Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army

by Steven Paul Leiva

  “You wanted to befriend rather than be friends.”

  “Yeah. My sights were high. There also seems to be something that, I swear, I never perceived, but my friend says is true. I guess Bobby had homoerotic feelings towards me.”

  “Unrequited love can be sad on several fronts.”

  Lapham ignored that statement and continued. “It all sort of makes sense now, though. For you see, the ironic thing is, I happen to think that Robert Jordan is the finest film critic we have, the finest one in years. Yes, he’s a bit of a showman, but his views are solid, well thought out, and grounded in a love of film. I have rarely disagreed with one of his reviews. Except for those of my films, of course. I was never able to understand why he didn’t appreciate them. I thought I knew his tastes. Hell, I’ll admit having made creative decisions based on what I thought Jordan would like. Most filmmakers won’t admit to that, but, believe me, we are all playing to more than just the audiences.”

  “So you believe Jordan probably really likes your films, but continues to review them poorly out of unresolved adolescent spite.”

  “Yeah—and it really pisses me off. Outside of what he’s doing to me, it’s dishonest.”

  “Dishonest?”

  “I may not be the greatest filmmaker in the world, but I do love film. I have a regard for it.” Having made that clear, Lapham paused. He looked down to his expensive loafers. Then he made his decision. “I would like to have this situation fixed. I would like for Robert Jordan to be found out—in as personally and professionally an embarrassing a manner as possible. I would like him to lose something. I would like him to lose the respect he’s gained. I would like him to lose his credentials and position, but not before he admits that he’s always liked my films. Now that, Mr. Fixxer, is a tall order.”

  “And one not so simple as bribery, blackmail or rough stuff, but far more vicious.”

  “Norton didn’t tell me you were a judgmental person. Nor that you had any right to be.”

  “You’re a fairly humorless man for a comedy filmmaker, Mr. Lapham.”

  “I put it on the screen, Mr. Fixxer.”

  If he wanted to be serious, I decided I would be serious. “A million dollars.”

  His eyes widened just slightly. “You’re kidding?”

  “Plus expenses.”

  “I don’t believe you can help me.” He started to get up.

  “Sit down!” The sharpness of my tone was enough to stop him. He sat. “Don’t ever walk away from a meeting with me. What you want I can give you. It will not be easy, the details will be elaborate, the planning will be precise, and I must have your full cooperation. I can do it for one million dollars plus expenses, a mere fraction, I would guess, from what you will personally realize if you can take Painted Dessert Pictures public at the value you put on it.”

  “I might make fifty-million.”

  “Two percent then.”

  “A bargain, you’re telling me. What guarantee do I have?”

  “You pay nothing until the job is done.”

  “Then what guarantee do you have that I’ll pay once the job is done.”

  “Mr. Larry Lapham, you may have some moral objections to rough stuff. Know that I do not.”

  Chapter Two

  Blues+Jazz

  Lapham agreed. It was too good of a deal to pass up. I explained to him that I already had the bare bones of an idea, but it would take some “feasibility study.” That seemed like a term he would appreciate. From his end I needed the release date of his new film, and when and where Jordan would be screening it for his review. He said he would call the studio publicity people and get the information and pass it on through Norton. I also told him to be prepared to appear on the This Day show to promote the film, and to not bother the studio about it, I would take care of everything.

  “Forget it. We’ve never been able to get a booking on that show. Each time they make up some lame excuse to hand the publicist. Now, of course, it’s understandable. Jordan got me blackballed there.”

  “Really? Maybe I have a way to make the blackball a little less black.”

  *

  When I got down to the Porsche 911 in the garage I got in and sat for a while thinking. Not much in a parking garage to divert your thoughts. There was a large contingent of people I would need for this commission. Not to mention the cooperation of the weather, assuming…

  I started the car and left the garage turning right onto Washington Boulevard then a quick right onto Motor. I decided to drive through Cheviot Hills, a prettier drive than taking Overland. I picked up the phone and called Roee.

  “Talk.” Roee’s standard greeting when he answered The Phone.

  “What’s the weather like in New York right now?”

  “Well, it’s the dead of winter.”

  “Yes…?”

  “Lots of snowstorms—pretty miserable.”

  “Likely to keep up for a couple of weeks?”

  “What are you doing? Running a numbers game based on the weather?”

  “Roee…?”

  “Should I get a Farmer’s Almanac?”

  “How accurate is that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a farmer.”

  “I need something I can rely on.”

  “Fixxer, surely you’ve heard that the weather is something people can talk about but not do much about.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard, but I’ll bet you Petey hasn’t.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll patch you in to him on the scrambler.”

  Petey still worked for the old place near the nation’s capital, and although The Phone is very secure, I could never guarantee that their phones were. Suddenly he was on, speaking in his customary near shout.

  “Fixxer, you old ladykiller!”

  “I thought you said you’d never bring that up again. Besides, I paid the death benefits.”

  “Sure, sure! How are you?!”

  “I’m okay for a man in my condition.”

  “And what condition is that?!”

  “The human condition, Petey, the human condition.”

  “Ha-ha! I fall for that every time!”

  “So how’s the Veritas Bear Rug Program holding up?” Veritas was an invention that could have changed the world, if greed for power and money had not interfered to corrupt it—and I had not interfered to stop the greed. It was an amusing, if extremely dangerous, bit of fixing I had to do. The Veritas computer program was essentially a dream machine—Petey’s favorite dreams were wet ones.

  “Oh, Fixxer, it’s great! Guess who I made love to last night?!”

  “That’s a guess I don’t wish to hazard.”

  “Eleanor Roosevelt!”

  “Eleanor Roosevelt?”

  “Yeah, I mean, I was really trying for Sharon Stone, but I’ve been reading this book on the Roosevelts, and I couldn’t get her out of my head. You know, Fixxer, hey, she wasn’t bad!”

  “Fine. Petey, do you remember—”

  “You know what they say about still waters running deep, as in thro—”

  “Yeah, Petey, that’s just great, but—”

  “I mean there was a certain appeal to her—”

  “Petey—”

  “Of course, it started to get kind of weird when I heard the ever so subtle squeak of a wheelchair—”

  “Petey!”

  “So you need something, right, Fixxer?”

  “How’s the weather back there?”

  “Brutal.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “You can talk! You’re in California! Say, do you need me out there?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Damn! So you called about the weather, so I told you, so good-bye!”

  “Petey, I’m worried that the weather will let up back there in the next couple of weeks.”

  “Boy, you’re just plain mean!”

  “For a particular reason, and on a particular day, I require the worst winter conditions possible—especially in Manhattan. I’d be
willing to have it confined to the West 70’s.”

  “That’s big of ya!”

  “I’m remembering that time in the thaw between East-West relations when our masters didn’t want it to thaw so quickly.”

  “When we had to keep their foreign minister snow bound in Moscow for a day or two?”

  “That’s the time.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “As I remember, you concocted a cloud seeder that was quite a bit better than the normal dry ice or even silver iodide.”

  “Yeah! I called it Super-Seed!” Petey said with justifiable pride.

  “Got some in your stores?”

  “You know, Fixxer, it’s a pollutant.”

  “I only need a little.”

  “And it is only Manhattan, after all.”

  “So if on a particular day, if there is an unwanted break in the weather, would you be able to repair that break?”

  “Assuming there’s enough super-cooled clouds in the sky?”

  “Okay, assuming that.”

  “Well, I could take the day off. Hire a plane. Sure, why not?”

  “And if the weather is already bad, but maybe just this side of brutal?”

  “Then I could make it more that brutal. A real blizzard for the books.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I love to set records. Ten grand for the seed, you pay for the plane, call it five grand for my time.”

  “Okay.”

  “What, you’re not going to negotiate me down?!”

  “I was going to offer 20 and 10. You need to value yourself higher, Petey.”

  “Fixxer, you’re a bastard! A beautiful one, but a bastard nonetheless.”

  “Well—pays the bills. I’ll contact you soon.”

  *

  I got back home at about 5:30, turning the Porsche over to Frank, the Iranian Beverly Hills High School senior on duty in the underground garage.

  “Good evening, Sir,” he said very right and properly to me. “Sir” is the only way the building’s staff can address me. For my name is unknown to them—as it is unknown to everyone except Roee.

  “Good evening, Frank. Have the car washed, I’ve been south of Pico,” I said as I made my way to the elevator bank.

  “Uh…”

  There was a bi-level fear of reprisal in his voice. I stopped. “Yes, Frank?”

  “Uh…”

  “Frank,” I took a few steps back towards him, “‘…How can we regulate events, of which we yet know not whether they will happen? And why should we think, with painful anxiety, about that on which our thoughts can have no influence?’” I enjoy quoting the good doctor from Litchfield.

  “Wh—what?”

  “Speak up, Frank. If I get angry, I get angry, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Whereas, obviously, since you’ve had some courage to even utter your shaking ‘Uh…’ you must feel quite compelled to say something to me.”

  “Mr. Roee told me to keep the car here, as you will probably want to go right out.”

  “Oh, Mr. Roee said that, did he?”

  “Yes, sir. He just called down.”

  “You know Mr. Roee is Jewish?”

  “Uh—yes sir.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He won’t let the building deliver anything to your floor after sunset on Fridays.”

  “Yes, damn inconvenient. The point is, though, you wouldn’t be making this up just to get a Jew into trouble, would you?”

  His eyes went a beautiful fearful. “Uh, no, Sir. Wh—why would I do that?”

  “You’re Iranian.”

  “But I’ve been in America since I was three.”

  “And Islamic.”

  “No, Sir. We’re Presbyterian. Well, at least my parents are. I—I don’t go to church.”

  “So you’re not out gunning for Salman Rushdie?”

  “Who?”

  I smiled. I’m not sure it relieved him. “All right, Frank. Keep the car available.” Then I turned and headed for the elevators.

  I already knew all of these salient points about Frank. I had got him the job in the garage, as I had gotten his older brother, Joe, the same job two years before, although neither knew that. I made a mental note to call his father and scold him for spending too much time away from home lecturing on the good old days under the Shah. It seems Frank needed a little infusion of his cultural identity (sans any prejudices, of course), or he was doomed to become too typically American.

  When I got home, which comprises the whole of the 15th floor in a Westwood high rise on Wilshire Boulevard, Roee was there to greet me as the elevator doors opened.

  “I think you should go out and see Mike.”

  Roee is never much one for the little ceremonies. He just stood there effectively blocking the entrance into my home, his sharp face and the arrow of his dusty red hair seeming to be pointing the way out. “Mike? Mike who?”

  “Newsstand Mike,” he said in his matter-of-fact way.

  “Newsstand Mike? Why should I vacate hearth and home so close to dinner to see Newsstand Mike? If he has any information, just get it from him and pay him.”

  Newsstand Mike worked the Sherman Oaks newsstand on the corner of Van Nuys and Ventura in the Valley. He was one of my “Fonts of Wisdom,” a core group of people whose information, from salacious gossip to cold hard facts (and they are often the same), helps to feed the database in my computer on the people and personalities of Hollywood. “Information” is a bit of a hobby with me. Newsstand Mike might seem an odd font of such information, but he is a showbiz fanatic, nosy, tenacious, and a bit like a bartender to his customers, which include many of the foot soldiers of Hollywood who are usually pissed off about one thing or another, or, more important, one person or another, usually a person more powerful than themselves. Hollywood has the highest per capita percentage of well paid pissers & moaners in America. Washington D.C., of course, holds the overall record for pissers & moaners, but they are not that well paid.

  “It’s not information he has, but a problem,” Roee elaborated.

  “If Mike has a problem that needs my help, he doesn’t have the income to pay for it—so what’s for supper? I believe, this morning, you said something about lamb?”

  “It seems to be a problem a friend of his has.”

  “Does Mike have any friends that could pay my fee?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “It was a new recipe, I think you said.”

  “Fixxer—he’s a valuable resource.”

  “And I pay for that value.”

  “Norton agrees that you should go out.”

  “Oh, Norton does, does he?”

  “Yeah. He had a good long talk with Mike.”

  “A good one?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a long one?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t tell you how impressed I am. Something about a sauce made from crushed pomegranate.”

  “I didn’t make any supper tonight.”

  “You didn’t—”

  “Thinking of Newsstand Mike, I was reminded how much you like the food at Blues+Jazz.”

  “Which is right next door to the newsstand.”

  “You have told me they make an excellent ham dish.”

  “Which you, of course, won’t make for me.”

  “My god is not a forgiving god.”

  “It was good you thought to tell Joe to hold the Porsche.”

  “Forethought is one of my strengths.”

  “And I bless you for it, sir. If anybody should happen to call, I’ll be at Blues+Jazz.” Then I turned around and reentered the elevator. I stopped the doors just before they closed. “Roee?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t go to bed before I get back. We’ve got a lot to talk about on the new commission from Lapham. I want to brief you tonight so you can get started on things early tomorrow.”

  “You’re going to make me suffer, aren’t you?”

  “Y
es,” I smiled a big and, I hoped, wicked smile, “but it will be good for you. Bye.”

  *

  Frank had the Porsche running and ready for me to leap right in, which I did. I quickly got onto Beverly Glen and went over the hill to get to Sherman Oaks. It was a pleasant, clear, L.A. winter evening. A three-day storm had just ended the day before, and it had remained cool and breezy enough to keep the vision impairing particles of pollution from creeping back into our air and our souls. So once I got onto the dark canyon curves of the Glen, the sky was actually there, and nicely black, and what stars could be seen had about as fine a clarity of twinkle as they ever get over L.A. I took Beverly Glen all the way down to Ventura Boulevard, made a left there, then a left onto Van Nuys Boulevard, placing the Porsche right in front of the newsstand on the west side of the street. I parked in the No Parking zone, but I knew Mike would protect the car.

  Mike saw me when I pulled up. I saw him hand over the responsibility of the cash register to one his coworkers as I got out of the car. Mike walked over to me quite nervous, evidenced by the slight tremble of his jaw which wagged his long, gray streaked chin beard. When he got to me he looked up at me and took his dirty Sherman Oaks Newsstand baseball cap off his head. A sign of respect he had never shown me before.

  “Hi, Fixx. Gee, uh, I really want to thank you for coming on out.”

  “I want to thank you for making me miss what I assume was going to be a very lovely lamb dinner.”

  “Fixx—this is important. Other—otherwise I never would have called Mr. Macbeth.”

  This was a Mike I had never seen before. Where was the confident little man always so sure of himself and his facts—the character comfortable with his role in the scheme of things? Mike was the kind of person you never assumed had a personal life, either at home, or even inside his own head. He was one of those people who flowed in and out of your life to give accent to it, the kind of person you never thought about existing except during those times. He stood here now, though, Newsstand Mike, his eyes pleading, nervous, concerned over something. Something “Important.” It seemed I couldn’t help myself. I had to take him seriously.