Director's Cut

by Alton Gansky

  “Thanks for picking this up,” I said as I took the box.

  “When you invited me for pie, I didn’t know I’d have to buy it.” He looked tired. The skin beneath his eyes was dark, his lids drooped as if he was ready to doze off on his feet, and his shoulders were rounder than normal.

  “At least I didn’t ask you to bake it,” I said. I walked into the kitchen.

  “What, you don’t think they taught me basic baking in med school?”

  There was an image: med students in smocks, stethoscopes around their necks, dipping a thermometer into a cherry pie. I opened the box and found a brown pumpkin pie staring back. October was a good month for pumpkin pie. I served up three pieces on plates, set them on a serving tray, and returned to the living room.

  “What can I get you to drink, Jerry? I can make coffee.”

  “No coffee for me. I’m beat, and I don’t want anything to interfere with my eight hours of coma. How about some milk?”

  I retrieved it and returned to my seat on the sofa. Jerry dug into his pie as if it was the first food he had had all day. Catherine held the plate in her hand and cut off a tiny morsel with her fork. She raised it to her mouth and gently pulled it from the fork, making certain her teeth didn’t touch the metal. I caught Jerry watching her.

  “How’s the little boy?”

  Jerry gave a weary frown. “The same. He spiked a fever so we started another course of antibiotics. Tonight will be crucial. His parents are beside themselves. No parent should have to go through this.”

  “Boy?” Catherine said.

  “One of Jerry’s patients was hit by a car this morning. He’s . . . did you say seven?”

  “Six. He’s busted up pretty bad.” I saw his eyes mist. “But enough of that. He’s in good hands for the evening. Tomorrow should be better. I checked on Doug.”

  I hoped he had. “Good news?”

  “No change. He’s still stable, but his doctors are remaining noncommittal. They’re doing everything they can but there are limits. His editor came by today. I happened to be in ICU when he showed up.”

  I poked at my pie and tried to spin the news into something good. No change meant he hadn’t gotten worse and hope was still alive. I thought of him lying alone in a hospital bed, oblivious—I hoped—to pain and the danger he was in. I thought of the injured child Jerry was helping treat and of Ed Lowe dead in a pool and of a script altered with the clear intent of terrifying—it was an evil world. That thought chewed on me like I had been chewing on the pie. I’m an optimist confined in a straightjacket of reality. I tend to see the good in people and in situations, but I am also quick to recognize darkness. I tried to stay away from the latter. Negative thoughts stick in my mind longer than I like. Yet here I sat, stewing in the knowledge that Doug Turner hovered over the pit of death because someone thought it would be humorous to remove a roadside guardrail.

  My fledgling faith had caused me to look at life differently. At first, it changed the way I saw myself. I was no longer just one drop of female humanity in a sea of people; I was a child of God. It was still a difficult concept for me to embrace. I had never been opposed to faith; never argued against any religion; never considered the needs of my own soul. Truth is, I just never thought about it, not even after two carjackers killed my husband. Peter’s death had crushed me like a soda can under the grinding tracks of a tank, but I had consoled myself with the knowledge that people endured such things every day; that it was the way the world was and no one could do anything about it. It wasn’t much consolation.

  “What kind of accident?” Catherine set down her pie plate. Half of the slice remained untouched. “The boy, I mean. You said he was hit by a car?”

  “Yes,” Jerry said. “He was walking to school. A car ran a stop sign and hit him. To make things all the more poignant, the woman who hit him was taking her children to school. Her kids saw everything.”

  “That’s horrible,” Catherine said. “How could the mother be so careless?”

  “It may not be all her fault,” Jerry said. “This afternoon the accident investigator came by to check on my patient’s condition. We talked for a few minutes. Turns out, the stop sign was missing. The poor lady didn’t stop because there was no sign telling her to. Still, she could have been much more careful.”

  The comment was punishing. Every word landed with the power and precision of a boxer’s glove. “What?” I said, uncertain I had heard it correctly. He repeated it but I was no longer listening.

  The city now had its second casualty. I lost my taste for pie.

  Chapter 16

  No one would ever confuse Hollywood with Santa Rita. I was doing my best to guide my SUV through streets made narrow by cars parked along the curb, delivery trucks which, unable to find places to park, stopped in lanes to unload their wares. Men and women dressed in business attire marched along the sidewalk with clear purpose; others dressed in oddly matched clothing stood on street corners. The streets of downtown were an amalgamation of the expected and the outlandish. Tourists mixed with street people; executives waited at the same lights as the down-and-out.

  Overhead, the sun shone down with indifference, casting its glow without prejudice on rusted Pintos and highly polished Rolls-Royces. There was a quality in the air that made it feel as if I had driven through Lewis Carroll’s looking glass. I looked at Catherine, who glanced around the setting.

  “This is one weird town,” she said.

  “I was going to say that, but I was afraid you’d take offense.” I steered around a man standing in the street shouting something about mind control and Fritos.

  “This isn’t home, Maddy,” Catherine said. “It’s just one of the places I show up to do business. Take the next right.”

  I did. We had left my home at a few minute’s after six this morning which allowed us enough time to pick up a couple of lattes before working our way down the 101 freeway. After Detective West’s warning, and at his urging, Catherine called her production company and told them that she would arrange for her own transportation. I heard her say in a firm voice, “Because the police say it’s what I should do.” That had ended it.

  The drive from Santa Rita had been better than I expected. The 101 choked up in several spots as we approached the LA basin, but traffic kept moving. It was not as bad as it could be, but not as nice as I would have liked. Still, we made it well before the ten o’clock meeting.

  At Catherine’s direction, I pulled into an underground parking structure where I was stopped by a guard next to a yellow-and-black arm of an automatic barricade. I rolled my window down.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” A middle-aged guard gave me a suspicious look as if I had mistaken his parking garage for a discount shoe mall.

  Catherine spoke before I could. Leaning my direction, she said, “Catherine Anderson to see Stewart Rockwood and Charles Buchanan.”

  The guard leaned closer and peered through my window. I thought he was going to stick his head in. “Oh, sorry, Ms. Anderson. I didn’t see you. I was expecting a limo.”

  “That’s all right. This is Madison Glenn. She’s a relative.”

  The guard straightened, reached for a clipboard, and made some notes. Then he pressed a button and the barricade arm rose in a jerky motion. I pulled in.

  “Where do I park?”

  “Just go to the far wall, there are plenty of spaces there. We’ll walk the rest of the way.” A few moments later we were in an elevator headed to the eleventh floor.

  “Is there anything I should expect?” I asked as the elevator cab rumbled up.

  “What do you mean?”

  I smiled. “Sorry. It’s the kind of question a person like me asks. If you attend enough meetings, speak at enough gatherings, you get in the habit of asking what to expect so you can be prepared.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Not much to expect. This is another read-through. We’ll sit around a big table and go over any changes. Then we’ll do a dry read—you know, not much
acting, just reading to see if the dialogue is realistic. Then people will make suggestions, and the screenwriter will write them down and maybe make changes. It’s all pretty dull.”

  The elevator opened to a private lobby. A woman with red hair that was threatening to go orange and who couldn’t be more than a year older than Catherine greeted us.

  “Hi, Lindsey,” Catherine said and walked to the large desk that anchored the room. She gave the young lady a peck on the cheek. Lindsey returned the favor although I doubted that real lips touched real cheek.

  “You look great,” Lindsey said, running her eyes over Catherine.

  Catherine was wearing well-worn jeans and a sloppy T-shirt two sizes too large for her. I wondered what the receptionist saw that I didn’t.

  Lindsey’s countenance changed so quickly I expected my ears to pop. “I heard about your chauffeur. That is like so horrible. How are you managing?”

  “Maddy has been a big help.” She turned to me. “Lindsey, this is my cousin Madison Glenn, but everyone calls her Maddy. She’s the mayor of my hometown. I’m staying with her for a couple of days until . . . until things smooth out.”

  “Mayor?” Lindsey said. “That is like so cool.” She shot her hand out to me.

  It’s like so cool to meet you. Out loud I said, “My pleasure.” She shook my hand with a grip so loose I thought of a dead fish.

  She returned her attention to Catherine. “Um, do Chuck and Stewart know . . . ?” She cut her eyes my way.

  “Yes,” Catherine said. “Are they in there?”

  “Sure are. Go on in. You want a soda or something?” Catherine said no. Lindsey looked at me. “May I get you a cup of tea, ma’am? Or a bottle of water?”

  Ma’am. Coming from someone her age, it made me feel old. “The water will be fine.”

  I followed Catherine down a short, wide, white hall and into a conference room. The place was twice the size of the one in Santa Rita’s city hall, and a rush of envy rolled over me. The far wall was made of narrow, floor-to-ceiling windows marked off by bronze jambs and chrome miniblinds. The conference table looked to be made of some exotic hardwood I couldn’t identify and had a sheen on it that could blind. It was long enough to land aircraft.

  We stepped in, and my feet settled on a thick pile, dark copper-colored carpet. Paintings hung in simple frames on ivory walls. It took a moment, but I realized the paintings were stylized renderings of movie posters. I had a feeling the interior designer made more per year than I had in the last decade.

  Several people were in the room and were already seated at the distant end of the table. Catherine marched forward and I followed in her wake. They stood as she approached and a chorus of greetings bubbled from the group. There were four and Catherine introduced them as Charles Buchanan, the movie director; Stewart Rockwood, the executive producer; Patty Holt, Buchanan’s aide; Andy Buchanan, the producer’s son and what Catherine had described yesterday as the assistant-assistant director.

  Rockwood was the first to hug Catherine. Money has its privileges. “I’m so sorry to hear about the tragedy at your house. You must be mortified.”

  Rockwood was a thick man. Not muscular, just thick. His hair was just the right mixture of brown and gray and cut to the perfect length. It took me a few seconds to realize it was the kind of hair one put on a Styrofoam bust each night. He wore a striped dress shirt open at the collar, dark slacks, and a tan sport coat. I judged him to be in his early forties.

  “It’s been difficult,” Catherine said, breaking the hug. She had to try twice.

  “Of course it has,” Buchanan said. “Death on your doorstep has to be unsettling. Hey, ‘death on your doorstep.’ That’d be a good movie title.” Buchanan was the same height as Catherine, thin, with a shaved head and a short, narrow patch of hair that hung below his lower lip. It had been dyed yellow. “Let me get you a chair.” He pulled out the padded desk chair he had been planted in when we arrived and helped her to it as if she were eleven months’ pregnant.

  Lindsey walked in with a bottle of water and handed it to me. I thanked her and returned my attention to the drama around the table. Of the four who were in the room when we arrived, two stood off a short distance; both were young, about Catherine’s age.

  Andy Buchanan, Catherine had told me, was a year or two older than she, but he looked younger. Maybe it was the earrings, or the wrinkled black T-shirt with the picture of a flaming pile of bones, or the baggy jeans that did their best to cling to his narrow hips. Where his father’s head had been sheared of all hair, Andy had a crop of brown, curly hair that reached out in every direction.

  Patty Holt stood by her chair, which was just to the right of Rock-wood’s. A small laptop computer rested in front of her. She was five foot six or so, mousy hair, lipstick two shades too dark for my tastes, and wore narrow glasses perched high on her nose. Behind those glasses rested the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

  A noise to my left caught my attention. Several more people entered the room, and they did so with flare. Leading the pack was a young man whom I immediately recognized. William Vetter was Hollywood’s newest young hunk. I had recently seen him interviewed on Larry King Live. I learned that he was thirty-one but could pass for twenty-three if needed, or older with the right makeup artist. He had made six movies in five years and each had led the box office for the first three weeks following its release. He was six feet of body, finely crafted by a personal trainer, and had a face genetically designed to melt hearts. On-screen he exuded confidence, certainty, and a keen self-possession. Seeing him in the flesh was disappointing. He hadn’t shaved in days, his hair was tussled, and he wore flip-flops instead of shoes.

  The others were actors, assistant directors, and others with titles I didn’t recognize. The only other person of note was a dignified woman in her early thirties. She wore a comfortable-looking brown pantsuit. Her hair was the color of straw, her eyes hazel, and her build unremarkable. I learned her name was Anita Gorman and that she was the sole screenwriter on the project.

  Catherine stood up. “Before we begin, I’d like to introduce someone to you all.” She looked at me. I smiled and felt like I was on display. “This is my cousin, Madison Glenn—That’s Mayor Madison Glenn. She’s my guest today.”

  “Mayor?” Young Vetter said loudly. “What city?”

  “Santa Rita,” I said.

  The actor smirked. “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s up the coast. Just south of Santa Barbara,” I said.

  “Oh,” Vetter said, then snickered.

  The others said hello, nodded, or gave a little wave, then took seats around the table. I was left standing. I started to move when Rockwood stopped me.

  “Mayor, I wonder if I might trouble you for a moment.” He waved me over. As I approached I saw him punch a button on a small box positioned in front him. “Lindsey, do you have the documents ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please bring them. We’re ready to get started.” He smiled at me. “This will only take a moment.”

  Lindsey plowed into the room taking unnaturally long steps. She handed two sheets of typed paper to Rockwood. Catherine leaned over and whispered something to the producer. In turn, he motioned for Lindsey to step closer and said something I couldn’t hear. Lindsey nodded and left only to return a few moments later holding a bound stack of paper. I recognized the color. Lindsey was holding a script. I glanced along the table and realized that Catherine was the only one who didn’t have a script before her.

  Rockwood reviewed the documents, then handed one to me. “Yes, this will do.” As I took it, he reached for the script and Lindsey relinquished it. Without a word he placed it in front of Catherine. She gave it a wary glance, then turned to the spot where the offending pages had been. She gave a sigh of relief. A clean script.

  “What happened to your script, Catherine?” Vetter asked.

  “Never mind that,” Rockwood said.

  “What am I looking at?” I aske
d as I began to read.

  “It’s an NDA—a nondisclosure agreement. It simply means that you cannot discuss anything you hear in this room with anyone else. That means nothing about the script, the planning, the discussions, the participants, or anything else. Having you here is rather unusual, but considering what Catherine’s been through, I can understand her need to have a family member close by.”

  I glanced over the document. As mayor I see more legal documents than I care to and have developed an eye for the tricky parts. This was straightforward and to the point. It could have been summed up in a line: talk to the media or our competitors about this and we’ll sue you and everyone you’ve ever met.

  I signed it but held on to it for a moment. “I wonder if I might trouble you for a chair?”

  “Of course.” Rockwood looked at Lindsey who just nodded, took the papers, and scurried from the room. A few moments later she wheeled in a chair similar to the ones the others sat in. It was as large as my desk chair and twice as comfortable. I spent a minute wondering if I could fit it in the back of my SUV.

  Rockwood leaned back in his chair. “The show’s all yours, Chuck.”

  The director thanked him and said, “Okay, people, we are using revision October 1, yellow. There have been some revisions in act one and act two, mostly dialogue issues. Let’s start at the top and do a quick read through to see if everything is holding together. Catherine and William will read their parts. Andy and Patty will voice secondary male and female roles. We’re still trying to cast our antagonist, so I’ll fill in on that for now. As usual, Anita will do narration.”

  The meeting started, and I learned four things. First, I learned that some actors are lousy at reading aloud; others excelled. Second, a whole meeting can dissolve into an argument about a single line of dialogue. Third, Anita was a woman of iron to endure the constant nit-picking of her script.