“Who’s ‘Bob’?”
“Kennedy. Nobody but the family calls him ‘Bobby.’ Anyway, he hired Chet in a hurry because he needed a speechwriter right away, and it was two or three months before his FBI report came through. It was full of stuff about his alcoholism, but by then Bob didn’t have the heart to fire him, so he let him stay on. And Chet did try, I guess – he wrote some good speeches – but he seemed to feel that if he stayed sober all day he could go to hell with himself at night and on the weekends; that made it kind of rough on me. Then toward the end, just before the Assassination, the drink began to show on him: he looked like hell and he had the shakes – he’d have to sneak out across the street for quick shots of vodka to get him through the day. In an awful kind of way the Assassination was a break for him: when people started handing in their resignations it meant he could quit decently. That’s when I quit too.”
“Where is he now?”
“Here in town someplace, I guess. I honestly don’t know, and I don’t care. I broke off with him last month, before I went up to see my father. It seems like years ago now.”
And no wonder, because the trip to see her father had changed her life. “I always forget how old he is,” she said. “He’s over sixty now, and sometimes he seems even older than that. I guess he’s never really been happy since my mother died; anyway, he’s always saying Mark and I are all he has in the world. Did I ever tell you about Mark?”
“Only that he was an absolute genius at the piano.”
“Did I say that? Well, I guess it’s true enough. He’s been studying in Rome for four or five years, and last summer Daddy went over to visit him. I think he thought it was time for him to stop studying and start performing. And he found him – John, if I tell you this will you promise not to laugh or say something awful? You have to promise.”
“Okay.”
“He found him playing cocktail piano in a tourists’ hotel; that’s part of it, and the rest is worse. He’s living with another man in an apartment that’s all mirrors and black velvet. He’s turned homosexual, you see.”
“Oh.”
“And I guess some other father might’ve been able to take it, but not Daddy. He thinks in terms of Sodom and Gomorrah. He says he doesn’t want anything to do with Mark any more, and I think he means it. Anyway, the whole thing has made him sort of a super-father to me, if you can understand that.”
“I think I can.”
“So when I went up there he said ‘What do you want, Pamela? What do you want in all the world?’ I think he was hoping I’d say marriage and a family, but I still don’t feel ready for that; maybe I never will. I thought it over for a few days – I mean that’s the kind of question you have to think over – and then I told him I wanted something to do with filmmaking. I even told him a little about you.”
“About me?”
“Oh, not really anything about you, just that I’d been – well, fond of a man who was interested in movies too, and that we’d worked together on an experimental film that hadn’t been finished. And the point is, John, by this time he was practically reaching for his checkbook. I mean I know he has more money than he knows what to do with, but I never expected anything like this. He said ‘Would you like to go to Hollywood?’ I said there were plenty of places besides Hollywood for making movies, and he said there were other places than Detroit for making cars, too; he said if a thing is worth doing it’s worth doing right. And John, he offered to finance me for any amount up to fifty thousand dollars.”
“That’s quite a lot.”
“I couldn’t believe it.” For a moment she looked like a little rich girl boasting of her father’s extravagant birthday gift. “But he said I wasn’t a child any more and I could be entrusted with responsibility, and he said ‘If you’re going out there you don’t want to be poor.’ And John—” She got out a cigarette and lit it with a gold lighter that had probably been another of her father’s gifts; or maybe it had been a gift from Chester Pratt. “—John, the thing is, I do want to go, but I don’t want to go alone. I want to go with you.”
“Until Chester Pratt sobers up, you mean?”
“I knew you’d say something like that. How can I convince you? Listen: I read over Jerry’s screenplay of ‘Bellevue’ the other night and it made me cry, thinking of you. Oh, listen—” She put her cigarette in the ashtray and leaned close to hold his wrist in both tense hands, and all at once he knew what had drawn him to her in the beginning, even more than her perfect flesh; it was her voice. “Listen. Why not come with me? Do you have anything better to do with your life?”
“Janice,” he said a few nights later, “there’s something I have to tell you.”
He didn’t look at her face until he’d gotten through the hard part – he wanted a separation; he was going to California; he had an opportunity to become a producer; there was a girl – and when he did risk a glance at her he found she looked blank: he couldn’t tell if she was being “civilized” about it or if she was stunned.
“… And there’s enough in the bank to last you and Tommy nearly two years,” he was saying, “not that you’ll need that much. With any kind of luck I’ll be able to start sending you money on a regular basis within a year, maybe inside of six months, and of course I’ll always …”
“So you’ve made up your mind,” she said at last.
“Yes. I have.”
“Then there’s nothing I can say, is there?” She got up from her reading chair and walked a few steps away from him, holding her shoulders high. When she turned he expected her face to be ugly with rage, but it was almost pretty in a plain way. Her eyes were bright. “Oh, John,” she said. “And I thought we were getting along so well together.”
“… And I’ll be out there a long time,” he said to his son the following night. “Maybe six months, maybe longer. But we’ll keep in touch.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“And maybe when I get settled we can arrange for you to fly out for a visit. Would you like that?”
“Sure; that’d be fine.”
“Might be fun for you, flying out to the Coast by yourself. And there’s plenty to see in Los Angeles – lot of good baseball, for one thing.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“It’s the biggest damn fool thing I ever heard of,” George Taylor said. “You’re not only leaving me in a hell of a mess, walking out on all your accounts, but you’re behaving in a completely – a completely irresponsible way. Traipsing off to California with no more idea of – John, a man doesn’t spend all these years building something and then kick it to pieces. What about Janice, for God’s sake? What about your boy?”
“They’re well provided for.”
“That’s not the point. The point is a man needs a home, for God’s sake. You want your little girl, all right, fine, have your little girl, but don’t – well, to put it coarsely, don’t shit where you eat.” His flushed face and pouting lips showed he was both sorry and glad he’d put it that way. “All right!” He held up one hand as if to ward off a blow. “All right; maybe that part of it’s none of my business, but this part” – he jabbed the top of his desk with a stiff index finger – “this is my business. This is your whole career you’re throwing away.”
“I’ve never thought of it as a ‘career,’ George. The fact is I’ve never liked it.”
And Taylor rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Never liked it. Work your way to the top of your profession and then decide you’ve never – Ah, you make me tired. You’re not acting like a man at all, you’re acting like some crazy kid. Movies! What in the name of Christ do you know about movies?”
“Well, let’s see,” Dr. Brink said, turning the pages of a heavy book that looked like an encyclopedia. “Los Angeles. I don’t know anyone out there I can recommend personally, but you can’t go wrong with UCLA. Write down this name: Burton L. Rose. Must be a competent man if he’s in charge of the unit.” And he put the directory away.
“Now. As for your
medication, I don’t think any change is indicated; when you run short of pills you can get refills from Rose. If this were an ordinary business trip I’d let it go at that, but I’m a little concerned about the – uncertainty of your plans.”
“So am I.”
“You’ll be running into situations you can’t begin to anticipate, and you may find yourself under a good deal of stress.”
“That’s what I’m worried about, doctor. I mean not worried, just apprehensive.”
“Apprehensive, right,” the doctor said, as if that were the word he’d been groping for, and he tapped his silver ballpoint pen against his teeth. Then he started scribbling on his prescription pad. “We don’t want to take any chances. So here’s what we’ll do. I’m giving you three additional medications to be taken only in case you feel you’re about to go over the edge. Just remember, these are for bad times only. Put a rubber band around them; keep them in a separate part of your suitcase. Consider them your emergency kit. Fair enough?”
“Fine. And listen, doctor; since I may not see you again, I want to thank you for all your – you know – all your help.”
“Not at all,” Brink said, rising to shake hands. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Chapter Eight
The Los Angeles airport was so bewildering that Pamela was almost in tears by the time he steered their rented car into the maze of Freeways.
“What do I look for?” he asked her as the enormous green-and-white signs loomed and passed overhead.
“Look for Sunset Boulevard,” she said. “That’ll at least be – look out, John – that’ll at least be a place to start.”
All he knew about this city, from two brief business conventions, was that it wasn’t really a city at all. It went on for miles in all directions without ever becoming a city, and the part of it called Hollywood was the most elusive of all; but starting at Sunset Boulevard sounded better than starting at Hollywood and Vine.
“Good,” she said when he’d navigated the exit and they were riding down the pleasant, palm-lined avenue. “Now if we just stay on this for a while it ought to turn into the Strip.”
It did, and they checked into a motel not far from Cyrano’s. Soon he was pouring whiskey over little motel ice cubes and she was kicking off her shoes on a king-size double bed. If nothing else, they were here.
“Cheers,” he said.
“I guess the first thing we ought to do is find an apartment,” she said, “even before we call Edgar Freeman. Don’t you think?”
Edgar Freeman was their only “contact,” a producer-director at Columbia Pictures whose uncle was an acquaintance of her father’s. He had answered her letter with a cheerful note saying he’d be happy to see them for “lunch at the studio.”
“Right,” he said. “And listen, let’s allow two days for finding an apartment. Three days tops.”
It took them four, and the place they found wasn’t very rewarding. It was on one of the streets running south off the Strip, and its only real advantage was in being on the ground floor, with a private entrance. The living room was decorated mostly in the colors of cantaloupe and honeydew; it was habitable, once they’d removed the large-eyed Keene reproductions from the walls, and the bedroom was better, but the whole place looked as impersonal and transient as a motel suite.
“Hell, it’s only temporary,” he said as they unloaded bedclothes and kitchenware and groceries from the car on the fifth day. “We’ll find a better place once we know our way around. Besides, it’s cheap and convenient and it’s got a phone. That’s all we need for now.”
“I’m so glad we didn’t get involved in a two-year lease,” she said, “or anything like that.”
He watched her while she called Edgar Freeman, watched her tense artificial smile when she said “I’m so glad you remember me …” and then the joyous dip of her head when she said “Today? Well, that would be marvelous, if you’re sure you … All right, fine, then…. Twelve-thirty…. Fine, then, Mr. Freeman….”
Then they were driving up to the parking lot outside the big, forbidding hulk of Columbia Pictures, and she was carrying a copy of the “Bellevue” script on her lap.
“Freeman?” said the uniformed man who sat just inside the door, screening all visitors. “Second floor, fourth door to your left.” And the little metal sign there read “The Freeman Company.”
“Just a moment,” said a pretty young secretary who was evidently British, and in a moment out he came – a tall, slender man, elegantly dressed in the Eastern, Madison Avenue style, shooting his cuffs and smiling as if Pamela and Wilder were the two people he wanted most to see in the whole of his busy day.
“Come in, come in, sit down; I’ll be with you in just a second,” he said, and he ushered them into a big sunlit room where four or five other men were standing. He made the introductions so quickly that Wilder could remember none of the names, and then he returned to what had apparently been an interrupted conversation. There was nothing to do but sit in one of the deep sofas and wait.
“I think that’s the answer, Edgar,” one of the men was saying. “If we can’t get any support here we’ll take it to Japan.”
“It’s a long shot,” Edgar Freeman said, “but it’s worth a try. Let’s get Sarah in here.” He sat at his ample desk and pressed a button, and the young British girl came in.
“… letter to Mr. E. C. Moyoto, Executive Producer, Japanese World Films, Inc., Tokyo, Japan. Dear Mr. Moyoto: Remembering our pleasant conversation at the International Conference of Filmmakers last June, I hope you will be interested in the attached screenplay – Okinawa – and will agree with me that it’s a splendid property for joint Japanese-American production. Paragraph.”
“Beautiful,” one of the men said.
“As you will see, the screenplay is based on extensive research into all aspects of the historic battle, from both sides, and some of its most moving and memorable moments are those depicting the heroism and sacrifice – no, scratch that, Sarah – depicting the humanity, heroism and sacrifice of the Japanese armed forces. I look forward to hearing from you soon. Sincerely yours, et cetera.”
“Beautiful,” the man said again. “That’s a great letter, Edgar.”
There was some other talk that Wilder couldn’t follow; then the cluster of men left the office and Freeman stood up. “Sorry to keep you people waiting,” he said. “Some mornings are like that. Ready for lunch?”
The executive dining room served no liquor – that was Wilder’s first disappointment – and had no windows, but an Italian sex goddess sat two tables away from them and there were recognizable if lesser stars nearby.
“I ought to be celebrating today,” Edgar Freeman said. “It’s my fortieth birthday; sort of a milestone. I guess all it really means is that I can’t call myself a young director any more. Have to move aside for the new generation.”
“How many pictures have you made, Mr. Freeman?” Pamela asked him.
“Oh, let’s see.” And he studied a sauce-dipped shrimp on the tines of his cocktail fork while he thought it over. “Seventy-two. No, wait – seventy-four.”
“Seventy-four pictures?”
“Oh, it’s not a record. Comes close, though, for a man my age, especially since nearly all of them showed a profit. I did most of them for Bonanza International over the past twelve years. A lot of people bad-mouth B.I., but I enjoyed a very happy relationship with them.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Are they the people who do those teenage beach pictures?”
“Beach pictures and bike pictures, right. Also horror pictures. B.I. was the first to understand and exploit that market, and they’ve done extraordinarily well. They’re very sound, astute businessmen. Generally when you hear someone knocking B.I. in this town it turns out to be envy, pure and simple. An awful lot of people would like to know how they do it. I came over to Columbia because I thought it was time to get into a more ambitious kind of product, maybe catch up with my European reputation –
I have quite a critical following in Europe, you see, especially in France, especially for my horror films – but so far I must say I’m not very pleased with this studio.” He popped the last shrimp into his mouth and shoved the iced dish neatly to one side. “With certain of the ruling executives anyway. We can’t seem to get together on properties,” he said. “We’ve developed three or four good scripts – what I consider good scripts – and none of them has generated much enthusiasm. First I gave them a really exciting Civil War Western.”
“What’s a Civil War Western?” Wilder asked.
“Northern cavalry, stockades, escaped Southern prisoners, Indians, chases, gunfights, a rape – thank you,” he said to the waiter, accepting a plate of beef-and-kidney stew. “Then I gave them a good solid gangster script based on the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, and now I’ve given them a World War Two piece about Okinawa. It’s like pulling teeth. If we don’t agree on something soon I’ll go over to another studio. Well; tell me about yourselves. What’ve you got there?” And he reached across the table to pluck “Bellevue” from beside Pamela’s plate.
“I don’t think you’d be interested in that,” she said quickly. “It’s an experimental short feature; we – some friends of ours—”
“‘Screenplay by Jerome Porter,’” he read aloud. “Is that the same Jerome Porter who wrote Burn All Your Cities?”
“Yes. I didn’t know that was—”
“It hasn’t been released yet,” Edgar Freeman said, “but everybody’s talking about it. The director’s a young man named Julian Feld; apparently he’s done quite a job.”
“Oh? Well, actually, Julian directed this picture too; it was filmed, you see, back in the East, but it was never edited. We—”
“That so?” he said, thumbing the pages of the script. “Well. You travel in good company.”
Disturbing the Peace (Vintage Classics) Page 18
