Beautiful Mess

by Herrick, John

  Del could understand. Besides, the man had earned the right to forget a detail here and there.

  Clint lifted his glass of bourbon, which he’d ordered from the open bar. “Hey, I was talking to someone and couldn’t remember: What was the project we worked on together long ago? We figured it out at one point.”

  ”A Fistful of Dollars,” Del replied. “I had a bit part. Early in my career.”

  “That’s right,” said Clint, shooting Del with a pistol he formed with his free hand. “A few years after Marilyn died.”

  “Yes.”

  “A damn shame, Marilyn Monroe. I always wanted to work with that one. Never got the chance.” Clint, deep in thought now, examined his bourbon. “That screenplay of hers—the suspense is killing me. What’s it about?”

  “I’m sorry, Clint, but I can’t say. It’s on total lockdown. You understand how that goes.”

  “Can’t argue with you there.” Peering over the rim of his glass, Clint scanned the crowd, downed the remainder of his bourbon, and punctuated it with a hearty exhale. Badass! “I’d like to take a look at it, consider the rights. Maybe direct it, too.”

  Given the mystery surrounding the project, the director’s response shouldn’t have come as a surprise, yet he couldn’t help but marvel that a legend had his sights on something within Del’s control. That said, Del knew all the major players smelled a hit and he needed to aim high.

  “To be honest, Clint, we’re looking to sell the rights to one of the studios so all the marketing and distribution aspects will be covered in one swoop.”

  “I’d still like to take a look at it, though. My production company has an ongoing development deal with one of them.”

  Del nodded. “You can contact my agent. He’ll set up the appointment.”

  “What’s his name again?”

  “Arnie Clemmons.”

  “Who?”

  “Arnie Clemmons. It’s in the press release.”

  Clint’s eyebrows furled. The agent’s name didn’t ring a bell. Then again, why would an A-lister like Eastwood recognize it? Del felt a tad sheepish, but at this point, what could he do?

  “All right, I’ll check it out.” With another clap on the back, Clint sealed their conversation with another grin. Badass! “Stay in touch, Del. I need to find my wife. She’s mingling somewhere.”

  And with that, the cowboy strode away, planting his glass on a drink tray as he passed. Del, who could hear the coyote-sounding whistle from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, watched in admiration.

  “Hello, Del.” Another husky voice, this one female. Enter Faye Dunaway.

  “Faye! You’re a sight for sore eyes!”

  “You could have seen me much sooner if you’d behaved yourself. You never called after our first date.”

  How long did women remember these things? He couldn’t remember not calling her, but then again, he’d scattered many stupid mistakes along his life’s path, like a dog marking its territory. He and Faye had worked together decades ago, and he might’ve taken her out. Del struggled to find a quick response. “I apologize, Faye. My intention would never have been to—”

  A full-throated chortle. “Del, you’re adorable! I was only kidding you.”

  Del, attempting to save face, laughed along with her, relieved to hear he hadn’t treated her the way she’d described. It sounded like something he might have done in a prior era.

  The soiree’s music transitioned to a silky ballad.

  “You look stunning, Faye. Beautiful, as always.” And wow, did she ever! Adorned in a sparkling white gown, the woman possessed an ageless grace. She kept her hair long, but tonight, she wore it up in a classic style. To this day, he couldn’t resist those high cheekbones.

  “You look good yourself, Del.”

  “And your performance was delightful,” he added. In the film, Faye had played a vivacious grandmother who found herself attracted to her granddaughter’s landlord.

  “The crazy grandma figure.” Faye rolled her eyes. “There’s not much of a place for individuals like us, Del.”

  “Can’t say I disagree. The industry has changed. We’re like strangers, aren’t we?”

  “What do the kids call watching our films? ‘Kicking it old-school?’”

  “I think even that expression might be passé already. Of course, I’d imagine Mickey Rooney once felt the same way about you and me.” Del sipped his champagne and considered the attendees who surrounded him tonight. While a handful were his age, he doubted half were even born when he began his career. “A time for everything, as they say.”

  ”You’re the man of the hour, though. With that little discovery of yours, I mean.”

  In spite of her encouraging remark, Del, upon closer examination, detected a combination of joy and pain in her countenance, despite her confident veneer. He wasn’t the only one who had struggled in his career. Like Del, she had experienced her share of successes and dry spells.

  Del dropped his guard, loosened the chain he wrapped daily around his heart, and opted for honesty.

  “When you’re in our shoes,” he noted, “you take what you can get, and you promote it as a special event.” He couldn’t stifle the wryness in his grin. “We’ve all learned how to spin bullshit, haven’t we?”

  She laughed. Tension disappeared from her shoulders. “Where have you been all these years? I haven’t heard much from you.”

  “Getting ready to relocate.”

  “From your home? You’ve lived there forever! Where are you headed?”

  “Figured I’d try Florida for a change.”

  She furrowed her eyebrows. A quizzical expression emerged on her face. “Florida? Why?”

  Exactly. Del still detested the notion. “The change of scenery might be nice.”

  Talk about spinning the facts.

  “Isn’t it a busy time for you to move?”

  “It was in progress before Marilyn’s script appeared. As a matter of fact, that’s how I rediscovered it: while sorting through some boxes at home.”

  If only he’d waited a few more weeks to set the house sale in motion. He could have changed his mind.

  A man in his late fifties, with a professional smile and hair dyed the perfect shade of brown, strolled up to them. Del recognized him in an instant: Bernard Schulman, the head guy at one of the major film studios, one which had amassed a string of hits the last five years and now dominated the industry in both profits and power. The studio had released tonight’s film. Del almost salivated.

  “I apologize for interrupting,” Schulman said, “but I wanted to say hello. Faye, a gripping performance, as always.” Schulman and Faye exchanged kisses on the cheeks.

  “Thank you, Bernie. Will you excuse me, please? I’m going to get another glass of champagne.”

  As she wandered away, Schulman turned to Del. “Del, good to see you tonight.”

  “Bernie. Always a pleasure.”

  The studio chief looked amused. “So, I finally got to read the script today. You made me sign a confidentiality agreement? Come on, Del, you know I’m a straight shooter.” At that, Schulman raised his glass, wrinkled his brow, and sipped his drink. “You’re taking this seriously. I had to read it on-site at your agent’s office. No copies, no notes, nothing.”

  “I trust you understand the rationale.”

  “Well, you’ve done an excellent job keeping it under wraps, I’ll give you that much. I seem to be the only one at this party who knows its premise. The script was nothing like I anticipated, by the way. I’d expected a romantic comedy from Marilyn Monroe, but this? The woman must’ve been pretty fucked up.”

  Del winced at the remark. It seemed, to an extent, sacrilegious. She had written that script from a place of pain.

  Del bit his lip and decided to hold his tongue. “She was deeper than many of us give her credit for.”

  “How many others have read it?”

  “A few.” Many.

  “And have you entertained any offe
rs?”

  “A few.” Many.

  Schulman regarded Del in what the actor hoped was an attempt to decode his poker face. Then the chief lifted his glass to his mouth and took in another view of the industry professionals around him, servants in his fiefdom. “Any clues on what they’ve offered? Off the record, of course.”

  Del savored this. In his past life, he’d loved to play coy and jerk the collars of the bigwigs. He could get used to this again.

  “Let’s just say the offers have been quite generous.”

  For the next second, Del didn’t remove his attention from Schulman. He wanted to see if the guy twitched in reaction, which he didn’t. A poker face in return. No surprise. Schulman was royalty and played it cool, but Del sensed an undercurrent of envy. Behind closed doors, this guy salivated for a deal.

  For once in his life, Del Corwyn was the kingmaker in this town.

  Schulman nodded. “I’ll be in touch with Arnie about an offer,” he said, followed by one final smirk as he knocked back the last of his drink. “I think you’ll find we can be the most generous studio on the block.”

  “We look forward to receiving it.”

  “I’d like to see a deal happen between us, Del.”

  Del had to marvel at what had unfolded before his eyes.

  Bernard Schulman, one of the most powerful insiders in Hollywood.

  And Del was in position to crush the guy’s balls with his bare hands if he had the notion.

  CHAPTER 50

  NORA SAT facing Tristan on her sofa, each individual bent at the knees, their toes resting against each other’s. Tristan tapped away on his laptop, working on business. Nora didn’t ask him for details on his work—she considered it none of her business—and he didn’t inquire about hers.

  As she paged through a script her agent had sent for her consideration, she paid nominal attention to a cable news station, which Tristan had turned on. The station had a reputation for mixing soft news and entertainment with world events, which Nora found comical. The anchors bantered back and forth during the day, inserting commentary into their reports, which gave the station’s programming an Oprah Winfrey-meets-the-news feel. Eventually, their commentary dwindled down to gossip, which rendered down the show to nothing more than a glorified tabloid, minus the space-alien pregnancies.

  At the top of the hour, introductory music sounded, the breaking-news variety, and the co-anchors, Greg Gelman and Virginia Wheeler, both middle aged, looked all-business.

  “New details today about the recently discovered screenplay written by Hollywood legend Marilyn Monroe,” Virginia began, her voice firm.

  Both Nora and Tristan looked up from their work.

  Virginia continued, “Although trustee Del Corwyn has kept the screenplay sealed and copies have not been made publicly available, industry insiders have read the screenplay and made offers for a production deal. One source has estimated offers in the eight-figure range, a figure Corwyn and his agent will not confirm.”

  Nora dropped her script and absorbed herself in the program. Tristan seemed intrigued, as well.

  “Although insiders are required to sign a confidentiality agreement prior to reading the script, vague details have leaked concerning its content, with one insider saying, ‘This is not the Marilyn Monroe you saw on screen.’ In fact, that same source, who asks to remain anonymous for fear of being blacklisted from consideration, tells us he believes the script parallels the mental and emotional drama Monroe battled in the final years of her life.”

  Greg Gelman initiated their commentary banter. “That’s right, Virginia. This insider describes the script as a disturbing psychological drama with graphic violence and sexually explicit content. And when you consider Monroe wrote this in the early sixties, it’s no wonder the pages never saw the light of day. I mean, rumor has it that whoever ends up making this film will have a challenge on their hands. There’s serious talk of, ‘How will the director keep the script’s integrity intact and still squeak by with an R-rating?’ Sources confirm it’s that explicit—and yet, if done well, it’s already considered a strong contender for Best Picture.”

  “And what if they can’t get the R-rating and need to go NC-17?” Virginia asked. “We haven’t seen a Best Picture contender of that nature since Midnight Cowboy. It just doesn’t happen. So this could be history in the making—and Del Corwyn has emerged as the power broker at the center of it all.”

  Tristan turned to Nora. “Has Del said anything to you about this?”

  “He mentioned the screenplay, but no specifics. All I know about it is what I’ve heard on the news.”

  They returned their attention to the program, where Virginia continued the banter.

  “As of right now, Arnie Clemmons, Corwyn’s agent, tells us only top-tier studio executives and high-level producers have been privy to Monroe’s project. But according to the buzz, many industry insiders believe the female protagonist is a role best suited for actress Nora Jumelle, who herself is an Oscar contender this year.”

  Nora felt her jaw drop. She couldn’t peel her attention from the program. Her mind raced to her leaked photo, the one which had gone viral not long ago. Was that the reason the powers-that-be were tossing her name around?

  “Holy shit!” blurted Tristan. “I take it you didn’t know about that, either!”

  “I hadn’t heard a word.”

  “Maybe you should talk to Del.”

  Once the initial shock fizzled, Nora pondered what she’d just heard. Call it instinct, but she had a hunch she would identify with this female protagonist, whoever she was and whatever her dilemma.

  Greg Gelman wrapped up the story and said, “We’ll share more as details become available. Lots of speculation out there.”

  You’re telling me, Nora thought.

  CHAPTER 51

  DEL SAT in his home office, perusing a proposal he’d received from one studio. He wasn’t happy with it.

  The rumors were accurate. Production offers had, indeed, snowballed to eight figures, fueled by Arnie’s covert attempts to prune the grapevine. But this particular studio had low-balled its offer. And not only that, he envisioned much greater marketing potential than this studio proposed. After all, he was talking Marilyn Monroe, not Donna Reed.

  He considered the demand for this project. Sure, he’d expected it to become the hottest item around. And it was big news for the Baby Boomers, those who grew up watching the actress’s films in theaters. But the themes into which her script delved were ahead of her time. Del harbored no doubts this film would resonate with Gen-Xers and Millennials, too. If he could get those kids to double their attention to it on social media, it might drive up demand for the product—and the selling price of the rights.

  But it needed to happen under the radar. The fire needed to burn at the grassroots level. If he hired a publicist to handle it, word would leak to the studios that he’d manufactured a mirage of demand.

  Who might know the right channels to maneuver this in a subtle way? Who was more adept at social media than Del?

  He scratched the stubble on his chin. The answer was so close, he could mouth the name, if only he could locate the syllables to fill the gap. He clenched his fists. Think, Del, think! His instincts told him he knew someone in his circle of acquaintances who—

  Nora’s new friend! Or boyfriend, or whatever he was. What was his name again?

  Tristan!

  Didn’t he run some sort of business online? He would know how to stimulate demand and cause it to multiply!

  Del grabbed his cell phone. He’d entered Tristan’s contact information the evening they met. Mere habit. Del never expected to contact the kid, but he’d learned long ago never to discard a contact. The world was too small for that.

  Tristan answered on the third ring.

  “Del?”

  “Tristan, my man! Long time, no talk!”

  Silence. Confusion. “Okay…how’s it going?”

  “Listen, I have a conu
ndrum here, and I could use your expertise, if you’re willing to help.”

  A pause, followed by a voice of hesitation. “Me? How?”

  “You’re familiar with all this social media stuff, aren’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Much more familiar than I am. You know all the outlets I’d never fathom, and you probably have social circles I don’t. I need to get word to trickle out in a way that’s effective, but shall we say…discreet.”

  “Is this about the script?”

  “Indeed. And since you mentioned you run your business online, I figured you might know all those little marketing tricks that create demand.”

  Tristan sniffed on the other end, then said, “I’d love to help you, Del, but the work I do—I don’t run that kind of business. If I did a ton of marketing, I’d have more demand than I could handle. I’ve got a heavy load as it is.”

  Whoever heard of tempering demand for a product? How did the kid pay his bills with that kind of logic?

  “Surely you’d have an idea or two, though. What kind of merchandise do you sell?”

  “I don’t sell merchandise, Del. I sell a service. And I handle the whole workload myself.”

  “What kind of service?”

  “I’m a wellness coach, and I do it all online.”

  Had Del heard correctly? He shook his phone, then turned up the volume a notch.

  “Did you say you’re a wellness coach?”

  “Yup.”

  “And you’re how old?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  Del wanted to burst forth in laughter but, dumbfounded as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to the precipice.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what does a thirty-three-year-old know about the fullness of life’s answers?”

  “I don’t need to know the answers, Del. I just need to say the right things to make people feel better about themselves.”

  Del could hear the shrug in Tristan’s voice. Did this seem ordinary to the kid? Just your average, everyday way to make a living? He was a professional bullshitter! Either that, or he was a genius.

  “And people pay you for that?”