Lee Cosford came out to claim his visitor. In the office he offered gin and Pennington accepted, saying, “First since day before yesterday. How about that, temperance fans?”
Cosford knew this had to be about the Gary Prime project. He believed he had heard the end of it, but now here was the top writer from a generation ago looking as if he had just seen a vision on the road to Saint Anne de Beaupré. Cosford reached out and took the glass away from his guest and said, “Tell me, Luke. Before you dive back into the sauce. Is there a feature film in this Mama Cass thing?”
“Academy Awards. Cannes Festival. The idea is solid gold, my dear. I’ve been working for two days on the treatment without anything to drink but coffee and grapefruit juice. It’s in this brown envelope, Lee old buddy, and what you had better do is line up tons of money and hire your cast and your director, because somewhere there’s a lucky man who is going to make the film of the year from this here scenario of mine.”
Cosford handed back the drink. “I just wanted to hear you say it.” He took the envelope and went to sit behind his desk. To himself he said, Always trust a sober Pennington. He drew a thick sheaf of typewritten pages from the envelope. “Wow, what did you do, write a shooting script?”
“Almost. I had to force myself not to. I even went out and invested in a ribbon and a box of paper.” Pennington drew on the drink, then set it aside and looked out of the window at the church spire.
Cosford studied the title page. It said, “Blues for Mama Cass—a film drama with interpolated music. A Lee Cosford Production written by Lucas Pennington.” The script had weight in Cosford’s hands; it felt crisp and substantial—he knew the heft of valuable work. He flicked the title page over and saw the beginning of the treatment. The writing flowed. It was vintage Pennington.
The producer glanced up, wondering whether he should mention the fact that Gary Prime’s name did not appear on the script. He decided to let it go for the moment.
“Do you want up-front money, Luke,” he asked, “or would you rather take a share of the gross?”
Pennington made growling noises in his throat as he rubbed his hands together. “Some of each, please,” he said, and out in the reception area, Stephie heard through the wall the deep, nasty sounds of her boss and his visitor laughing.
GARY TOLD ANITRA how his project was going. He enthused over the meeting with Lucas Pennington, describing what a washout the man seemed to be, then how he came alight when the idea was explained. Aware of Pennington’s bad reputation, knowing it was all a ploy to fob Gary off with a loser, Anitra was tempted to warn her husband not to expect too much. But why come on as a pessimist? Let the man have his dream for a while longer. Besides, you never could tell—something might come of it.
It was only by accident that she discovered a few weeks later that something was indeed coming of the Mama Cass project. Anitra encountered Stephie at the photocopy machine and happened to see that she was running off several copies of what looked like a shooting script. A glance at the title page and Anitra was off to see Lee Cosford almost at a run.
Then she slowed down, thinking, and stopped. The film business ground on at a steady pace at the best of times. No mad rush. She would wait and see what was going to happen next.
What happened was that Lee announced he was flying to London on business at the beginning of the week. He asked Stephie to book a couple of seats on the Air Canada flight for Sunday evening. If the other seat was for Gary, Anitra told herself, her husband would have been crowing before now. If it was for her, Lee would have said something. Instead, he was keeping his head down these days, acting as if he had done a sloppy job of picking her pocket and hoped she wouldn’t mention it.
Anitra decided to bring up the subject as she sat in the front seat of Lee’s car driving back from the Eastern Townships, where they had been filming a butter commercial. She was never so grateful for a safety belt as when she drove with Lee Cosford. The highway was fairly clear and he kept pushing the accelerator. The needle edged past eighty-five, ninety.
Suddenly the steering wheel began to shudder in Lee’s hands. He straightened his arms, reducing speed. “Second time it’s done that.” He swore a couple of times but his eyes were bright. He was enjoying himself. “Something is wrong with this car, my dear. Anything over ninety and she tries to run away from me.
Anitra stopped bracing her feet against the floor and tried to relax, her heart still racing. “Lee,” she said, “what the hell are you up to?”
“I like to drive fast,” he said.
“I mean with Gary’s idea. I saw the treatment Pennington wrote. You’re getting ready to run with it.”
“Luke says it has potential. He may be a lush, but Pennington has judgment.”
“But why isn’t Gary’s name on the front page? Why doesn’t he even know you’re going ahead?”
“He will, he will—don’t worry about it. As soon as I get my financing organized I’ll write Gary a nice check.”
“Thanks very much. Good thing I brought it up.”
Cosford glanced at her and back at the road. The speedometer crept upward and a feathery vibration in the steering-wheel tickled his fingers. “Anitra, you know the film business. Let’s face it, your husband is just an engraver’s rep. What does he know from films? This is a Lee Cosford Production. It has to be if it’s going to work.” He glanced over again, and this time he encountered her eyes staring straight at him. It was a frightening sight. “Come on! Gary fluked on an idea that happens to have possibilities. OK, we’re going to pay him for it. But the business of making it into a film is for me and Luke Pennington. And for you—you can be part of this, too.”
They drove a mile or two in silence.
Then he said breezily, “Want to come to London? Lucas and I are flying out on Sunday night to see the agent of this actress. Come along if you want. We could have some fun.” He took a hand from the wheel and reached for hers.
Anitra drew her hand away and busied herself finding her lipstick and a small mirror in her purse. She concentrated on touching up her mouth. “I don’t think so, Lee.” She drew neat outlines with a tiny brush. “And don’t pretend you’ll miss me. Shacking up was fun, wasn’t it? But I guess once was enough.” She snapped her purse shut and turned to look at him coldly. “Right?”
He drew his shoulders up like a man in a hailstorm. “Whatever you say,” he said patiently.
GARY CAME HOME that night in a mellow frame of mind. One of the agencies had been saying good-bye to a retiring account supervisor, and good old Smitty had invited the representative of his favorite engraving house to stay for a drink. Gary let himself in at seven o’clock and was genuinely surprised to find Anitra in the living room with an empty salad plate beside her, a wineglass in her hand, and a news analysis program on television with the sound turned off. “Hello,” he said. “No editing tonight? No answerprints? No emergency at the lab?” He said this without malice.
“You sound happy.”
“We just put Elgar Smith out to pasture. They made nice advertising men in those days.”
“There’s a salad plate for you in the fridge.”
“Thanks.” His smile was that of a man who’s been told his lottery ticket is a winner for the third consecutive week. He came back from the kitchen with his plate and a wineglass. Anitra poured Riesling for him as he peeled off the cling-film. “Hey, you made tuna with onions.” He began eating hungrily.
Anitra reached forward and switched off the TV picture. “What’s the word on your film idea?’ she asked.
“Early days. I suppose Pennington’s working on the treatment.”
She set her glass down dead center on a coaster on the broad arm of the sofa. “Luke Pennington has delivered a thirty-page outline to Lee Cosford. They’re very excited about it. They have an appointment with an agent in London for next Monday.”
Gary beamed and raised his glass. “Fabulous. Thanks for telling me.”
“You might w
ell thank me. I don’t think Lee was going to mention it.” When her husband went on eating, she said, “I saw the script. Your name isn’t on it.”
“So?”
“So Lee Cosford is running away with your idea, Gary. He fobbed you off on Pennington to get rid of you, and now that Luke says the idea’s solid gold, Lee has adopted it.”
“That’s what I wanted.”
“I don’t believe this. Lee told me he’s going to write you a check once the financing is arranged.”
“All donations gratefully received.” Gary looked closely at his wife and for the first time saw the extent of her rage. “It’s what I wanted,” he repeated. “A film about Mama Cass—something to really do her justice. The idea hit me in London when I was walking at night, as if she were still there, her spirit … I know that sounds stupid. But an idea is something from your soul, isn’t it? That’s all it is, and who knows what makes the idea spring into your mind?”
“Gary, come down to earth.”
“The film is all that matters. If it’s going to be done, I’m delighted. No big deal if my name isn’t connected with it.”
“But it’s your concept, damn it! You’ve got to be credited! Call a lawyer tomorrow and explain what’s happening. Have a stop put on Lee before he goes any further.” Her husband’s satisfied face enraged her. “At least get mad! They’re ripping you off, they’re treating you like a retarded child.”
“I can’t get mad. I’m too happy.”
Anitra picked up the wine bottle, but her hands were shaking so hard she could not pour. Her empty glass toppled over. She left it rolling on the carpet. Gary was staring at her now, one cheek full. “Then maybe you’ll get mad at this,” she said. “While you were over in London falling in love with the ghost of Cass Elliott, I was back here in bed with Lee Cosford. Yes, that’s right.” She got up and said over her shoulder as she left the room, “Now will you come back into this world, Gary?”
ANITRA FOUND IT easy to make her decision the next day. Her mind was influenced by the way the men around her seemed determined to conduct business as usual. Gary did his typical early-morning flit to work, leaving one of his screwy notes on the kitchen counter. Years ago he had played with the idea of being a cartoonist; now the talent had mostly evaporated, leaving a residue of doodled heads and neat printing. Today’s note referred only obliquely to last night in a speech balloon that said, “Don’t blame yourself. We’ll talk.”
At the studio, Cosford scurried around in his characterization as Laughing Lee the benign executive. He had everybody around the place grinning, but the best Anitra could give him was a sour, knowing smile. His only direct communication with her was when he whipped into her office and said, “Do me a favor, will you, Anitra? Stephie is away sick or I’d ask her. Drive the car around to the garage and have them check the steering. Tell him about the shudder around ninety. And I’ll need it by Sunday.”
“I’ll call and see if they can do it now,” Anitra said curtly. She picked up the phone and dialed for an outside line. But when Lee left the office she set the phone down again without making the call. The suggestion in her mind was unthinkable, but she had to consider it. She did so and came to the conclusion that Cosford had something coming. Not that an accident would happen. But if it did, there would be justice in it.
Later, Cosford had to go to a luncheon meeting at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, so he took a taxi. He telephoned from there to say that he was accepting a lift with his dairy client down to the farm in the Eastern Townships. He would be there for the weekend, returning Sunday at midday to get the car and the film scenario from his office and then to drive Luke Pennington to the airport. Would Anitra be able to come in for an hour on Sunday to discuss taking over the reins during his absence?
“Of course.” She pursued her curt manner, words at a premium. “They kept the car at the garage but promised the steering will be fixed by Saturday afternoon. I’ll see that it’s here.”
“You’re a gem.” Lee was expansive after his lunch. “I’ll bring you back something nice from Bond Street.”
ON SUNDAY MORNING as Anitra was leaving for the studio, Gary came out of the guest room, where he had been sleeping for a couple of nights. “Have you got a minute to talk?” he said.
“I’m in a hurry.”
“I’ve decided you’re right. I’m going to see a lawyer next week. As long as the film is being made, I might as well get some credit.”
He was not looking directly at her, so she was able to observe the veiled look on his face. “You still aren’t mad, Gary. You’re just saying what you think I want to hear.”
His voice became petulant. “Well, how the hell am I supposed to please you?”
“Nobody’s asking you for that. Just grow up. When somebody walks all over you, be a man—get mad.”
He followed her to the door. “Are you going to see Lee?”
“I’m going to the studio. There’s work to be done before he leaves for London.”
When she was gone, Gary went into the living room and pressed the palms of his hands together. He looked around. Nothing like Sunday-morning light to show the dust on everything. Anitra liked to go about with a spray can and a cloth, making everything shine and smell of lemon. Lately there had been other things on her mind.
He took down the most-played cassette in his collection and slipped it into the tape deck. He turned on the amplifier, pressed START, heard a moment’s silence and then the familiar harmony flowing from the speakers on the top shelf on either side of the fireplace—Mama Cass’s huge, pure voice soaring over the others like a silver-belled horn.
At last he understood why Anitra was angry with him. It was a matter of expressing himself as unself-consciously as the beautiful, natural woman he was listening to. Gary knew how he felt; he had to tell Lee Cosford how he felt.
BY ONE O’CLOCK, Anitra had made two big drinks each for Cosford and Pennington. She had poured on the whisky for her boss and stinted the ginger. He was rolling with self-importance. She was glad when he looked at his watch.
“Time to hit the road,” he said. “Where’s the car, Anitra?”
“Around back.” She had moved it there herself on Saturday. “The guy from the garage couldn’t find anyplace else to park.”
“Then we’re off. Come on, young Lucas—Daddy is going to show you the world. So long, Mrs. Prime.”
When the door closed behind them, Anitra poured herself a small drink and took it to Lee’s desk, where she sat down and rummaged till she found a copy of the Mama Cass scenario. Then she began to sip and read. As she turned the pages, the realization dawned on her that this would make a great film. Gary was dead right. If things worked out, she and he would take it to another producer and have a go themselves.
LEE COSFORD drove aggressively to the corner and stamped on the brake pedal, throwing Pennington forward so that he had to catch himself against the padded dashboard.
“Ride ’em, cowboy,” Lucas said.
“Haven’t lost a passenger in years.” Cosford craned his neck. “Isn’t that Gary Prime?”
“It sure looks like him.”
“Roll your window down. Call him over.”
“Are you sure? We don’t need him at the moment.”
“It’s Sunday—I’m feeling Christian. Call him.”
Gary saw the face at the car window, wandered over, and bent himself to look inside. “Hello, Lucas. Hello, Lee. I was coming to see you.”
“I’m glad. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your film. We’re just off to the airport. Can you drive out with us and have a drink in the lounge? Don’t hesitate, my boy—it’s to your benefit. Get in.”
As Gary went to open the back door, Lee whispered quickly to Pennington, “Let’s give the guy a small credit and one or two percent. It’s little enough and may save us litigation later on.”
BY TWO THIRTY, Anitra had read the script twice and finished a second drink. When the telephone rang, she jumped.
It was a police officer. There had been a crash on the highway near Dorval Airport. A car left the road and ran at top speed into a concrete abutment. The license number had been put through the computer, which printed out Lee Cosford Productions as owner of the car.
“That was my boss,” Anitra said, sounding disturbed. “He was on his way to catch a plane. Is there any—”
“I’m sorry. He must have been going ninety. We haven’t been able to get into the car yet, but there can’t be anybody alive.”
Anitra telephoned home, but Gary was either out or not answering. She drove from downtown in twenty minutes, thinking about the accident she had programmed. If it wasn’t murder, it was certainly manslaughter. Not that Lee or Pennington were any great loss to the world, but she had better not let on to Gary that she had sent her boss out with two doubles on an empty stomach and faulty steering. Gary lacked the imagination to do anything but call the police.
The apartment was empty. Anitra checked the TV guide and saw that the Expos were on channel six in a doubleheader against the Phillies. That meant Gary would be down at the Mount Royal in the television lounge, drinking beer and eating peanuts. No supper required tonight. But perhaps they could have that talk he’d suggested this morning. No need for lawyers now—no bitterness, but a fresh start with an exciting project they could share.
The reaction set in as Anitra made tea. She was trembling so much as she carried it into the living room that she arrived with a brimming saucer. She set it down with both hands, went to turn on the radio, and noticed a cassette inside the deck. She pressed the proper switches and out came the voice Gary had been raving about for the past few weeks, the cause of all the excitement and the maneuvering and of her deadly intervention.
Now, as never before, she could understand what turned her husband on when this woman sang. Mama Cass was solo on this track, so vibrant and alive she might have been here in the room.
Anitra listened to the entire cassette—both sides—before she realized she was feeling impatient for Gary’s return. She began willing him to abandon his precious baseball telecast and get in touch with her. And so when the telephone rang she ran to answer it eagerly.
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