Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army

by Steven Paul Leiva

  “More important, how did I know you named yourself after that song? Your real name is Iphigeneia Venizelos. You come from the island of Corfu, the only daughter of a fig farmer. You went to Athens as a young woman with pretensions of rising high, pretensions that caused you to imply to any one of interest that you were of a stock somewhat higher than peasant. You renamed yourself Lydia, after a song in an old Marx Brothers movie, and chose Corfu because, I suppose, you can take the girl out the island but you can’t take the island out of the girl?”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “I paid close attention in school when they taught us how to do research.”

  “So? What? You’re applying for a position as an investigative reporter on my station?”

  “There’s a rumor starting to circulate that you’re planning to make a bid for Olympic Pictures in Hollywood.”

  “What?” She was genuinely stunned.

  “Makes sense in a way. Olympic was founded by a Greek, and it’s now in the hands of the very cold Swedes who are trying to unload it.”

  “I have not thought of Olympic Pictures since the time they passed on a brilliant film I wanted to make.”

  “Not Noontime Nightmare?” I said with a certain mock umbrage. “How many groins did you kick in that one?”

  Lydia Corfu took her coat off again, threw it on Hamo’s desk, and sat down, then, very opened faced, she smiled at me. It was an amazing face. Beautiful in the way a woman can be beautiful and a girl never can. She had black, thick, bold eyebrows that arched over black marble eyes that picked up and reflected all available light. Her nose was strong and long and no nonsense. Her cheeks were high and full of color. Her lips were full, sensual, painted in a subtle, natural red. Her teeth were even and white. Her hair was thick and long, although now piled on her head and pinned in place. It was black, mostly, but with shameless individual and discrete strands of gray throughout. There was something very sexy about those strands of gray flowing in a black sea. She was officially forty-three years old. I decided it was no standard female-actress lie. This is a woman who would look grand at ninety and take every possible credit for it.

  “Tell me, this rumor, how did it get started?”

  “I started it.”

  “And do you have the billion dollars I would need to buy Olympic? Because as rich as I deserve to be, I do not.”

  “So you are aware of the situation with Olympic?”

  “I am aware of everything!”

  “I know the feeling. If you had a billion dollars, would you want to buy Olympic?”

  Lydia looked up into a heaven of her own design. She smiled again. “I could do much with it.”

  “You own the most successful TV station in Greece.”

  “Yes, I am very big in Greece. I am a star, a celebrity, a national icon.”

  “But…?”

  “You are obviously a man who understands the human soul. I deserve the world, and all I have is a once glorious corner of it. It satisfies on alternate Tuesdays. Otherwise, I am unfulfilled.” She leaned in my direction and shot her black marbles at me. “What have you got to fill me with?”

  I took a moment to successfully run the obstacle course of possible answers, then explained the story of Bea Cherbourg and how her employment at Olympic had lead to her death. I talked about Sara Hutton, who Lydia had never met, but knew much about. I detailed the history and assumed involvement of Maxwellton James and she seemed genuinely shocked that such a person would become involved with Hollywood in any way other than as a drug supplier. When I told her of the Communion of the Golden Arse and what exactly I thought it was all about, what I assumed was its raison d’être, she not only understood, she applauded.

  “I will be truthful. It is sad about this Bea, but I do not necessarily see this Communion of the Golden Arse as evil.”

  “Yes, I thought you might not.”

  “Nefarious perhaps and uniquely well thought out, but not necessarily evil. I might well want to join this Communion of the Golden Arse myself. Sincerely!”

  “Yes, I thought you might, and it is that sincerity that’s key to my plan.”

  “Your plan? Why should I subscribe to your plan?”

  “Because of what I can offer you. Although we will portray you—and backup that portrait—as someone able to marshal the billion dollars plus it would take to buy Olympic, it will be a fake. We cannot offer you Olympic. I am, though, determined to destroy the Communion of the Golden Arse and—”

  “Why?” She again challenged, quickly and fiercely. It demanded an answer, but the answer was complex—complex in its simplicity.

  “Because I choose to. Choice is freedom. I am a free man.”

  “Oh, and I thought maybe you had been in love with this girl Bea.”

  “I hardly knew her.”

  “Love can happen in an instant. Although lust is more likely.” She had caused a crack, and she knew it. “You know, no one has answered my first question. Who the hell are you? Not lawyers. Obviously not government, as this seems a personal vendetta. Organized crime? No. I do not see that in your eyes. Yet you are not casual in what you are doing, I mean, you are not amateurs. This is most fascinating. You are most fascinating. Even beyond your, ‘Rugged good looks.’ Answer my question, cowboy, and we can continue to talk.”

  “For those who need to address me, I am called Fixxer.”

  “Fixer?” She asked with no hint of real wonder or surprise in her voice. “Just that? Not, Bob Fixer, or, Joe Fixer?”

  “No. Just, Fixxer. With two Xs”

  “With two Xs?” She smiled, chuckled, and shook her head. “Boys!”

  “Will be boys—yes. Mystery has its advantages.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to tell a woman that!”

  Had I made a mistake? A part of me, a several million year old part of me, wanted to walk away, traverse the savannas of the Great Rift Valley and find some other female, big of breast but with a more compliant will. Another part, though, the part that could laugh at more than just the misfortunes of others, wanted to start all over, to take another tact—but it was too late for that.

  “Maybe we should concentrate on the advantages to you in this endeavor,” I said.

  “Ah, but I was trying to get at the advantages to you. I’ve heard of you, of course, Fixxer! I think I once threatened somebody with you. I had to; my lawyer was out of town, but I thought you were like Santa Claus. The one who knows when you were naughty, not the one who knows when you are nice.”

  It became obvious that I had to tell her something that would fit within her sentiment of rationally. “I eventually will reap great reward for this endeavor.”

  “Filthy lucre?”

  “The filthiest.”

  “Good. Now that I know what kind of man I am dealing with, what are you offering me?”

  “Despite any attraction you might have to the Communion of the Golden Arse, I think you would agree with me what a damn silly enterprise it is. Even outside of it having caused the death of a young woman, who, as fragile as she may have been, had no business skipping out of the joys and pains of a full life. Now, if the sophisticated likes of you and me can see the absurdity, how do you think the general population would react? Especially given the death of Bea Cherbourg. Depending on how well the media milks it, it could even be scandalous. Which could make it potent commercial stuff. Help us with my plan, follow my instructions exactly, and I am prepared to give you all the credit for our eventual success. My associates and I never seek publicity. You can have it all, and the celebrity that will come with it, and nothing, as you know Lydia, is as powerful in America as celebrity. Then you just build on it. You produce exclusive reports on the matter and sell them worldwide. More important, you fashion a feature film version. You star as yourself, as Lydia Corfu, crusader for the right. Hollywood would be afraid not to make the movie. If it’s a hit, the Hollywood that once snubbed you will suddenly be yours—for as long as you can keep it charmed.
”

  Lydia Corfu again looked to her heaven. Then she looked back to me as she leaned back in her chair. “Well, I suppose if you can assure me that it will be a designer cloak and a jewel encrusted dagger, I might be interested.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Soft, Not Whipped

  At every decent pub and wine bar in London, shortly after five PM Monday through Friday, crowds of eager drinkers flow in, fill up, and overflow with incredible speed and urgency. It is a phenomenon dictated by the human need for social interaction, the effects of alcohol on bloodstreams uncomfortable without it, and a government-mandated early closing hour. As London is a city that is geographically well-defined by its various professional pursuits, often such establishments will take on the character of the dominant occupation crowding their particular page of the A to Zed. Without, of course, ever losing their essential character as traditional English watering holes.

  In certain pubs and bars in the West End, for example, the walls fairly reek—or smell sweetly, depending on your attitude—of several hundred years of English theatrical tradition, even as their dark wood paneling and posters of shows long gone play host to the modern heirs of that tradition. Men and women of considerable talent and immeasurable pride in their profession who, over pints and G&T’s and French wines and the occasional rebellious glass of California wine, discuss the theater with a certain sense of jaundice awe; mention radio dramas they were not ashamed to have been a part of; complain about the lowering standards of British television, and the near nonexistence of British cinema, and, of course, almost every evening, the whole of Hollywood is disparaged without qualification.

  Just to the northwest, in trendy bars that often gleam from glass and chrome, film, television and radio producers, directors, editors, lighting cameramen, harried executives and legions of young attractive women working their way up, gather in a communal spirit, wave and kiss and shake hands and agree over everything wrong in their industry while they drink hurriedly so they can quickly get back to “it” for some “bloody sod” on their staff did a real “cock-up today” and they’ll have to spend the rest of the evening making it right. And, of course, almost every evening, the whole of Hollywood is disparaged without qualification—while still being eagerly looked to for coproduction coin.

  Then off to the West, by the Inns of Court, barristers, solicitors and judges (and probably the occasional criminal) gather within walls more staid and sober than not, to relax their guards, their guards being a slightly irritating burden to maintain—but, considering they uphold the traditions of English common law, a reasonable one.

  Then, back around the Houses of Parliament, politicians and bureaucrats gather in green lamp shaded rooms of whispers to lubricate compromise—and to try to ignore the existence of the United States of America.

  In the City, dark-suited but happy men and women get together in places such as The Pavilion in Finsbury Circus, places with an innate respect for the Good Life, and speak of little but money while thinking of little but sex. For, unlike theater, which can produce art; film, radio and television, which can produce information and entertainment; law, which can produce justice, and politics which can produce legislation, regulation and confusion, these dark suited men and women produce nothing but wealth—and wealth is sexy. They are happy little warriors having fun watching money move through their computers like digital sperm from one end of the world to another and back again, returning the proud parents of a bundle—of joy. Of course, as Adam Smith had pointed out, the wealth of a nation is far more than just its cash reserves, but that is too arcane for these dark-suited men and women.

  Into this dark-suited and misty (almost everyone was smoking) island of joy, the sudden appearance of stark white fur, and the flash entrance of quilted and spotted purple as Lydia Corfu took off that fur, made an impact not undesirable to my immediate goals. We were noticed by everybody. Which caused a minute slowing of agitated drinking and a momentary diminution of decibels. Once all was normal again, we made our way through the crowd, noise and smoke to a large booth Hamo had assured us would be reserved, even though The Pavilion did not take reservations.

  It was a neat trick: The group from Hamo’s office, which had been occupying the booth, quickly downed their drinks, said their good-byes and vacated just as we were in claiming distance.

  “Very nice,” I said to Hamo.

  “English accommodation is the best in the world.”

  “I’ll recommend you to my friends.”

  “Thank you, sir. It has been my pleasure.”

  Roee, Lydia and I sat as Hamo, uncomfortable in the coat and tie I had insisted he wear, went to the bar to order our drinks and to talk to the management. Lydia was already in the role, laughing at Roee’s witticisms and telling me that she thought my report had been slightly sloppy but adequate. She called us rather loudly by our names of “Henderson” and “Pinsker.” Her unique frequency of voice just added to the spectrum.

  Hamo returned with a pint for himself, Bordeaux for Roee, a vodka tonic for me, and scotch rocks for Lydia. He also brought a big bowl of peanuts, which Lydia attacked voraciously, which surprised me. Although it shouldn’t have, for she wasn’t smoking, a pertinent fact: a European woman of power not smoking? Ah—she was trying to quit. After that reflection, I turned to Hamo. He nodded his head—just slightly. This was the signal that the management had confirmed that the party in the booth just next to us was indeed from Leatherbarrow & Boyle, Ltd., the investment bank that Sara Hutton had secretly (or so she had thought) contracted to quietly search out possible international financing for her management bid to buy Olympic Pictures. What I knew, and Sara Hutton didn’t, was that Leatherbarrow and Boyle had “come a cropper” finding few interested institutions willing to back her. They hadn’t told her yet. They were still commiserating among themselves over the loss of fees, probably at that very moment.

  It was my turn to nod, which I did to Lydia. In an amazing demonstration of quick study memory, she launched into the script.

  “So,” she raised her glass, “here’s to Olympic Pictures, and its return to Greek ownership.”

  Roee and I both looked concerned. I began to speak in a cautionary way. “Well, actually, Ms. Corfu, as you know, George Pangalos was an American citizen.”

  “A Greek is always a Greek!” she declared and dismissed. “Besides, today the whole world is practically American. We are all practically American citizens.”

  “Ah,” a very uptight “Pinsker” felt compelled to point out, “spiritually, or something, that may be the case, but legally—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s why you want me to keep this Sara Hutton.”

  “Unless you pull a Engstrand or a Murdoch and become an American citizen,” Roee put on the table.

  “That I cannot do. My husband is very patriotic. He is still upset about the ascendancy of Rome. He would divorce me.”

  “Do you love him that much?” I asked.

  “Ahaa, he satisfies me on alternate Tuesdays, but let’s be honest, as Humbolt, Henderson and Pinsker have pointed out to me more than once—he is my collateral.”

  “So,” Roee reiterated, “backing Sara Hutton’s management bid, letting her side retain majority control so as to comply with FCC rules, allows Olympic Pictures to eventually buy one of the American TV networks. That will then give you an incredible basis for a global media company. Films, television, cable, satellite. All delivering company generated and controlled product. Then you have it all. The medium, the message—”

  “And the ability to massage it in,” I said finishing the point.

  “First, explain to me again how I control Sara Hutton if Sara Hutton controls the company.”

  “Ms. Corfu, there’s an old American saying: He who controls the purse strings… Believe me, no one else in the financial community is going to back this woman. You’ll give her what she wants today and control the cash flow tomorrow. As for your profits, the salary and bonuses we
will negotiate for you will more than make up for any loss on paper. After all, it will not be a public company. Scrutiny will be at a minimum. It will be your company in all but paperwork name. Furthermore, don’t discount Sara Hutton’s abilities. She has known success, and, on another hand, we hear from one of our sources that she has attitudes you might find yourself comfortable to be around.”

  “Attitudes?”

  “Of a somewhat—social/economic bent.”

  “Okay. So, when do we make the approach?”

  “When we get to Los Angeles I will call her. I will set up a meeting.”

  “Good.”

  Lydia looked down at the bowl. It was empty. “Hamo?” she smiled sweetly at our quiet friend. “Would you be the dear lamb I know you are, and get me some more peanuts?”

  *

  Were we overheard? According to Hamo’s friend in management, the Leatherbarrow & Boyle group got the message. Their own conversation had ceased twice. Once when we had entered and made our way towards them, boldly claiming the neighboring booth (I confirmed that. I had made a quick scan of them when we passed), and then, later, when the cumulative effect of the words Corfu; Henderson; Pinsker; Hutton and Olympic had had their effect and one of the L&B group hushed the others and they all strained to hear. After we had left, that one, a Robert Pye, had made a not so discreet inquiry of the management as to our identities. As he had been well paid to do, the management was happy to inform him of our particulars, “Henderson” and “Pinsker” being old customers of The Pavilion, especially in the heady days of the “Greed is Good” Eighties. “Haven’t seen them much lately, though,” he lamented.

  All this we learned by a report the management gave Hamo over his cell phone as we took a limo to Southwark by way of the flamboyantly Victorian Tower Bridge. We were heading towards a new posh and trendy restaurant on the bankside of the Thames, known for its wonderful night view of this bridge, all lit up and shouting: London! Which is usually why tourists mistake it for London Bridge, which it is not—London Bridge, the utilitarian-only bridge just to the West, is about as flamboyant as a plank over a creek.