My Lucky Star

by Joe Keenan

  I felt as though my stomach had just been invaded by several dozen hummingbirds, all waving sparklers. What had that meant? Was it a come-on? A tease? A joke? Should I acknowledge it? How?! A wink was too obvious, but a little squeeze or a well-chosen double entendre might—

  “Stephen!” cried Gilbert, hip checking me aside, “I can’t wait to get started!”

  Stephen released my hand (Reluctantly? Surely reluctantly?) and shook Gilbert’s. I moved on, first to Gina, who pecked me on both cheeks ( her I got a kiss from!), and then to Diana.

  “I’m so pleased,” she said, adopting once more her plummy thanks-for-the-statuette voice. “I’m sure you’ll do a marvelous job.”

  “I can’t tell you how excited we are to be working with you.”

  “Please. It is we who are excited. Such a thrill to discover fresh talent.”

  Then, as if it were the most inconsequential afterthought, she added, “Oh, and that other business? With my sister...?”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Do that.”

  Eight

  AS WE DROVE BACK TO THE Chateau Marmont in the glorious midday sunshine, our mood was so jubilant that I chose at first not to dampen it by chiding Gilbert for his ill-judged and nearly ruinous bargaining tactics. But his long-winded odes to his own deftness, combined with his somewhat perfunctory acknowledgment of my vastly more pivotal contribution, compelled me finally to speak.

  “Just do me a favor, genius, and don’t play hardball with them again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Putting the screws on them. They didn’t like it.”

  “What do you think got us the job?”

  I voiced my opinion that they’d been only moments away from offering us the job in gratitude for my daring and brilliance and that his cheeky maneuver had come perilously close to derailing the whole thing. His reply was a cascade of merrily derisive laughter.

  “Poor naive Philip! Do you really suppose they would have just given us the job? Out of the goodness of their hearts? If that was your plan it’s a damn good thing I was there!”

  The problem with my scenario, he explained condescendingly, was its failure to take into account the stars’ notorious egomania and stinginess. Diana in particular was renowned for possessing a sense of entitlement that made Faye Dunaway look like a Carmelite. Many were the stylists, decorators, and couturiers who’d been confounded by her apparent conviction that to garb, feed, or in any way assist her was so heady an honor as to require no additional compensation.

  “You heard her bitching about that dumb painting—how pissed she was that they asked her to pay for it! She’s like the fucking queen. She doesn’t expect to pay for anything. Including us spying for her.”

  “Us?”

  “Trust me, as far as she was concerned, it was thrill enough for us to be doing a Great Star’s dirty work. It was up to me to make it clear, in my usual diplomatic fashion, that we either got what we came for or it was no dice. And say what you like, sweetie, it worked.”

  “All right,” I countered, “maybe Diana’s a self-important old skinflint, but I still think Stephen would’ve come through for us.”

  “Oh, puhleeeze! Just because you’re in love with him —”

  “I’m not in love with him.”

  “Of course you are. I am, you are, everyone is. And if I thought there was the tiniest chance I might get me some Stephen, trust me, I’d be all over it. But I don’t because a.) that’s not a closet he’s in, it’s a goddamn bunker and b.) I don’t think he likes me. If you want to dream the impossible dream, be my guest, but jeez, try to be a little more subtle. If you’d drooled any more they’d have billed us for the carpet.”

  I had no intention of discussing my feelings for Stephen with a lad who lacked the purity of heart to comprehend them. I changed the subject, allowing that Gilbert’s coercion may have been a necessary evil and that it was perhaps the combination of gentler and tougher approaches that had won the day.

  “Exactly. It was the classic maneuver,” said Gilbert. “The old good writer, bad writer.”

  With this I declined to argue.

  CLAIRE TOOK THE NEWS like a Frisbee to the head, gaping at us in pained astonishment.

  “ Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Nope!” said Gilbert, lolling smugly on her couch. “We’re in, toots.”

  “But, I don’t—! I mean, it’s . . . how?” she sputtered. “We just hit it off,” I said. “We liked them, they liked us, they liked our take on the book — which by the way isn’t half so bad as we’ve been making it out to be.”

  “I am not hearing this.”

  “I mean it. The writing may be clunky, but hearing Stephen talk about it I was actually sort of moved.”

  “He’s in love with him!” stage-whispered Gilbert, fluttering his eyelashes.

  “Obviously,” sighed Claire. She sank miserably into a chair and glared at us, for she knew what was coming next.

  “May I remind you —?” began Gilbert.

  “No you may not! I know perfectly well what I said.”

  “Vowed,” he corrected.

  She turned a flinty eye toward me. “They actually hired us? I mean they said those words, ‘You’re hired’?”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  Her stare became flintier.

  “And there’s nothing you’re not telling me?” she inquired with unnerving shrewdness. “Nothing you’re deliberately leaving out?”

  “Of course not,” I said, struggling not to avert my eyes from her javelin gaze.

  Gilbert and I had agreed it would be imprudent to inform her about my dual chores as scriptwriter and undercover biographer. Though we felt sure that Claire, given her (for once conveniently) rigid scruples, would honor her promise, we knew she’d be doing so with the utmost reluctance. If we confessed we’d only won the job by consenting to perform nefarious extracurricular chores, she’d seize on this loophole, declare that her promise applied only if the job were won solely on merit, and wriggle away.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Oh for God’s sake, honey,” huffed Gilbert. “A week ago you were starving in a crummy little apartment, crying your eyes out over Hairy Potter. Now you’re in the lap of luxury, making a fortune to write for the biggest names in Hollywood! This town’s crawling with people who’d fricassee their firstborn to be where you are, so jeez, lighten up!”

  Claire replied hotly that she doubted she’d inspire much envy once our Casablanca ruse became public, forcing her to abandon her career as a writer/composer to pursue one as a defendant/punchline. Gilbert assured her there was not the slightest danger of anyone else reading Imbroglio, as the sole copy was safely in his possession. Claire countered that even if no one else read it, Bobby knew the plot and might describe it to the wrong person, which, in this instance, meant just about anyone.

  “You worry too much!” reasoned Gilbert. “There’s only one script of ours anyone’s going to be talking about and that’s the four-hankie Oscar winner we’re going to write next, baby!” And yes, he actually said “baby.”

  Claire was unconvinced. She raged. She cajoled. She prophesied doom. She jeered openly at Gilbert’s writing ability, hoping to goad him into “Fine! Who needs ya!” territory, but all to no avail. She knew as well as we that in the end, one thing alone mattered. She had given her word, and where Claire was concerned, that, poor darling, was that.

  IT WASN’T LONG BEFORE we received our first lesson in the politics of writing for megastars. As Gilbert and I were trying to cheer Claire up with another chorus of “For She’s a Jolly Good Hostage,” my cell rang. A British accented woman informed me she was calling on behalf of Sonia Powers, who wished to meet with us at our earliest possible convenience.

  This was not welcome news. Sonia, you may recall, ran the PR firm that handled Stephen and Diana. She was widely famed as a dictatorial, paranoid gatekeeper who demanded
and got full approval on all client interviews and photos and who, when crossed in even the mildest way, hunted down and destroyed the offender with an implacable resolve once thought confined to homicidal cyborgs. I did not look forward to meeting her.

  “Are you available today?” asked her henchlady.

  “Today?”

  “Yes. I know your partner Ms. Simmons is ill but if you and Mr. Selwyn could come, say, around three? It’s very important that she see you.” It seemed best to get it over with, so I said we could manage and scribbled down an address on Wilshire Boulevard.

  Given Ms. Powers’s well-known mania for power and secrecy, I’d expected her stronghold to be a cold, fortresslike place patrolled by grim, tunic-clad minions, all eerily silent thanks to the mandatory tongue-ectomies. I was surprised to enter a reception room done in a country farmhouse style so homey you could practically smell the pie baking. We were duly watered, then led to an equally cozy office with overstuffed furniture upholstered in floral silks and a bowl of sunflowers on the coffee table. The sole uncheerful object in the room was its occupant, who sat behind a rustic oak desk eyeing us with the disgruntled pugnacity of a woman wondering who threw the snowball.

  As a dutiful show queen I had long been aware that the great Ethel Merman was once married quite briefly to Marty Oscar-winner Ernest Borgnine. Never before meeting Ms. Powers had I paused to wonder if the union had produced issue. A burly woman somewhere north of forty, Sonia had Mom’s big hair and brassy, cocksure manner, but her face owed more to Dad than was entirely fortunate. When I voiced this later to Gilbert, he said he saw my point but that his own thoughts had run more toward Shrek in whiteface.

  “Have a seat,” she said, indicating two chairs in front of her desk. The voice was low and gruff, with a raspy adenoidal quality as though she’d spent years smoking through her nose.

  Gilbert, attempting the same burbling courtier routine that had so disarmed Diana, said, “Hello, Ms. Powers! I’m Gilbert Selwyn and this is my partner, Phil Cavanaugh. What a tremendous pleasure it is for us to meet you.”

  The look she shot him amply conveyed her contempt at his belief that such tactics would cut any ice with her.

  “Like hell it’s a pleasure. No one enjoys meeting me. And that’s just how I like it. It’s how I know I’m doing my job. Heard a lot about you boys.”

  “All positive, I hope?” simpered Gilbert.

  “I hear you’re smart. Also pushy. But who isn’t out here?” She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing to a dangerous squint. “But now you’re working for Diana Malenfant and Stephen Donato. And that’s different from working for anyone else. You know why?”

  “Because they have you?” I ventured.

  “Bingo. You are smart. So I’ll only need to say this once...Do not ever — ever! —try to fuck with my clients. You understand me?”

  “We wouldn’t dream of it!” I said.

  “We admire them!”

  She snickered unpleasantly and waved a dismissive paw.

  “Save it. You’re ambitious kids, right?”

  “Well . . .” I demurred.

  “You’d better be. It’s the only reason I’m trusting you.”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Wildly ambitious!”

  “Sammy Glick, c’est nous! ”

  “You want this job to lead to more jobs? You want to be in this business a long time, make lots of money?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Good. That’s why I’m willing to believe you’ll be nice, smart boys and not do anything stupid.”

  She leaned back in her chair and eyed us warily.

  “Which one of you’s ghosting the book?”

  I raised a timid hand.

  “The woman you’ll be writing for... Lily.” She spat the name out was an escargot that had somehow survived the sauté pan. “You’re gonna hear a lot of stuff from her. All bullshit. Pure malicious invention. She’s a vindictive lunatic and I’ve spent my life dreading the day she’d decide to commit her alcohol-induced fantasies to paper. And the fucking brother’s even worse.”

  “Brother?”

  “Monty,” she said, pronouncing the name with contemptuous feyness. It was the sole display of femininity we would ever see from her.

  “He’s a total fucking degenerate. Lily lives with him, or rather off him. You are not to believe one damn thing you hear from either of them. And if you repeat a word of it—” She jabbed a plump unlovely finger at me. “ One! Single! Word! to anyone except me, Diana, or Stephen, you will pay the most horrible price you can imagine. No, the most horrible price I can imagine, which, trust me, is worse. We clear on that, precious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “We won’t breathe a word,” vowed Gilbert.

  “I know you won’t. ’Cause you’re signing these.”

  She tossed some documents across the desk at us.

  “Confidentiality agreements. There’s one for your partner too.”

  We examined the documents, which ran to eight single-spaced pages. In brief we were forbidden to divulge to anyone whomsoever any “confidential information” regarding the stars, their families, or their associates. The more I read the clearer it became that the phrase “confidential information” was redundant, as the contract did not concede there to exist any information concerning the stars that was not confidential.

  The agreement, whose author was inordinately fond of the phrase “including but not limited to,” stated repeatedly that any disclosure we might make regarding the stars’ statements, appearance, or activities of any nature would cause them “irreparable damage.” While it allowed that such damage was difficult to quantify monetarily, it did not shrink from attempting to. It placed a modest $50,000 tariff on secrets divulged to individuals but upped the toll well into the millions if a disclosure hit the media. This seemed a bit steep, given the agreement’s rather expansive definition of “confidential information.” Never mind sexual kinks or drug use — we could be bled dry for saying they drank milk out of the carton.

  “Goodness,” said Gilbert, slogging through page three, “they do like their privacy, don’t they?”

  “Take your time reading. I want ’em signed before you leave.”

  Gilbert, never one to look before leaping, shrugged and signed two copies. I exhaled and followed suit, reasoning that even were I to find a clause to which I objected, the odds of Sonia agreeing to strike it were nil.

  She collected her copies, then, reaching behind the desk, produced a shopping bag filled with videocassettes. The tapes, she informed me, were from Diana’s private collection and represented a comprehensive survey of Lily’s film and TV work. I’d need to study them if I was to pass myself off as an ardent fan. She then handed me an envelope containing $5,000 in cash, my bribe for Lily’s manager. I took the cash and the tapes, vowing to spend the days ahead transforming myself into the nation’s leading Lily Malenfant scholar.

  “Just out of curiosity,” I said, rising, “what happens if it turns out Lily already has a ghostwriter?”

  She just stared at me with a “Who farted?” sort of look, clearly nonplussed by my idiocy.

  “You have to ask? ”

  I PHONED LOU PERLMUTTER from the car. Since Philip Cavanaugh the rising young screenwriter would shortly become a well-known associate of Stephen Donato’s, I used a false name, identifying myself as Mr. Glen DeWitt. I begged for an audience, saying I wished to be of service to one of his clients. Was he free for a drink at six? He said what about five and we agreed to meet at the Coronet Pub on La Cienega.

  Having subjected you to the charms of Sonia Powers I’ll spare you the equally repellent Mr. Perlmutter. Suffice it to say that the hour I spent pondering the most tactful way to offer a bribe proved wasted as he demanded one within seconds of grasping that I wanted something from him. He’d have fared better had he waited for my bid, as his own price was a mere tenth of what I’d been authorized to offer. On receiving the cash he phoned Lily an
d said he’d found her an ideal ghostwriter, claiming with an agent’s casual mendacity to have been searching tirelessly for one all week. (“You know me —always looking out for my best girl!”) The writer, he said, was a brilliant young author and as worshipful an admirer as she could hope to meet. (“Thinks you’re the goddamn Queen of Sheba!”) Even I, seated across the table, could hear the enthralled “Really?!” that greeted this. When Lou hung up he informed me that Lily was eager to meet me—rather too eager in fact. She was expecting me at her home at eleven the next morning.

  Lacking even the slightest acquaintance with her films, I’d hoped to have more time before trying to pass myself off as her Boswell. I was about to ask Lou to call back and reschedule when it occurred to me how dazzled Stephen would be by the speed with which I’d delivered on my promise. “Who,” he’d ask in wonder, “is this dauntless young man who has so swiftly scaled the gates of mine enemy?” I resolved to keep the appointment even if it meant subjecting myself to an all-night Lilython.

  I returned to the Chateau, stopping en route at Book Soup, where I found several books to assist me in my research. I then retired to my room, ordered up a burger, and emptied the bag of cassettes onto the bed.

  I’ve no wish to tax the reader with a detailed survey of the cinema of Lily Malenfant. Most of you will have gathered from the films I’ve already mentioned the general tone and quality of her oeuvre. Those seeking a more in-depth account should study the two excellent books I purchased: Naomi Lawrence’s The Siren in the Alley: Transgressive Female Sexuality in American Film 1940–1960 and Chip Winkle’s Even THEY Forget Their Names! Those Fabulous B-Stars! Permit me, though, to briefly describe a few of the films that unspooled before my glazed and disbelieving eyes, if only to make clear the challenge I faced in having to feign admiration for them.