Two half-drunk glasses stood on the tray.
'Now you've got the option, you're in a very strong position and I don't want to alienate him. Without him we're nothing. We've got to be smart!'
He was struck suddenly by the memory of Hilldyard's confession. The truth was so much stranger than one imagined; shocking. And it came to him then – that Hilldyard had wrecked everything. There was no fall-back now.
'Michael.' She drew closer.
'What?'
'Are you OK?'
He allowed himself a laugh.
'What's wrong?'
In the mirror he could see the slant of her neck half draped by hair.
She hitched the towel over her bosom with a hooked finger. She was a picture of thoughtful concern.
'We have to be honest with each other.' She came towards him, to give him her face close up.
He nodded.
She touched his forearm. 'Do you really want this film?'
Her touch had its own special current.
'Do you?'
Her eyes searched him for an answer, plumbing his reticence. It was the most important question and she had asked it pleadingly, as though she were really saying something else.
He frowned.
'I must know.'
Her finger moved on his arm.
'Do you?'
It was a caress.
She was intense, almost hypnotised.
He understood now.
'Do you?'
He leaned towards the uplift of her mouth which grazed his lips, pausing and pressing, darning out a slow kiss, her hair on his cheek. And when he grabbed her, the towel slipped and her breasts were full in his hands as though she had put them there. He was taut with the shock of her nakedness, everything for the taking, Adela full on, gasping as he clutched at her.
On the bed she was forceful and tumultuous and freely possessed of her own choreography. She crawled on the mattress in a mobile swoon, hair everywhere, everything on offer as a present to pleasure, which he could not begin to consume with kisses and caresses. And as they manoeuvred around each other's bodies, Michael's edginess turned to relief, the deep relief of making love to someone wholeheartedly, without guilt, without doubt, in a blaze of arousal, as though Adela's lovely body were a temple in which could be worshipped the best of her, and the best of himself.
Chapter Eighteen
He was summoned at nine o'clock on Friday morning. The call came through to his hotel room and he was told by a candy-voiced American girl that he would be collected in thirty minutes. 'We're a short ways out of town. And Mr Weislob asks would you please bring the option agreement, sir. Uh huh. Thank you so.'
He waited in his room, standing by the shutters before a grey sky, until a suited Italian chauffeur with shades and moustache hopped up the steps on to the hotel terrace and made his swift way to the lobby entrance.
He took a notepad and calculator and was soon descending the steps behind his escort. The man was courteous and quiet and gave off the aroma of macassar and starch as he led the way, natively indifferent to the view that opened out at the foot of the steps as they passed the ravine and encountered the steep set of the town.
It was a black Mercedes, cumbersomely parked across a snake bend in the road, and Michael fell into the back seat with a solid sense of impostorship. He wore a blue suit and a lilac open-necked shirt. His black shoes were polished to a gloss and he felt poised as the big car turned and made its cushioned ascent of the Viale.
The agents were not staying in central Positano, but out, along the coast road, and he noted with curiosity the number of twists and turns that elapsed between the receding town and their destination, as if he were being driven to a villain's hideout. The coastal slopes became steeper, the mountain more lowering. Small villages stuck in coves or on outcrops veered by and the glare in the sky was complicated by a storm cloud. The sea was lead-like, sharp against the horizon.
The hotel was perched, like a Riviera fortress, on a promontory of cliff that in times past had flaked great facets of its mass into the sea. They swung into the drive, and Michael saw to his right the jaws of a cove suspending a swimming pool at one level, a tennis court further down, and right at the bottom, for use in finer weather, a concrete beach clamped between cliffs.
It was international luxury-class inside, with much glass revealing the coastal view, and marble floors and statuary and deluxe imperviousness to external weather conditions. He was presented to a handsome male receptionist in a blue tunic and directed to a seat in the lobby while his arrival was confirmed.
'Hello,' said the candy-voiced girl.
She whistled across the lobby like a game-show hostess, all fresh and clean in belted hotpants and augmented sweatshirt, which sported the legend 'Coburn's In Town'. Her thighs were honey brown, and her bare arms hung in listless innocence.
'Hi,' she said, cutting the word off brusquely.
He rose to a handshake and curtsy, just a kink in the legs.
'Nice to meet yoooou.' The lip gloss glimmered as the eyes sparkled.
He nodded.
'I'm Bambi.'
'Hello, Bambi.'
'Will you come on in?'
She smiled over her shoulder and kicked off in front of him through the lounge of the hotel.
'You're from England, right?' she said as they entered a lift.
'I am.'
'London is neat.'
He cleared his throat. 'You're from LA?'
'You got it.'
The lift led to an inner courtyard of sprinkling fountains and wrought-iron tables laid for breakfast. With a gazelle hop she took him up a run of flagstone steps leading through a portico to a wide corridor. Rugs led the way over terracotta tiles and by malachite side-tables and the architraves of apartment doorways.
'Frank and Rick'll be right along.' She brought him round a corner through an open door into a suite with a head-on sea view.
'Can I fix you coffee?'
He could see through an archway a vista of white walls and marble floors.
'Make yourself at home.' She smiled.
He nodded and positioned himself in a chair with a view of the sea. Bambi clicked her heels and swept off through the annexe, and then there was silence.
They had isolated him.
He remembered Adamson's advice from the night before.
'Be as Jewish as you can.'
'What the hell does that mean?'
It had been an hour-long call, a deluge of angles and conjectures, projections and weavy second thoughts.
'Talk a lot. Show them you're not afraid to spiel the hind legs off a pregnant cow. It's the international parlance of negotiation. Means you're flexible and undeceived at the same time, cos it mirrors the lip-service platitudes they'll be churning out. If they're philosophical, be more philosophical. If they're warm and human, let them see teeth, open palms, the twinkle of a cuff-link. Grease for grease. That way you'll lull them. I mean, man, these guys are going to be very fucking edgy. You've got the option, and they've got jetlag. If you go cold and English they'll freak. Don't confront. Describe where you're at from an enlightened Jehovah-type perspective. Wisdom of the ages.'
'Is Coburn Jewish?'
'Nope.'
They had decided to dub the packaging percentage a finder's fee.
'Control the agenda. First the picture. Then the deal. It's easier to agree on editorial. Non-contentious semantics. But you can be articulate, real. Besides, you'll have the upper hand. You've read the book.'
'Surely they've read the book!'
'Hey! They've read coverage. Weislob has probably flicked the manuscript on the jet. If you're lucky they'll know the author's name.'
Adamson's advice had been purchased for ten per cent of Michael's fee, and ten per cent would buy calls and contractual overview, a full behind-the-scenes consultancy. His aspiration to produce the film had been guillotined, and Michael had him where he wanted him. Adamson was the third person he h
ad lied to about the option.
He watched over himself now. He was at the centre of events. In the past twenty-four hours he had become disinhibited and could meet things head-on.
'Would you join us, Michael?'
She beckoned him from the next room and he followed her leggy beeline to an inner door, which she knocked on before opening for Michael's admission. The room beyond was wide and bright and gave directly on to a courtyard swimming-pool area like an atrium, all ferns and hanging baskets, stone seats, mosaics and frescos, an emperor's bath in mock-Pompeiian style.
Weislob stood by the patio door, wearing wrap-around shades and talking into a mobile phone. He was small against the open length of the room, his black suit and slick-cut hair seeming miles away. He turned when Candy knocked but made no response to Michael's arrival. Instead, he rocked forward and incised the air with his hand, pushing a deal point.
'Hi, Frank,' said Bambi. 'I have Michael Lear for you.'
The room shrank when Coburn came in, as though five-star luxury could not compete with so purposeful a tread.
'Bambi, I want to conference Meyer Obermann and Phyllis Cheat-ham at midday and Zike Weinberg at two-fifteen. Tell Marian at Zike's office we're gonna talk schedules on Red Devil p.m. Hope Freeway can call me any time about Barbara Brindisi for Ghost Town but I don't want to hear a damn thing about Chum Nasser. Will you fix those London meets and tell LA to e-mail the call checklist through to the portable here and Maximilian Durnhauser. Everything goes to Max, right. And honey, tell these guys we're in the bunker till whenever. No interruptions. No faxes. Zero antipasto. Do Rick, then join us.'
Coburn was shiny bald with a wrestler's crease at the back of his neck. His shoulders were broad, kegged in muscle. He wore a kimono, track-suit bottoms, pumps. Like a frontier cowboy, all thew and moustaches, he carried himself with equestrian energy across the room, not offering Michael a hand or nod, or the security of a glance, but making him feel somehow included, as if his buffalo might were a shield to the near at hand.
Weislob snapped off the phone and came into the room. 'OK, let's go.'
'You got anything for Bambi?'
'I got everything for Bambi.'
Coburn turned to greet Michael, as though he had just come in. There was no pretence at familiarity, only a handshake, the glare of assessment. Coburn knew human nature. His eyes were disarmingly brown, containing surplus personability.
'Rick Weislob.' A big hand ushered in a short associate.
Weislob without shades exhibited no friendliness. The face was sour, usefully mean. He did not look like his voice. His hard blue eyes regarded Michael unflinchingly, as though the telephone call between them had never happened.
The 'bunker' was an empty bedroom, with wall lamps set into a panel either side of where the bed would have been. The hotel staff had brought in a conference table and four chairs for the purpose of the meeting and provided water in a jug and glasses.
Weislob sat down at the far end of the table, his jacket buttoned, shades pocketed, fingers conjoined. He had the bottled quality of a man who has had to eat shit and is heavily unpleased, tight-faced with the anger of it.
'Real pretty place,' said Coburn, coming away from the window and leaning against the wall.
Michael hoped that their flight had been OK.
'Flight's a flight.'
They had tried to intimidate him. He was unimpressed. He was not going to be bullied.
When Bambi arrived, Coburn averted his eyes. She sat opposite the boss, legs crossed, pen and notepad ready.
For a moment there was a curious silence that rehearsed all that stood between them, the incongruity of the situation, its uncustomariness and gravity.
'You got the option agreement?' said Weislob.
Michael shook his head.
'Bambi, did you ask Mr Lear to bring the option agreement?'
'Yes, sir.'
Weislob was unblinking.
'You never faxed the coverage,' he said.
'I faxed it Wednesday.'
'Didn't arrive.'
'I have fax confirmation.'
'Not received.'
'Talk to your hotel. You got the option?'
'It's in my hotel room.'
Weislob gasped, unable to conceal impatience. 'Michael. We fly from LA. Ten hours. Six thousand miles. Meanwhile, you leave the contract in your hotel room.'
'I didn't ask you to come.'
'You agreed to show us the contract! You made a promise!'
'Bambi.' Coburn leaned forward, rubbing his eye. 'Have reception call Mr Lear's hotel. Mr Lear can authorise the hotel staff to collect the agreement from his room and give it to a messenger.'
Bambi rose questioningly.
Coburn humped his shoulders.
There was silence.
'Thank you, Bambi.'
'It's a standard agreement,' Michael said quickly. 'You've seen hundreds like it.'
'There's agreements and agreements.'
He drew himself up. 'I'd hate to waste time on small print. This discussion might go nowhere.'
'You got sequel rights?'
'Yup.'
'Merchandising, CD-rom.'
'Sure.'
'Option renewals?'
Coburn came towards him rapidly, placed hairy hands on the table, leaned forward on thick arms. 'We're in this town for forty-eight hours, pardner. My attitude is that when we leave we have a deal.'
He was like a Western sheriff, but real; as though he had gone through things to make him real; fights.
'I hope so.'
'Not hope. Know.'
'I can't . . .'
'Michael!' There was dark energy in Coburn's eyes. 'The situation is dangerous.'
'Because of you,' said Weislob.
Michael frowned away his annoyance. 'For me it's not at all dangerous.'
'Legally it's devastating.'
He flinched.
'We're saying be real!'
'Is that a threat?'
Coburn sat down hard. 'Leave the room, Bambi.'
She made a dignified exit.
Two pairs of eyes came at him.
Coburn dropped a forearm on the table. He drove a tongue into the pouch of his cheek. He shut his eyes meditatively before swinging a slow, sleepy gaze at Michael. 'I can see you like her. Most everyone likes Bambi. Rick here sucks her tits in his dreams.'
'The babe's a breast mountain.'
'Know what, Michael? This business of ours is crammed with shitty people. A flakefest. Hanging out with wannabes, coke crazies, lots of weavy crap, lots of talented furkin people going nowhere, and we get sucked off with all the fringe trash. We're businessmen first and foremost; technicians of profit. We see a market, we make a product, we go straight to the money. Sometimes . . . manners are useful.'
'I don't do manners.'
'Rick is a specialist in non-manners. He's too small to be nice. And the reason Bambs so kindly left the room is cos I want to protect the meek and the innocent from the sight of this thing.'
Coburn leaned to the side and produced an object bound in cloth. He set the bound lump on the table. With a forefinger and thumb he pulled away the material to reveal a hand-gun.
He revolved it on the table's surface, then swept the thing with the edge of his palm towards Michael.
He had never seen a hand-gun before. For a second he felt strange.
Coburn sat back, arms crossed, a biceps in each hand. 'We're LA people. Frontier folk. I've always had a drawer full of metal. I've done Kalashnikov courses. Shooting-range promotions. I got a diploma in gunge. Rick here does martial-arts classes. Like running between punks' legs and biting their balls off. And sure, if some scumface Hispanic pulls a tool on me I'll shoot him. No problem. Squeeze the trigger like taking a piss. Cos I believe in democracy and I believe in a man's right to defend his property. Like if you came into my house' – he pointed at Michael – 'and you laid a finger on what I own, I'd blow you in half with this here gun.'
/> 'You took the option, Michael. You stole property.'
'I keep what's mine.' Coburn lurched towards the gun, grabbed it back. 'I wanna piece through customs, favours are called. You know. Bambs there, great at favours.'
'Two of the biggest alibis in the business.'
'So let's cut the fuck and get to the point.'
Michael scratched his neck, displacing astonishment. Coburn was stagy and grotesque, and he had not expected anything like it.
'We ain't the suave charming guys we seem.' Weislob's eyes were crystal blue, the skin sallow. He had eaten his jetlag and digested it in one.
'OK, dear.'
Bambi returned, resumed her seat, and waited with parted lips for the discussion to continue. She gazed expectantly at Michael.
'You got the option?' said Weislob.
The gun had disappeared.
'Just a minute, Rick.' Coburn was on his feet, stroking the back of his neck. 'Michael says he's got the option.'
'Maybe Michael's lying.'
'You lyin', Michael?'
He made no response.
'We have a lie detector here.'
For a moment he was checked, as if they knew something and were psyching him out. But they could not know anything.
'This discussion proceeds on the basis that you have the rights, that your attendance here represents you have the rights, that we are here in reliance of that and that you'll give us the agreement at' – Coburn checked his Rolex – '3 p.m.'
'If you want to talk, talk.' It was time to dig in. 'I'm not accepting conditions.'
'Don't hardball us!' Weislob hit the table.
'Rick, slow down.' Coburn wandered towards Michael's end of the room, clapped his palms together. He was suddenly different. He had given his mood a makeover. His eyes glittered with theatrical anticipation. Suddenly, he pulled the gun from his pocket and clicked the trigger. A tongue of flame shot up from the barrel. 'You got me a smoke, Rick?'
The short agent took a cigar tube from inside his jacket, put it flat on the table.
Coburn smirked at Michael, a hillbilly smirk full of childish mirth and sophisticated gamesmanship.
'Maybe later. When Michael's a little more relaxed.'
Weislob grinned for an instant.
Sex & Genius Page 21
