Heartland

by Davis Bunn

“Helen, please.” The supervisor gave a proper banker’s smile. “Perhaps I should help you, sir. If you’ll just—”

  “No, no, Ms. Bell, please. Let me.” The teller did her best to straighten up and fly right. “You just get yourself right over here please, Mr. JayJay.”

  “That’s not his name,” the supervisor said.

  “Actually, it is,” Kelly replied.

  “Oooh, I’ve gone all cold. Look. My skin looks like a plucked chicken.” A glare from the supervisor sobered her. “What name should I make it out for?”

  “John Junior, ma’am.”

  “My goodness, you sound just like him.”

  “Of course he does,” the supervisor said.

  “Address?”

  JayJay glanced at Ahn, who replied, “One fifteen Andeles.”

  The circles grew bigger. “You don’t mean . . . You are living here in Riverside?” Another glare. The teller bent over the form. “River-side. There. I can’t hardly write the words. What amount did you want to deposit?”

  JayJay slipped the envelope from his pocket, and the check from the envelope. But he couldn’t bring himself to pass it over.

  “Sign the back,” Kelly said.

  “It’s like putting my name on a lie.”

  She patted his arm. “I know, honey. But it will pass. That’s the problem with money. What looks like too much today won’t be nearly enough tomorrow.”

  “I doubt that.” JayJay signed it John Junior because it just seemed better than getting into explaining what he hadn’t worked out. “Here you go.”

  The teller slid the check over to where the supervisor could have a look. The supervisor said, “Well. I see. Naturally we would normally want to have this clear before we could credit your account. But in this case, since Centurion is a client, I can call their accounting department while you wait.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but that won’t be necessary.”

  “Yes it will,” Kelly interjected. “He’s new to the area.”

  “His house got burned in the fire,” Ahn added.

  “Oh, you poor, poor man.” The teller patted his hand. Then realized what she was doing. And shivered. “Where are you living, honey?”

  “With my family,” Ahn replied.

  The supervisor said, “You’re the Nguyens’ son. Of course, I would have recognized you except . . . If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go make the call.”

  When they were alone, JayJay took the slip of paper and said, “What is your daughter’s name again?”

  “Larissa. Oh, Mr. JayJay, can I call you that?”

  “It’s my name, ma’am.”

  “My daughter is going to just fall over and never get up.” She folded the paper and slipped it into her purse. “She thinks the whole world would be right if they’d just make you president for a day.”

  Kelly said, “He’s going to need some temporary checks.”

  “No problem.” She studied Kelly. “Are you somebody famous too?”

  “Not yet,” JayJay said. “But soon.”

  “Oh, will you give me your autograph too?”

  “Sure thing.” Kelly signed another sheet. “First time for everything.”

  “Tell me about it.” JayJay waited until the teller had stowed it away to ask, “Can I make a transfer?”

  “The transfer’s gotta wait until the money clears. But you can write it up now.” She leaned in closer. “You look sooo much better now you’ve lost all that weight.”

  “Do you know,” Kelly said, “I’ve been thinking the very same thing.”

  “Even my daughter, and she’s your number one fan, well, she started calling you the Goodyear Man. You know. Like the blimp?” She gave JayJay’s form an appreciative hum. “But not anymore. I told her when we saw you fighting them fires, that man has done some serious work on his bootie.”

  “Okay.” He turned to Kelly. “How much does one of them agent things make?”

  “Agent things. I like that. Ten percent is the norm.”

  Ahn slid up out of nowhere. “No way.”

  JayJay pointed at the transfer sheet the teller held. “Make it out to Ahn Nguyen.”

  Ahn protested, “JayJay, you can’t—”

  “You just hush up.” To the teller, “Write me out a transfer for, what’s ten percent of this?”

  “Ten thousand, five hundred dollars.”

  “Sounds about right.” He turned to where Ahn was suddenly struggling for breath and said, “Ho, ho, ho.”

  Chapter 17

  The Thirty Seconds that Shook Derek’s World.

  Even as a working title, it wasn’t much. But Peter was tired. At least he was there for the moment. He was waiting to give his best buddy a ride home. Derek’s car was in the shop. Again. Probably an overdose of smoke.

  Eleven hours as stand-in chief cameraman had left Derek gray with fatigue. He did not even make a pretense of pulling back when Peter took the box of lenses from him. Derek just stumbled along beside him, muttering words that didn’t connect. Still running through shots in his head, and not even aware he was speaking the fragments out loud.

  “Derek, good. I was afraid I’d missed you.”

  Britt Turner was two men. On the surface he was affable and calm and quick. Underneath, however, there was what Peter thought of as the Hollywood edge. As in, scalpel-sharp. There to slice and dice at a moment’s notice. No wonder his buddy turned scared.

  Britt wore the day’s efforts as well. His khaki shirt was stained and his hair was matted from the headphones and sweat. “I just had a word with Larry’s agent.” As in, Heartland’s chief cameraman and Derek’s boss on the set. “Larry is filming some safari in Costa Rica. When he gets back he’s booked for two weeks on a shoot in Calgary. Plus, between you and me, Larry never was totally in sync with our move to high-def.”

  Like a majority of senior cameramen, Larry looked down his nose at video. Film was richer, film was standard op for cinema, film gave greater depth of focus. Yada, yada. The truth was, high-definition digital required relearning an entire trade. But Derek had always felt that hi-def was tomorrow. He had learned film and he loved it. But he also devoured everything available on hi-def.

  Britt said, “I liked the work you did today and so does Martin. So we’ve decided not to bring in a new face. Think you can handle being DP on location?”

  DP, as in Director of Photography. The official title for chief cinematographer.

  Derek was either numb enough or tired enough to respond calmly.

  “Sure thing.”

  “I think so too.” Britt nodded, the deal settled. “Have your agent contact Accounting.”

  Derek watched Britt walk off. The new chief cameraman’s shoulders remained bowed by an overdose of fatigue and sudden shock. He swiveled his whole body toward Peter and asked, “Did that really happen?”

  “Congratulations, man. This is fantastic.”

  “I didn’t even thank him.”

  “There’s always tomorrow, right?” Peter thumped his shoulder. But not too hard. Derek might have keeled over. “Your bus has finally arrived.”

  Derek fumbled for his pocket. He needed three tries to snag his phone, then had even more trouble getting it open.

  “Allow me.” Peter pretended not to see his friend’s eyes welling up. He took the phone and punched in Derek’s home number. “Here you go.”

  Peter hefted the lens case and headed for the camera warehouse. Giving his friend the gift of privacy. Smiling when he heard Derek’s voice go all shaky over those first words. “Honey? Hi. No, I’m fine. Listen, I’ve got something to tell you.”

  Chapter 18

  Martin Allerby’s house was in one of the culs-de-sac off Mulholland Drive’s peak. On good days, the view was stupendous. On bad, he was often above the worst of the LA air. From the road, Allerby’s house was nothing much, a single-story ranch. Five windows with wrought-iron barriers fronted the road. Garage. Tiled roof. The postage-stamp lawn and blooming hedges were as pr
istine as a weekly Japanese gardener could keep them. The only feature of note was a peaked Gothic-style door, banded by iron and plugged with fist-size nails.

  Inside, however, the house exploded. That was the image that came to mind. An explosion of light and space. The house perched on a very steep ridge. From behind, Allerby’s residence was four stories, all glass and steel and redwood. The floors were patterns of hand-cast Mexican tile and Carrera marble. The carpets were Isfahan and all larger than his front lawn. The lighting indirect. The paintings real. Allerby had bought the place the year he had taken over Centurion. He could sell it now and retire to Santa Fe. But Allerby wasn’t after retirement. He was after the most elusive of Hollywood titles.

  A name.

  Allerby wanted to be known. Pointed out wherever he went. A man sought by the top people. A man the stars fought to work for and the critics fawned over. A man able to green-light a feature. A man the investors like Harry Solish waited nineteen weeks to see.

  And one thing was for certain. Martin Allerby was not going to get where he wanted to go with projects like Heartland.

  “I hate that show,” Martin muttered. “Every sanctimonious episode.”

  Milo Keplar did not need to ask which one. He leaned against the balcony railing watching a pair of hawks ride the updrafts. “At least you’re able to set other people in motion, then hole up in your office and pretend it isn’t happening. I’ve got to go out and sell the thing.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  Milo wasn’t done. “Makes me want to gag, talking up that show.”

  Martin walked to the portable bar and freshened his drink. “You know, I think that’s what ruined Townsend. Not the stardom. Having people expect him to be that guy. Honest and straight and strong and true. The red-blooded American hero.”

  “Don’t forget religious.” Milo took a deep belt from his own drink. “That show’s made us the laughingstock of Hollywood. Even when it was at the top of the ratings, we were still the backwater studio nobody wanted to touch.”

  Allerby gripped the railing and said nothing. He knew all about what the Hollywood greats thought of him and his studio and his show.

  One of the longest-lasting oddities about Hollywood was the status of television versus film. The money was in TV. A hit series or game show printed money for years. Success in film was greater when it came. But each feature required starting over from scratch. Television income was far steadier and lasted longer.

  But there wasn’t a single television director, actor, or studio executive who wouldn’t have traded his next of kin for a slot in features.

  A story making the rounds was about a writer who pitched a modern version of Faust. He set it in Hollywood, where a director was offered the chance to move into film if he gave up his soul. The studio exec heard the writer out, then said in all seriousness, “There’s no way I’m turning my autobiography into something you watch at the local cine-plex.” Allerby had no doubt the story was true.

  The doorbell rang. The pair listened as Allerby’s Nicaraguan maid opened the door. Allerby asked, “Ready?”

  “I got to hand it to you, Martin. You know how to impress.”

  “Thanks, Murphy. Coming from you, that means a lot.”

  Allerby disliked bringing business home. His privacy was critical. He needed a haven removed from the Hollywood struggle where he could drop his mask and relax. But this was an exceptional situation. The meeting had to happen. And it had to be where privacy was guaranteed. But it also had to impress. And charm. Allerby had cast about for weeks and come up with no better alternative. From the looks of things, he had chosen right.

  The dining table was situated under the balcony roof overhang. A gas fireplace set into the house’s outer wall fought back the evening chill. The sun was giving them an LA send-off, the haze forming a purple-and-gold veil. Down below glimmered the billion false stars of Los Angeles.

  Murphy Watts, also known as the King of Sleaze, was the only man at the table in a tie. His dress was part of his trademark. His suits all came from a bespoke tailor on Savile Row. His shirts were Turnbull and Asser. His shoes handmade by Church of Jermyn Street. Murphy Watts owned a Regency manor in Dorset. He preferred living, it was said, where no one connected his money to his morals.

  Allerby had come across Murphy Watts early in his career. Among other things, Watts ran a string of high-end call girls, the kind of ladies smart enough to avoid the Mob. Watts promised quality and discretion, things prized by studios entertaining on the sly. Though Watts rarely associated directly with such a relatively trivial portion of his empire, Allerby had made it a point to seek Watts out. Allerby always liked a man who delivered.

  Allerby’s maid arrived with their starters of salmon terrine and Beluga caviar. Watts watched her use the silver tongs to settle crustless brown toast onto his butter plate and said, “I doubt I could do better at the Connaught.”

  “We aim to please, Murphy.” He toasted Watts with his glass. “And make us all rich.”

  “I’m already rich, Martin.”

  “Wealth comes in more forms than bank balances, as you well know.”

  Murphy might be wearing clothes worth more than a new S-Class, but underneath he still looked like a glossy plumber. He stood six-three in his stocking feet, weighed in at over two fifty, and possessed the coarse features of generations of heavy lifters. His eyes were ghostly pale, his age somewhere over sixty. Murphy Watts had started his first skin magazine while still a teenager in the Bronx. He had soon graduated to Los Angeles for two reasons. California’s liberal courts had fought down all attempts to control the growth of porn. And there was a constant supply of new talent, drawn west by the lure of stardom. When the doors of Hollywood proved stubbornly shut, Murphy Watts was there to offer another way to play beneath the lights.

  Allerby asked, “You have any objections if we talk business while we eat?”

  Watts nodded at the maid filling their glasses. “Is it safe?”

  “One of Lucia’s most endearing qualities,” Martin replied, “is her complete lack of interest in the English language.”

  Watts’ meaty hands made a mockery of his table manners.

  “So, Martin. Other than a great view and better food, what do you have to offer?”

  “I’d say a chance of a lifetime, but you’d probably laugh.”

  “Not to your face,” Murphy Watts replied. “I admire you too much for that.”

  Watts was accompanied by a man he had introduced simply as his associate. Martin’s research had identified him as Irving Wexlar. Wexlar’s nickname around the Watts empire was the Cadaver. Wexlar had a reputation for polishing every one of Watts’ dimes before letting it go. He was a bloodless man with skin like wet wax. He did not look at anyone directly. He never spoke. But Martin knew what few others did. Irving Wexlar had a weakness. One Martin intended to exploit mercilessly.

  “So let me lay it out, and you tell me whether it’s as good as I think it is.” Martin set down his fork. Dabbed his lips with his napkin. Set that aside as well. Claiming center stage. “I want to offer you what you’ve been denied for far too long. A chance at legitimacy. Part ownership of a Hollywood studio.”

  The mildly mocking smile dissolved. “Centurion is not for sale.”

  “It will be. Sooner rather than later.”

  “You’re sure about this, are you?”

  “The lawyer who is handling the deal has risked his bar license by breaking confidence with his client.”

  “Now why would a good upstanding Hollywood attorney do that for the likes of you?”

  “Because,” Martin replied, “I offered him five percent of the company.”

  Milo then performed his one role of the night. He made sure Murphy’s attention was elsewhere, then nudged Wexlar. Once. A move subtle enough to either be ignored or misinterpreted. Except for the look Milo gave when the Cadaver glanced over.

  Murphy Watts was a typical New York mick. He had brawled his
way to the top of a very ugly pile. He paid Wexlar very well for his services. But Wexlar wanted what Murphy Watts would never give him. Wexlar wanted ownership. He wanted a piece of the pie and a seat on the board.

  Wexlar lifted his narrow face a fraction and looked straight at Allerby for the first time since entering. Allerby made no sign. Just met the man’s gaze.

  “So Centurion’s going on the block.” Watts made a pretense of unconcern. “So what?”

  “Not the block, never the block. Carter Dawes is sick. He will soon be approached by a buyer. He—”

  “You?”

  “Indirectly.”

  “You have financing in place?”

  “Half of it.”

  “That’s what you want from me? Money?” Watts pushed the plate aside. “I don’t do minority deals, Martin. I’m surprised your research didn’t come up with that.”

  “You’ll never be accepted as principal of a studio. The moral parasites back east would parade you in front of Congress. The majors would shut you out of distribution to protect themselves. You know that as well as I do. Even the softest of your products isn’t taken by any of the networks. For the same reason.”

  Murphy Watts touched the knot of his tie, as though taking reassurance from the silk. “I’ve done all right.”

  “That’s not what we’re talking about, though, is it? Doing all right.”

  “So what do I get from this other than my name on the role of a third-rate company that’s lost in the wilds of television-land?”

  Milo flushed and started to respond. Allerby silenced Milo with a look. Watts caught the exchange and smirked.

  “We intend to launch a new reality show,” Allerby said. “Two hundred contestants. The top twelve will be given costarring roles in a movie we will film and market. A movie that will carry the same title as the program.”

  “Which is?”

  “Vegas Stripper.”

  Milo spoke for the first time. “The tagline will read, ‘Innocence on Display.’ ”

  Watts studied him intently. “You have a buyer?”

  “Two cables are bidding,” Milo replied.

  “Which ones?”