Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army

by Steven Paul Leiva

  “I don’t want to wait that long.” She looked back up at me. “I want to hurt her now. Mike said that that’s the kind of stuff that you do.”

  “Mike doesn’t really know what I do. He only knows what he thinks I do.”

  “So, you don’t…?”

  “I fix things, Bea. Problems people run into in their careers and lives in Hollywood. Sometimes the problems are due to their own stupidity, greed or hubris. On occasion, they are due to harm being done to them by other people’s stupidity, greed, or hubris. Every now and then they are just perceived problems standing in the way of wish fulfillment. Those I handle on a case-by-case basis after due consideration of the potential outcome and the potential profit. Those are the cases I charge the most for.”

  “And you charge…?”

  “A lot. It is always, from anyone’s perspective, a lot.”

  “So I can’t afford you?”

  “It’s unlikely that you could, but, more germane to our discussion is the fact that there is nothing here to fix.”

  The shock on her face went from insult to injury in something just less than a flash. There are two great desires of each human ego: to be recognized in its uniqueness, and to be taken seriously. The second is, of course, essential for the first to be a recognition of honor, something for the mantelpiece. These two desires are easily self-fulfilled—too easily—but the desires are never truly satiated until others fulfill them. The struggle to make others come around is every human story, from the child desperate for a parent’s regard, to a mass murderer crying out from the middle of the mass, to a star personality from entertainment, sports or politics knowing just how to work the public. It’s not just an old story; it’s the oldest story, yet each one of us somehow thinks it is just his story. Bea Cherbourg had gotten herself so worked up over her private injuries, her private injustice; it was a blow for her to see that I did not share her outrage.

  She took her glasses off and wiped the half tears—the only ones she was obviously willing to allow—away from the corners of her eyes. “Okay,” she said in acceptance, but with defiance at the edge.

  There was a bit of Miss Jones creeping into my head. A bit of, Why Miss Jones without your glasses you’re…. The mask was away.

  “Look, Bea, what you have to understand is, Hollywood is an all-volunteer army. No one is drafted into the business, and enough has been written about Hollywood that no one should come here without knowing that war is a possibility. It seems to me that you’ve had a fairly charmed basic training. You landed a good studio job without trying. You have one of the most powerful people in the industry willing to mentor you in what has become the second most important business in America. Okay, so there’s some ‘creepy’ elements about her. You can’t really hold that against a person in this town. You were in a good position. There were many people waiting in line for that position if you didn’t want it—and you didn’t. Okay. I admire people who really know what they want. From a great position you took a chance and shifted and won. Sold your first screenplay. There’s another long line at the recruitment office dreaming your life. Then you get buffeted by the process, bumped and bruised, but you had the integrity of character—or the temerity—to say, ‘Hey! Quit rocking the boat!’ The point is, though, it’s their fucking boat. They can rock it all they want, and if you don’t like it, fine, get out—for now. You’re still going to be paid. You’ll most likely get a first position credit. You’ll have a career.”

  “But, my story—”

  “Is not your story anymore, it’s been bought and paid for. Bea, take my suggestion, let them have this one. After all, it’s just movies.”

  She looked at me—deeply—as if she intended me to look away. I did not. Then she put her glasses back on.

  “If I had the money to pay you—”

  “It’s not about my fee. I have worked on commission before. I will, from time to time, make an investment in a person’s potential.”

  “You obviously think I have no potential then.”

  “What I think is that you are too young, too so-much-at-the-beginning to be consumed by hate. You know, anyone who can afford my fee has probably been through periods when they had no recourse to slights big and small. So they learned to take it. Those who could see the—comedy in it all took it a little bit better. They developed hard, thick calluses, not festering sores. Then when the time came when they could ask me to do something about a problem, they did it as a matter of business. With dispassion, not with hate.”

  “That’s the most frightening thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

  “Give it time. It’ll eventually wind up low on your list.”

  *

  I paid the bill and we left the restaurant, walking up to Mike at the cash register of the newsstand.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Bea said. “Your ‘friend’ doused me with reality quite effectively. I will go home and practice grinning and bearing.”

  Mike caught the pain of the comment. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

  “No thank you, Mike. I would really prefer to be alone.”

  Bea Cherbourg turned to me saying nothing at first. Possibly she was trying to memorize the aspects of my face—or allowing me time to memorize hers. “Good-bye,” she suddenly said in a neutral tone, then turned and walked down the street, heading towards Dickens, leaving the full light of the newsstand for the intermittent illumination of street lamps and headlights. I looked after her and noticed for the first time what a fine and shapely body she had, revealed by a well cut and attractive suit. Shame on you! I would have said to myself had I not been enjoying this atavistic attention to my genes.

  “Do you think she’ll be all right?” Mike asked.

  “Mike, I see where the love lies.”

  He was immediately embarrassed. “Hey, you didn’t say—”

  “Of course not. If you are satisfied with the unrequited, I am satisfied for you. I’m just acknowledging the universality of your feelings.”

  “Yeah, fine, but is she going to be all right?”

  “I don’t know, Mike. She’s a romantic and an idealist. That doesn’t bode well. She’s young, that’s a debit. On the other hand, she’s young, and that’s a credit. See how complex it is? The whole thing revolves around whether she’s a survivor or not, and there’s no way to tell that until she’s survived a few setbacks—or not. At least for now, I’ve dissuaded her from getting Old Testament about the situation. As was the request.”

  “Yeah. Thanks—thanks a lot, Fixx. I really, really appreciate it.”

  *

  I drove home wanting to think about the Lapham commission, but I couldn’t get Bea Cherbourg out of my head. I kept wondering if I had, perhaps, presented reality as a little more razor-sharp than it truly is, but I couldn’t find fault with myself. Reality is something I’m possibly too familiar with—in much more than just its Hollywood incarnation. Indeed, one of the appeals of my doing business in this town was the opportunity of avoiding realities far more razor sharp and cutting than this one, with all it’s well worn tinsel, glitter and gold.

  By the time I came to the corner of Beverly Glen and Wilshire, and stopped at the red light prepared to make the left turn towards my building, a Los Angeles high-rise of rare architectural interest, I had convinced myself that it had been a good deed well done.

  Chapter Four

  To Kiss and Make Up

  When I got home, Roee, as instructed, had not gone to bed, and was waiting for me. You have to appreciate what a sacrifice this was on his part. For Roee, going to bed is not just going to bed. It’s when he writes, and so his wont is to “go to bed” fairly early whenever our evenings are not taken up with a commission. Roee is a failed playwright, but that doesn’t stop him from continuing to write. What is failure anyway? The measure of a bank account—or the mismeasure of a man? Roee’s work is abstract, absurd, obtuse, full of veiled references to the Talmud, and completely as
exual. Not destined for the lights of Broadway, but then, such lights Roee would find too harsh as they might reach back and illuminate his past. Something he could not afford to have happen.

  He greeted me in the dining room, sitting at his usual spot, which was set with a place mat and a silver spoon, as, indeed, was mine. Between the two settings was a silver pitcher.

  “How was dinner?” he asked.

  “Absolutely delicious, an excellent high culinary insult to your god.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass that along. How was the rest of the evening?”

  “Have Newsstand Mike report to Norton,” I said as I sat down, “who can pass it along to you. Me, I would rather we talk about the Lapham commission, which, I think is going to be a great deal of fun. Not to mention highly profitable. Now, what am I looking forward to here?” I asked, indicating the set up.

  “Well, since I knew we were going to be up, I made you some peach cobbler. Served with heavy cream, of course.”

  I was delighted. Peach cobbler is one of my favorites. “Well, thank you, Roee. That was sweet of you. It’s that sensitive homosexual side of you, isn’t it?” Of course I was saying this to a man who, in the line of duty, had fairly dispassionately dispatched to their various gods more than a few disrupters of civilized society.

  Roee stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back several feet. “Fixxer, you ever call me sweet again,” he said as his eyes contacted mine, “and I’ll have your guts for garters!” Then he rolled his eyes up and did a dead on impression of Truman Capote. “Nice red ones with a frou-frou of white lace.”

  I laughed, of course. After all, I am the only audience Roee might ever have.

  *

  Roee brought out the peach cobbler, I poured on the heavy cream, I threw my palate into an ecstasy of sweet sensations, then laid out the particulars of the Lapham commission and my basic plan, including Petey’s potential part. Then I went over my needs.

  “By tomorrow we should know when and where Robert Jordan will screen Lapham’s film. My guess is one of the screening rooms in the Tribeca area. He screens films alone, probably, most of the big critics do. Be prepared to fly to New York at a moment’s notice. You’ll need access to the screening room. If you can’t get it through financial means, then use stealth. Be sure to take the Bag O’ Tricks, and check out the night equipment before you go, especially the AN/PVS-4 scope. While in New York, negotiate for and secure the real estate, personnel and equipment we’ll need. We’ll use Michael Slayton, of course, but we’ll fly him in just before the job. Better call tomorrow and make sure he’s not on a film right now. If he is—get him a couple of days off. Who’s our person on the This Day show?”

  “A young PA named Andrea.”

  “Has she been reliable?”

  “She’s only been there three months, but she’s fed us some good stuff.”

  I found it useful to have placed on every network morning show, on the Leno and Letterman shows, and on several of the crews on Entertainment Tonight and the E! Channel, representatives of, shall we say, my interests. These are people with a healthy interest in cash, who keep their eyes and ears open in the green rooms, the makeup rooms, and on location shoots for the little slips of action and information that can come when guests are either too nervous or too relaxed waiting to go on. Little rumors stated, opinions expressed, accusations made when scenes are played out with wives, husbands or lovers. Who has a drug habit? Who subscribes to an offbeat religious or political notion? Who orders the fat sucked out of their trophy wife’s butt? Most of it is frivolous information, but Roee and I dutifully enter it into the data bank in the computer. You never know when circumstances will make the frivolous fortunate information.

  “Have her start taking a full set of photographs. I want every inch of the studio covered. Where is she from?”

  “Ohio. Town called Worthington.”

  “Ah. The kind of place where one can build character.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Tell her to tell them that it’s for mom and dad back in Worthington. Also find out from her Jordan’s schedule of appearances on the show, and when he will be doing his on-air review of Lapham’s film. We obviously gear everything around that date. I think that covers it. Got any questions?”

  “No.”

  “Good. If all goes well—and it will—we’ll take the next day off and relax. Providing Petey gives us a break in the weather. You’ll be able to visit Tom.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “And I can continue my search for Gilgamesh Paul. I think I may have a lead.”

  Roee did not hesitate to display his disapproval. “When are you going to give up your obsession in trying to find that guy?”

  “I wouldn’t call it an obsession. I started something. Now I’m going to finish it.”

  “How much time have you wasted here on it?”

  “He obviously can’t be found in L.A.”

  “So you think you’ll have better luck in New York?”

  “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “No. Why? Gilgamesh Paul is a forgotten man. There is no one left to care for him.”

  “I care.”

  “How can you? You really know nothing about him.”

  “I know what I’ve heard. I’m intrigued. I think he’s a man I would like to spend some time with.”

  “He’s a man from the past.”

  “True, as, in many ways, so am I. Look I’ve never asked you to get involved in this.”

  “Wrong. I had to check out the Santa Barbara lead.”

  “I was down with the flu at the time.”

  “It couldn’t have waited?”

  “The lead was fresh.”

  “And false.”

  “What, you didn’t enjoy the day in Santa Barbara?”

  “Well….”

  “You got back really late.”

  Roee rolled his eyes up. Then smiled. I got up quietly, having decided to leave him with his memories. “Oh, by the way,” he said stopping me.

  “Yes?”

  “Anne Eisley called.”

  “Anne? From Australia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I told her you were out, that we had some business to take care of this evening when you got back, but that you would be available to take a call—” Roee stopped and consulted his watch. The Phone rang. “Just about now. I’ll get it, shall I?”

  “Oh, yes, please do.”

  “Fine. If you’ll but retire to the library, I’ll send the call through.”

  I had not heard from Anne for quite a while. Indeed, until just that moment, I did not expect to ever hear from her again—outside of my monthly commission checks. I had done a job for her a while back, a little Hollywood pest control. Then I asked her aid in another job I was doing, the same one that had introduced us all to the wonders of Veritas. For that job I had a particular use for her extreme beauty. The kind of beauty most men fall in love with upon first sight. Yes, love, not just lust. Lust is a knee jerk reaction—emphasis on the Jerk. After the job we—“Stayed in touch,” is the properly delicate way to put it. It was an amazing time. I couldn’t chronicle it if I wanted to, but it has its own neural net in my brain, which I like to throw out every now and then to capture my imagination.

  The phone rang in the library and I picked it up. “I thought you said you never wanted to talk to me again?”

  “No,” came her voice, thrill inducing waves of perfect pitch, “I said I never wanted to see you again. I’m not seeing you, I’m just hearing you.”

  “So, when you get back to L.A. we can only have phone sex?”

  “I don’t know. What’s your credit card limit?”

  “I’ll hock Roee.”

  There was a sudden quiet on the other end. Except for the breathing that seemed an airy manifestation of thoughts trying to be gathered. “Fixxer, I, uh—I just thought you might like to hear that I’ve missed you.”

  �
�Can’t say I blame you.”

  “Oh, god, you’re infuriating!”

  “Oh, god, you’re enchanting.”

  “You’re insufferable!”

  “And you are indescribably beautiful.”

  “Yes, well, I know, but that’s my trade, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t undersell your acting ability.”

  “Fixxer, I am not the female lead in Return of the Road Warrior because of my acting ability.”

  “I heard you only got the job because you had paid up insurance.”

  She laughed. A little. Then it stopped. “You were not very kind to me when we last saw each other.”

  “I was honest.”

  “Honest? How can you call yourself honest when you have no name, no past, or, at least, won’t reveal them.”

  “Never explain the mystery.”

  “Even to me?”

  “Even to you.”

  “But I, but we—”

  “That’s a condition I can’t help. Nor, I assume from the fact that you called me, can you. We are just going to have to deal with it.”

  “Or not.”

  “Or not.”

  “Good-bye, “Anne said softly.

  “Good-bye.”

  “Sweet dreams,” were her last words before she hung up. I believe it was a sincere sentiment.

  It’s the life I’ve chosen for myself, or maybe the life chosen for me. I try not to dwell on the fine points.

  *

  A week later I met Larry Lapham in his office at 4:45 in the morning.

  “Why are we here so fucking early?” he asked, expressing the pique he had probably been rehearsing since his shower an hour earlier.

  I looked at him for a moment, focusing on his goofy overbite, then orally punctuated the look. “I do not allow my clients to ask questions.”

  “I am paying you a million dollars plus expenses and I can’t ask questions?”

  “Ignoring for a moment that that is another question, I’ll simply state that because you are paying me a million dollars plus expenses you should rest in a wonderful and blissful state of quiet confidence and know that you do not need to ask questions.” I handed him a small slip of paper. “Dial that number and put the call on the speaker. Say nothing. I will do the talking.”