Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army

by Steven Paul Leiva

  We sat down to dinner and in hush tones—Lydia was surprisingly good at this—discussed our triumph.

  “As slick as picking figs,” she said—and she would know.

  “Often the disseminating of information is as rewarding as the gathering of it,” I said as I cut into a near perfect rack of lamb.

  “You mean mind-fuck a person?” Lydia asked—or accused?

  “Well….”

  “Not as much fun as a body-fuck, surely,” Hamo slipped in quietly. We all stopped and stared at him.

  “Dissimilar pleasures, to say the least,” Roee finally added.

  “But it was fun!” Lydia declared. “Better than acting. Like acting, of course, but better. The audience as victims!”

  “That’s a positive?” I asked.

  Lydia Corfu smiled, deciding to keep her answer behind the smile. Then she asked, “Okay. Now. What did we buy with our little performance?”

  “Legitimacy. I expect to be contacted by this Robert Pye. Leatherbarrow & Boyle will ask for an invitation to the party. If we give it to them, their good judgment will probably lapse, and they will convince Sara Hutton that we are sincere prospects. We might have been able to do that on our own, but as our sincerity is anything but, good word of mouth can’t hurt. It is, after all, the basis of all marketing.”

  “We do this, why? So we can get invited to this Communion of the Golden Arse?”

  “Can’t get the evidence against them if we don’t.”

  “Is it going to be dangerous? This Max guy…?”

  “Our plan is to get in. Document what we can. See if we can find evidence of Bea Cherbourg having been there, and of her fate. Then we get out. You then take the material and use it as you see fit.”

  “Good plan, but….”

  “Yes, things don’t always go according to plan. There is potential for violence, but I seriously doubt it.”

  “Well, if it comes to it, I have used many types of weapons.”

  “In movies,” I felt the need to remind her.

  “Yes, sadly, only blanks, but I am a method actress. I was always in the moment and always believed. So, I have killed—” she did a quick calculation. “Maybe 200-300 men.”

  “Make believe massacre, my sweet I, can never stand besides the real thing.”

  She was about to follow with a joke when I’m sure she saw something in my eyes. I hadn’t meant for them to reveal, but lamb and vodka often pacifies me. She tried to look deep—a surprising revelation of her own—but I had recovered by then.

  *

  The dinner was long and very European, with many courses. Hamo dug in. Roee was not unimpressed. Lydia consumed with visible passion. I savored. After dessert and coffee we all sat back rather pleased with ourselves. A meal much larger than one should consume at a single sitting, and the crammed condition of your insides that follow, is a perverse pleasure, it is essentially a pleasure in avoiding the common hungry fate of much of mankind, but take pleasure in it we did. Guilt and shame could come later. Assuming any of us were susceptible to them.

  We left the restaurant and got into our limo. I asked Lydia, “What hotel are you staying at?”

  “The Hyde Park.”

  “Ah.”

  “You know it?”

  “Very well. It’s very, British Empire.”

  “Yes, very Masterpiece Theater. I love it. Do you love it?”

  “I am—fond of it.”

  “Good. Because you are coming up to my room.”

  “Well, that’s very kind of you,” Roee said, “but it’s late and—”

  “Not all of you. Just him,” Lydia said indicating me. “We have more to discuss.”

  “Do we?” I asked. “Tomorrow is not soon enough?”

  “It is tomorrow.”

  Hamo looked at his watch. “She’s right, you know.” He had a twinkle in his eyes. Which was fairly disconcerting.

  “Even so….”

  “You will not refuse my offer of a nightcap.” It was a statement of fact.

  “Well, seeing how you would like to take me back into the grand old days of the British Empire, and as you are offering me something so retro as a nightcap, I suppose I shouldn’t refuse. It would be much like turning down a free trip to Disneyland.”

  “Disney World is more like it,” Roee said.

  “No. Euro Disney, definitely,” Hamo had his say.

  “You equate my offer to cultural imperialism?” Lydia said with mock offense.

  “Are you baring any gifts?”

  “You’ll see exactly what I’ll bare.”

  Hamo giggled, which was not very British of him.

  We made our way north over Waterloo Bridge, then onto the Strand merging into The Mall. We circled around Buckingham Palace, went along Constitution Hill, then got onto Knightsbridge. When we pulled up in front of the hotel the doorman was right there. Lydia got out of the limo, turned, and stared at me. I turned to Roee and Hamo. “Once more unto the breech, dear friends,” I said pointedly. Roee nodded, and I could see that Hamo was already on his cell phone as I, once out of the limo, turned to say goodnight.

  Lydia and I entered the hotel and ascended the immediate, short staircase that brings one up into the Hyde Park’s dark marbled entrance hall. The hotel really doesn’t have a lobby, having been built in 1892 as “residential chambers for gentlemen,” but this is what gives it its charm of intimacy. A large mirror greets you with yourself as you reach the top of the stairs. The reception area is off in a small room beyond an open arched doorway to the left. The concierge is behind a large built-in desk to the right. Lydia quickly moved passed both, bearing to the left to go down a connecting hallway to the elevators. Soon we were up in her suite.

  “Sit,” she said indicating one of two couches that faced each other and which were situated under a sparkling chandelier. I choose the one closest to and facing away from the three tall windows that I knew looked out over Hyde Park. Since it was dark, there was no need to angle for a view. Besides, at the moment, the room itself was the view, eye enchanting with its generous volume provided by a high ceiling; with the antique wing back chairs and other furniture of the Edwardian period; the marble fireplace, and the general warmth exuded by the well placed lamps spreading light against cream colored walls.

  Lydia Corfu was a bit of a view herself. She had taken off the fur and draped it over the couch opposite me. She moved in purple grace to the fireplace and turned the control to spark the gas jets into action. Then she moved to the bar. “Vodka tonic seems to be your drink, but may I recommend a quite wonderful brandy I have here?”

  “You may.”

  She turned to me and smiled. Then she turned back to the bar and fixed the drinks. Once done with that she walked over and handed me mine. “Cheers,” she said as she stood before me and we tinged the crystal and each took a sip. She then moved over to the opposite couch and put her drink down on the table in the center. Still standing she slowly unbuttoned the three buttons of her suit coat while keeping her eyes on me. Then she reached up to her hair, pulled some clever device out of it, and shook her head. Her hair fell down around her shoulders in a cascade of black sprinkled with lovely silver filaments. Then she sat, leaned back on some of the pillows on the couch, took another sip of brandy, and said, “I will call you Nico.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is ludicrous to call you Fixxer.”

  “I haven’t even given you permission to call me that.”

  Greek fire lit her eyes. “Do I need your permission to call you Idiot?”

  “I suppose that’s not really in my control.”

  “Exactly. Nor is my calling you Fixxer if I want to—or not if I don’t, or Nico.”

  “Why Nico?”

  “It was the name of my first lover.”

  “A fig farmer?”

  “No! Not a fig farmer! He was a fisherman on Corfu. He was all bronze and brine—and taciturn. Which was fine, because I like doing all the talking. He was st
rong—very strong—and stubborn. Wanted me to stay on Corfu and be a fisherman’s wife. He could not see beyond the island of Corfu, much less the horizon. To him, that was the world. He was stubborn—and he broke my heart. My next lover was a young, liberal academic in Athens. He was so happy to have such a stunningly beautiful lover, he was nothing but a whimpering lap dog to me. I broke his heart. Ever since then I have preferred men somewhere in-between.”

  “Somewhere in-between?”

  “Yes—I like my men like I like my cream cheese: soft, but not whipped.”

  “That’s interesting. Because I like my women like I like my bagels. Hot, round, and with a hole in the middle.”

  Lydia took a beat to take it in—then she threw her head back and gave a full and throaty laugh, which she suddenly stopped to focus a questioning eye on me.

  “How round?

  “Well—round in all the right places.”

  “Ha! You are no cream cheese! Okay, so what? For once will let down my guard and be happy—just for tonight—to be one of your many bagels.”

  “What makes you think I have—many?”

  Lydia Corfu smiled a seductive smile and said, “Two, maybe three million years of human evolution.”

  “Oh. You have quite a grounding in science.”

  “Yes,” she said, standing up. “I am very scientific.” She then took off her jacket and slipped out of her short, tight skirt. She now stood in all black, leggings and pullover, and her purple ankle high boots. She kicked the boots off. She pulled the pullover off and reached behind with one hand and unhooked her bra and let it drop. Only self-control kept me from gasping. With delight, I should add. She sat and pulled off the leggings in a smooth move. There was nothing left as she stood up again.

  “Not Aphrodite,” she said, “I know that. Aphrodite, to me, has always been a blonde—and perpetually in her twenties—but certainly Artemis, and, on occasion, when I am feeling most secure, I imagine myself as Athena.”

  “Weren’t both those goddesses fairly chaste?”

  Lydia silently questioned herself on that point. Then reached down for her brandy, brought it up and finished it. She looked at me again when she had the simple answer. “Times change.”

  She walked over to me and sat down very close. She was all warm and scented. She put her left hand up to the back of my head and melded her fingers with my hair, giving her great control. She used it to guide me to a warm, deep, moist kiss. Her right hand went its own direction. Not uncharted. Not unwelcomed.

  “Oh, my sweet Greek,” I said when she had finally allowed me some air.

  *

  At 3:30 in the morning Lydia kicked me out of her bed and told me to go home. It was not said with anger, just a recognition of the fact that she preferred to sleep alone when true sleep was on the agenda. I told her it would be difficult for me to find a taxi at this time in the morning. She told me that that shouldn’t be a problem for a man of my resourcefulness. I couldn’t really argue with that point, so I got up and started to dress.

  She watched me—intensely. Then she asked, “Why do you do what you do?”

  “What do I do?”

  “Ah, that’s the question to answer first, I suppose, but do I need to answer it? You know what you do. I know what you do. Why do you do what you do?”

  “I’m good at it.”

  “Why are you good at it?”

  “I’ve been well trained.”

  “And who trained you?”

  “People who were also good at it.”

  “Okay. Why Hollywood? As oppose to, say, the world stage?”

  “I’m addicted to glamour?”

  “Not good enough.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Why does a farmer till fertile soil?”

  “Please, metaphors I do not need this time of the morning.”

  “Do you know that famous quote from Fred Allen?”

  “Who?”

  “Fred Allen. He was an American radio and film comedian of the 1940s.”

  “Before my time.”

  “Ever heard of history?”

  “Please, I’m Greek. We have history. You only have notes from the recent past.”

  “Well, in the recent past he was known for making some highly quotable and cogent statements.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m still busy going through stacks of quotable and cogent statements from Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Aristophanes and Euripides. What time do I have for your Allen Fred?”

  “Fred Allen.”

  “Aaa, there’s still only two sides to that coin.”

  “Well, Fred Allen once said, ‘You can take all the sincerity in Hollywood, place it in the navel of a fruit fly and still have room enough for three caraway seeds and a producer’s heart.’”

  Lydia brayed a big laugh full of recognition. Whether there was any self-recognition in it or not, I’m not sure. “So?” she finally asked.

  “So substitute intelligence, modesty, ethics and a sense of fair play for sincerity in a four to one swap, and you could double the excess volume.”

  “Ah. Fertile soil for your subterfuges.”

  “Yes, and it also seems that no one is so susceptible to make believe as the merchants of it.”

  “Easy marks?”

  “Easy marks, indeed.”

  “So it was a business decision.”

  “Isn’t everything?”

  “Oh, I hope not.” She smiled. I was now fully dressed. “Nico, you are a damn handsome man.”

  “Yes, I know. I blame mom and dad.”

  “You know, now that you have made love to a Greek woman, you are no longer a virgin.”

  It was an idea that caused a chuckle. “How do you know I have not previously made love to a Greek woman?”

  “Because if you had you would have asked me to bed instead of the other way around.”

  “Oh, but I did. I just used—subterfuge—to make you do the actual asking.” I kissed her on the top of her head. “Pleasant dreams, my sweet Greek.”

  *

  The night concierge was reading a battered old paperback of a novel by Angus Wilson when I got to the entrance hall. He agreed with me that a taxi would be hard to find, but offered to call for a minicab. He was just beginning to dial when a voice behind me said: “Where ya headed?”

  I turned around to face a middle-age and mid-sized bulky man in a worn and unbuttoned overcoat covering a brown suit. He was smiling a big one, being very open faced and friendly.

  “’cause I got a car out there. Can I give you a lift? I mean, it’s the least a fellow American can do.”

  “Thank you. I’m staying at the Savoy, but I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

  “Well, as I’m staying at the Savoy as well, it’s hardly any trouble. I’ve read about those minicabs, they can really take ya for a ride. I mean—” He laughed at his own inadvertent joke. “Well, you know what I mean. Come on, car’s right outside. Company provided it. I’m not even paying for it.”

  From the Midwest I guessed. Not formally educated, but smart. Street smart as they used to say. Probably worked for a medium size company onto something of international appeal, possibly something agricultural, some new farm implement, or something. This guy was probably their top salesman back home, being given a shot at Europe, or he was the inventor, here to demonstrate it—some kind of American success story.

  He could also be an evil bastard and this was a trap. I considered the possibilities. I had not yet made enemies on this little adventure. Why would it be a trap? Who knew I was here? Not that I had not made enemies in the past, but that was me or other various personas I’ve adapted, not Elsworth Henderson. Still, Elsworth was just a stiff version of me. Had I been recognized?

  We’re getting too damn paranoid as this century dizzyingly spins to an end, I chastised myself. He’s just a fellow traveler offering a good-natured lift.

  Then again….

  Well—there was only one way to find out.

  “All right
then. Offer accepted.”

  “Great!”

  He started to button his overcoat as we moved towards the stairs. Halfway down he stopped me, leaned close, in conspiracy, and half whispered, “Mine was a Duchess. I mean, really. I met her on the plane. A bit horsy looking but, wow, not bad in the particulars. What about yours?”

  I whispered back, “A fig farmer from Greece.”

  He looked alarmed.

  “A female fig farmer,” I added with the proper haste.

  He seemed much relieved as we started for the door.

  There in front of the hotel was a black limo. A perfectly proper chauffeur jumped out of the car and opened the back door for us.

  “Picked up another American out having a good time, George. He’s also staying at the Savoy. Thought we might give him a lift.”

  “Very good, sir,” George said, somewhat too properly. It was, after all, almost four in the morning. As I got into the car I took a good look at George. It was a pale broad British face, but with a curiously long and skinny nose. He had blue eyes, somewhat too small, giving that double peep holes look, as if the real George was inside this shell looking out and ducking every time you tried to look in. His hair, once blond, was now prematurely gray and fell a little onto his forehead.

  A nag raised up hairs at the back of my neck—recognition?—but nothing solid formed. Maybe it was just the old training.

  Once we were settled, the limo took off down Kightsbridge, and then made the proper turns to pass by Green Park. My traveling companion, a natural conversationalist, asked, “This your first trip to London?”

  “No. Been here quite often.”

  “It’s mine, in fact I arrived just today, in fact, I haven’t even been to the hotel yet and checked in. Thank God for American Express reservations. That Duchess was very insistent, we came straight from the airport. My god! What’s that!?” He pointed, stretching his arm across my face. I followed it to the right to confirm that he was seeing Buckingham Palace for the first time. I was just about to turn to him to report this fact when I felt a sharp sting on the back of my neck.

  Right where that nag had been.

  I snapped my head around to see his smiling face, and the small hypodermic needle he was holding.