounds more than a bit like our own Mrs. McManus, doesn’t it?”
She referred to our first and to date only screenplay. It was a jaunty housewife-gets-mixed-up-with-spies caper that we’d written “for” Julia Roberts, hoping to get it to her through a connection too humiliatingly tenuous to relate here. Claire asked if I’d given Gilbert a copy, and I said I’d not only given him one but, seeking to save on paper, had e-mailed it to him. If he’d brought his laptop, he could easily have printed a copy for Bobby.
“Well, there you are,” said Claire. “He needed a spec to win the job so he borrowed ours. Probably considered stealing it outright. But then he realized he could never deliver the goods on his own, so he cut us in, making it sound like some big, munificent gesture.”
“The little skunk!”
“Mark my words, dear, when he shows up here tonight there’ll be no sign of ‘our’ script. He’ll have forgotten it.”
“So what do we do?” I asked. “Break out the thumbscrews and force a confession?”
“Oh, no,” said Claire, with a devious smile. “Let’s play along for a while. It’ll be fun watching him tap-dance.”
Perhaps it was the champagne or the golden light shining through the bougainvillea outside the window, but we found it hard to muster much indignation over Gilbert’s skulduggery. Yes it was larcenous, shifty, and unethical —in short, thoroughly Gilbertian—but unlike his previous schemes, which had shattered our nerves and shortened our fingernails, this one had landed us in a suite at the Chateau Marmont with a lucrative film deal. And how cheering it was too to find that our poor neglected screenplay had at last been recognized as the corker that it was.
“Just think,” marveled Claire, “all this time we thought it was just moldering away in a drawer. But no, the plucky little dear was out there in the world, winning us fame and treasure.”
“I always believed in that script.”
“Me too. A touch formulaic in spots, but still —”
“Damn funny.”
“The scene in the embassy —”
“Priceless.”
I gazed thoughtfully out at the pretty houses dotting the hillside.
“Do you suppose Bobby knows Julia?”
OUR PLAGIARISM THEORY WAS briefly shaken when Gilbert arrived on schedule bearing two manila envelopes.
“Oh, good,” I said, baffled, “you brought the scripts.”
“No, these are copies of the book we’re adapting. Oh, damn!” he cried, literally smiting his forehead, “I knew I forgot something! Well anyway, it’s much more important that you read the book before we talk to Bobby. If he mentions our script, just smile and accept the compliment.”
“Oh,” said Claire dryly, “I think we can manage that.”
We drove down the Sunset Strip, Gilbert boasting all the way about Bobby’s enthusiasm and the “buzz” he’d created around us. You might suppose Claire and I would have quickly tired of being played for such saps, but we actually sort of enjoyed it. Gilbert may be a con man, but he’s one of the dreamy Harold Hill variety who tend to get lost in their own fictions. He so enjoyed playing our heroic benefactor that not playing along would have seemed somehow churlish, like refusing to clap for Tinkerbell.
We soon reached our destination, a restaurant called BU after the initials of its celebrated chef, Brian Urban. Its luster has since dimmed but at the time it was fiercely embraced by that sector of the industry who don’t much care what they eat but are deeply concerned about where and with whom they are seen eating it. They cherished BU for the drama of its circular dining room and for its ruthless exclusivity.
As we entered the spare gray foyer, I was uncomfortably aware how dated my threadbare Armani was. Maître d’s can, of course, smell fear, and this one, who appeared to have been hired chiefly for his unsettling resemblance to a hawk, seemed to peg us instantly as gatecrashers.
“Yes?” he inquired coldly, his perfectly manicured fingers tapping on his lectern as though itching to activate the Nonentity Chute. Gilbert couldn’t help smirking, for he knew what was in his holster. He savored the hawk’s imperious stare for a moment, then, adopting that gently reproving tone with which diplomats correct the gaucheries of their subordinates, said, “I’m Gilbert Selwyn and these are my guests. We’re with Max Mandelbaum’s party.”
The hawk blinked, then, switching personalities with unembarrassed rapidity, became our best friend.
“Of course!” he said. “So glad you could join us. Right this way.”
The main room had an austere, Zenlike feel to it. Practically everything in it—the bar, walls, and tables—was made from thick frosted glass, and my first impression was that I’d wandered into the home of an affluent Buddhist Eskimo. It was undeniably stylish though, especially the way various sections of the floor were lit from beneath, a sensible feature, I supposed, in a town that spent so much on shoes. Our guide steered us through a sea of celebrity to a booth that was smack in the center of the far wall and slightly larger than the rest.
“Don’t gawk,” scolded Gilbert as a square-jawed waiter materialized to take our drink orders. Our request for martinis was interrupted by a loud jubilant voice that pierced the room’s low conversational hum and turned every famous head in the place.
“There they are! Hey, kids! Sorry we’re late!”
Gilbert’s mother, Maddie, stood atop the curved steps leading into the room, looking, as always, smashing and preposterously young. Next to her, his arm proudly encircling her waist, stood an obese but immaculately dressed man of seventy. His shaved head and lack of any discernible neck made him lo
ok like a prosperous retired wrestler. This was Max Mandelbaum.
As they navigated toward us, every table they passed paid some sort of homage, a wave, a smile, a greeting. I hadn’t realized how firmly Maddie had established herself among the town’s power crowd. It was nice to see that her manner among them was marked by the same breezy good cheer I’d seen her display in far less exalted company.
“Peter, I loved your column today . . . Jack, you scamp, we haven’t seen you since the Lakers game. Who’s this, your granddaughter?”
When they reached our table we rose and Maddie gave us all big loud kisses.
“Mwah! Philip, honey! And Claire! Don’t you both look fantastic? Is this a kick or what, us all being together out here? Max!” she bellowed cheerfully. “Quit schmoozing and come over here!”
Max bade farewell to Jack and waddled over to our table.
“Max, I’d like you to meet Philip and Claire. Kids, this is my wonderful fancé, Max. Isn’t he adorable?”
“Adorable” wasn’t the first word that leaped to mind in describing a man whose body seemed designed for the sole purpose of thwarting stranglers, but we smiled and said yes, he certainly cut a dashing figure. Max let out a raspy laugh, being a mogul who liked his cigars. “You’re good liars — you’ll go far in this town!”
“Oh, drinks!” said Maddie, spotting our approaching waiter. “What a good idea! Now, remember, hon, the doctor said just one.”
“He didn’t say how big it could be!”
Maddie giggled and pinched his cheek. “I swear, Max Mandelbaum—to you the whole world is just one big loophole!”
In describing Maddie to you earlier I fear I placed undue emphasis on her somewhat spotty intellect and not enough on her abundant and contagious joie de vivre. You can’t spend five minutes with her without feeling you’ve been thrust into a big Broadway musical. And I don’t mean one of those nobly intentioned pop operas where choruses of stern-faced sequinphobes crusade against poverty and injustice and humor — I mean one of those peppy fifties shows where strangers form spontaneous conga lines on the subway. This ebullience, combined with what might more charitably be termed her “refreshing simplicity,” has long made her catnip to men whose lives, though amply supplied with power and stress, are sorely lacking in fun. They meet Maddie and are instantly intrigued by her comely face and infectious Gracie Allen giggle. After ten minutes they’re thinking, “Jeez, this dame lives in a world of her own.” After twenty they’re thinking, “How do I get in?”
Her naïveté, which can border at times on coma, is another trait that endears her to the sort of man for whom shrewdness in a wife is no asset. Her previous husband was a noted mafioso; noted, that is, by all except Maddie, who never questioned his claim that he was an importer with many accident-prone friends. Her tendency to view everyone and everything in the kindest possible light had not deserted her even in this most notoriously cutthroat of towns. Her rose-colored lenses were more firmly in place than ever.
“You kids are gonna love it here! The people are so damned nice! Everyone I’ve met — oh, hiya, handsome! I’ll have a sidecar and Max wants a Sapphire martini in his usual glass, the one with the diving board—everyone I’ve met has gone out of their way to make me feel welcome, taking me to lunch, inviting me to their houses. They say Disneyland’s the friendliest place on earth. Forget it—it’s Beverly Hills.”
I smiled at her innocence. It would never occur to Maddie that the welcome she’d enjoyed owed everything to her status as Max’s consort and would promptly vanish if he withdrew his affection. Fortunately for Maddie, there seemed little chance of that. The old boy was smitten with her, and small wonder when you compared her to the vixen from whom he’d recently disentangled himself.
“How long have you been together?” asked Claire.
“Five months,” said Max. “She’s completely changed my life.”
“I don’t know if you heard,” said Maddie, “but Max went through kind of a messy divorce last year. His wife was—well, I hate to speak ill of people —”
“Feel free!” croaked Max.
“She was sort of a stinker. I mean when you have a man like Max at home, you don’t go tramping around with polo players.”
“And junkies,” prompted Max. “Don’t forget the junkie!”
“Of course when he married her he didn’t know she was a hussy. It’s like me and Tony. It never crossed my mind he was a gangster!” She sighed philosophically. “But that’s what happens when you’re in love. You overlook things.”
“So,” said Max, switching gears. “Your script!”
“Have you read it?” asked Claire.
“I only wish I had time to read!” said Max. “But Bobby raved about it.”
“You must be so proud to have written something that good,” said Maddie.
“Oh, we are,” said Claire, coyly draping an arm around Gilbert. “We think it’s our best work so far.”
“Bobby said it had some of the best dialogue he’s read in years.”
“No kidding?” I grinned. Part of me knew it was no great honor to have one’s dialogue praised by a man whose films teemed with lines like “That meteor picked the wrong dude to mess with!” and “Uncle Sam, one. Allah... zip!” But another part couldn’t help conceding that Bobby was, after all, a canny showman and perhaps more astute than I’d given him credit for.
Noting a certain widening of Gilbert’s eyes, I turned and saw our waiter heading toward us along with a sidecar, a very large martini, and Sir Anthony Hopkins.
“Forgive my intruding,” said Sir Anthony.
“Tony, hon!” said Maddie.
“I just wanted to tell you both how much I enjoyed your extravagantly beautiful party.”
Maddie explained to us that Max had turned seventy last month and had marked the occasion with a “shindig” the lavishness of which had dazzled even the town’s most jaded partygoers. Max, noting our star-struck gazes, leaped in to make introductions, explaining that we were writing a picture for Bobby Spellman.
Sir Anthony, who, like all of us, has bills to pay, said he’d once done a picture for Bobby and asked us to say hello for him when next we met. I said I would and Tony (for I felt I knew him well enough now to call him that) shook our hands, said how nice it had been to meet us, and withdrew.
Having spent the previous afternoon schlepping envelopes and getting the fish-eye from receptionists, I found this encounter indescribably pleasant. I wondered how I might work it into the letter I planned to write Charlie O’Donnell telling him how nice it had been to bump into him while researching my screenplay about outdoor messengers.
As it turned out the evening would hold no shortage of such glittering encounters with which to enliven my future correspondence. Sir Tony was not the only luminary at BU that night who’d attended Max’s fete. Several others present had been there as well, and they all trickled over to say what fun they’d had. Some, like my new pal Tony, did so purely out of politeness, though others voiced their thanks a shade too audibly, clearly keen to let the room know they’d been invited. I didn’t care what brought them over so long as Max, after accepting their tributes, waved a meaty hand toward us and said, “I’d like you to meet Maddie’s son and his fellow geniuses.”
“You see?” said Maddie. “What’d I tell you? The people here are just so damned nice.”
Though I’d smirked at this assertion at the evening’s outset, the martinis and chardonnay had sharpened my insight and I saw now how right she was. Viewed from our cozy table at BU, Hollywood really was a remarkably friendly town, a sunny Prada-clad Mayberry with a heart as big as an IMAX screen.
Claire, ever the staunch realist, tried for a while to maintain perspective. She enjoyed the parade of ring-kissers but she knew that spending your first night in LA at Max Mandelbaum’s table was like first glimpsing Rome from the popemobile. At some point, though— I suspect it was after Alec Baldwin kissed her hand—she stopped fighting and surrendered
to the same star-drunk euphoria to which Gilbert and I had succumbed immediately and without struggle.
As the glamorati came and went we kept exchanging furtive glances of delight, our minds racing with the same intoxicating thought. We were in! Arrived! Players! Not for us the hardscrabble life of the wannabe. All the things we’d pined for but feared we’d never possess would now be ours! Careers! Recognition! Respect! Gardeners!
We contained our exhilaration through dinner, comporting ourselves with a cheery nonchalance meant to suggest that we were (don’t ask how) accustomed to such evenings. But once we left and were whizzing home in Gilbert’s convertible we were free at last to carry on like the drunk, giddy mooncalves we’d become.
“Gawd,” crowed Gilbert. “And to think I practically had to beg you to come out here!”
“All right, all right!” I laughed. “We’ll never doubt you again.”
“What a night!” said Claire.
“That back there?” sniffed Gilbert. “That was nothing! Do you have any idea how big we’re going to be? How much money we’re going to make?”
“None, if you don’t slow down!” said Claire.
“Millions!” he said. “Tens of millions!”
And with that he launched into an exuberant rewrite of Bernstein’s famed “New York, New York.”
“LA, LA! A wonderful town! The skies are blue and the people are brown!”
Inspiration failed him and Claire rushed in with “You waltz right in and they hand you a crown!”
We finished together, Claire providing the harmony.
“LA, LAAAAA! It’s a wonderful towwwwwn!”
I ESCORTED CLAIRE TO her room and as we entered her phone rang. Claire regarded it warily. She’d left the number on her New York machine but it was now after two there. She answered and immediately grimaced, leaving no doubt who the caller was.
“Marco,” she said brightly. “How lovely to hear from you.”
