by Davis Bunn
Britt returned his gaze to the tabletop. Deep in thought.
Peter’s heart was hammering so hard he was sure the entire table must be able to hear it. Directly across from him, Derek lifted one thumb. And nodded. A small nod. But a nod just the same.
Then Kelly chuckled.
That drew Britt up. He studied the woman’s smile, his gaze very tight. He had spent a lot of time watching actors give for the camera. “You find this funny?”
“Don’t mind me. It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“It’s nice to hear somebody say what I’ve been thinking all week.”
JayJay shifted on the side wall. “Y’all just stop.”
“No, JayJay.” Kelly redirected her smile and gave up something that, even though it was directed at another man, still caught in Peter’s heart. “No.”
“I ain’t nobody’s idea of perfect.”
“That’s not what Peter is saying. Is it, Peter.”
“No.”
“Sure sounded that way to me.” JayJay kicked the rug with one boot. “And from where I’m standing . . .”
He stopped because Kelly reached over and took hold of his arm. “He didn’t call you perfect, JayJay. He called you a hero.”
Britt said to Peter, “Give me the hook in one line.”
But it was Kelly who answered. “JayJay Parsons. The most real man I’ve ever known.”
Britt’s mask of stone and worry fractured slightly. At least enough for crinkles to form around his eyes and mouth. “So what we’re talking about is a moral drama with strong action underpinnings. Shot completely in digital.”
The room held its breath.
Britt said, “I’m giving this a tentative go. I’ll let you know about the lighting and the steadicam after we’ve had a chance to check out the first few dailies.”
Derek leaned back, looked at the ceiling, and whispered, “Thank You.”
Britt was not done. “I can’t tell you how long we’ve got to make this work. But I think we can all assume that time is a critical factor. Time and quality. We need to make this thing so solid, so professional, we give the studio no reason whatsoever to shut us down.”
The director looked at each of them in turn. His gaze so intent Peter felt it sear his internal organs. Britt went on, “I’m not just asking for best efforts. I’m asking you all to give me every ounce of greatness you possibly can.”
Chapter 28
The Centurion boardroom was separated from Martin Allerby’s office by a pair of double doors. The doors, along with all the room’s other fittings, had been stripped from the set of The Cotton Club, a poor film but a great set. In Martin’s opinion, the twenties-era chamber fit this gathering entirely, as the Centurion board members were totally out of touch with the America of today.
There was one African-American, a pastor. Two accountants, one retired, the other within coughing distance of his third coronary. A retired U.S. congresswoman from Dawes’ district. A pair of former studio executives who between them could not have found an original opinion with a map. And Leo Gish, attorney extraordinaire.
Milo Keplar and Glenn Pritchard, Centurion’s chief auditor, and Martin’s assistant, Gloria, made up the eleven. All but Milo were confirmed Dawes mouthpieces. As usual, the only voice that really mattered was silent, as Carter Dawes was a no-show. Today, however, the empty chair did not concern Martin Allerby one iota. Carter Dawes had already given his approval. This was window dressing. But important nonetheless. They would all report their findings back to the little man on his Ojai Valley ranch. The man who needed to be convinced this was real. And then be forced to accept that his ridiculous excuse for a program was generating one of the most spectacular cinematic failures in the history of Hollywood. So he would finally sell out.
Then Martin Allerby would finally own his dream. A throne in the world of film.
Martin said, “Everybody have a fresh coffee? Fine. Then I’ll call this meeting to order.”
Leo cleared his throat and said what he did every quarter. “Mr. Dawes regrets that other commitments keep him from joining us. I represent him and hold full powers of attorney.”
“So noted.” Martin pretended to study the room. As though any of these clones would matter four weeks from today.
Ever cautious, Martin had covered the financial bases before moving. Only when Harry Solish’s funds and those from the porn king were deposited in his accounts did he set the machine in motion. Carter Dawes was not the only one who kept a stable of tame former studio execs. Two retired directors with impeccable résumés had fronted a deal to buy Centurion. Lock, stock, and barrel.
The previous day, Leo Gish, Allerby’s compliant lawyer, had called with the news. Carter Dawes had tentatively accepted his offer.
Today’s meeting was to ensure the old man stayed hooked.
Allerby waited until all accounting formalities were concluded. When Gloria called for new business and no one else spoke, he rose from his chair. “I have something to discuss.”
He took a step back so that his face was emblazoned by the same silvery light that bathed the framed poster behind his chair. Allerby had placed Heartland’s opening-season placard where he would not need to see it. Now it only added to the moment.
“We are in the business of visual fast food. I don’t mean Centurion. I mean the entire studio industry. We supply what people want. Unfortunately for all concerned, fast food is not particularly healthy. If devoured in the sort of doses we see today, it decays the spirit. It weakens resolve. It suggests that all life can be resolved in thirty-minute cycles.”
Martin took aim at the pastor. “I don’t share your perspective on religion, Reverend. But I do accept that something more is needed. Something deeper. This is what Heartland has been in the business of delivering.”
He saw a couple of the heads begin nodding and worked at keeping the triumph from his voice. He knew exactly how to push their buttons. He should. He’d endured their out-of-date posturing long enough.
It wasn’t just the actors who could deliver a solid Hollywood line.
Martin pointed to the poster. “For reasons beyond our control, however, the series has entered into decline. All of you are aware of the problems. I don’t intend to rehash old business. Some of you may have heard that we’ve signed on a new JayJay Parsons. If you’re interested, Gloria can supply you with copies of his early takes. Or you can simply take my word for it.”
Milo touched one finger to the corner of his mouth, determinedly tugging out the first vestige of a smile. Allerby chose to ignore his partner as he continued, “His first day on the set, Mr. Junior went straight from his screen test to volunteering for frontline duty fighting a local wildfire. He saved two lives that afternoon, a local woman and the writer of the Heartland show. I assume most of you have seen the resulting publicity.”
“Priceless,” Milo intoned on cue. “It just keeps coming.”
“So what we have is a unique confluence of events,” Allerby continued. “We have signed a genuine hero who actually embodies the elements we’ve sold in Heartland for six successful seasons. As a result, we have a chance to revive a program with the most loyal following of anything on television today. An opportunity too good to pass up.” He paused for effect, then delivered the killer line. “My intention, ladies and gentlemen, is to translate this into a feature film.”
He allowed them a moment to let that sink in, then said, “Milo, have you had a chance to run the numbers?”
His sales director opened the leather portfolio. “Last year’s average audience was eight point eight million an episode. Down eleven percent from the year before. Which was down fourteen percent from the previous season.”
“How would this translate to screen numbers?”
Milo pretended to consult his figures. “Assuming no increase in numbers and we could bring two-thirds of our audience to theaters, the studio’s take should be in excess of twenty-five mil.”
&
nbsp; “I intend to hold film costs to twelve million,” Allerby went on. “Another five for marketing. Release in just under a thousand theaters and let it grow steadily. And remember, we are dealing with rock-bottom numbers here. If we are able to draw in sixty percent of our highest ratings, what would we be looking at, Milo?”
Again there was the dramatic pause, then, “Forty-eight million plus.”
One of the studio execs protested, “But your ratings decline suggests the program has run its course.”
Martin smiled thinly and swallowed his initial retort, which was that this very same executive had forced two knockoff sitcoms down America’s throat for years with half those ratings. What he said was, “It’s possible you are right. But we have evidence to the contrary. Milo?”
“Audience surveys have shown it’s not Heartland that has died, but their interest in Neil Townsend. Eighty-five percent of those surveyed who claimed to watch most or all of the previous season’s shows said they no longer felt he was a viable character.”
“We have one other interesting phenomenon which confirms this. Gloria?”
His unflappable secretary had only one speaking voice, a semi-metallic monotone that implied an absolute authenticity. “Since the wildfire incident, our mailbag has trebled in size.”
“Not the Heartland bag,” Martin emphasized. “We’re talking the studio’s total daily mail. And what about the website, Gloria?”
“In the past eight days,” Gloria droned, “the Heartland website has received over a million e-mails directed at either ‘the new JayJay’ or ‘the real hero’ or simply ‘the Incredible Hunk,’ which apparently is a nickname spreading all by itself. According to Yahoo, last week Centurion’s website entered the top ten nationwide in terms of total hits.”
“Which means, ladies and gentlemen, that Heartland has crossed the generational divide.” Martin had no genuine evidence this was true. But he was not dealing in fact here. It was, after all, Hollywood. So long as they swallowed, he would feed. “A feature film starring John Junior could become a genuine phenomenon.”
Milo toasted his boss and partner with a Perrier. “If they gave Oscars for boardroom antics, Martin, you’d walk away unchallenged.”
Martin Allerby did not drive his Touareg so much as wade through the traffic headed west. A million metal lemmings, all desperate to escape the dreary hinterland and pretend they could claim a place in paradise, even if it was only the size of a beach towel. “I wonder if there’s any chance of our winding up with what I described. A phenomenon.”
“Not on your life.” Milo redirected the a/c vent straight at his face. “Remember what we’re talking about here. A team who’s never worked on a feature. Directed by a has-been. Starring two total unknowns. Working with an unfinished script by a drone who’s never written anything longer than sixty minutes minus commercials. Camera work by a guy who until last week made ends meet by chasing firetrucks. Know what that spells?”
“Yes.” He used a halt in his lane to slip his sunglasses onto the top of his head and rub tired eyes. He had not been sleeping well.
“Tell me, Martin. I want to hear you say it.”
“A disaster.”
“No, Martin. A disaster would be something that actually makes it onto the screen. Which this won’t. This charade only needs to last until the deal is signed. Then we kill it.”
“We might keep the show alive,” Martin mused. “See if this John Junior can deliver. At least for another season.”
Milo waved his Perrier unconcernedly. “What we have is an insurance policy. And like I said when you came up with it. This is a true work of genius.”
“We just need to make sure the set dissolves into total madness,” Allerby said. “When the rumors start flying, I want there to be enough juice for the LA Times to carry the tale.”
Milo shook his head. “I’m thinking overkill.”
But Allerby was already reaching for his phone. He speed-dialed Gloria and said when his assistant came on the phone, “Give me Contracts.”
Pritchard came on with, “Legal.”
“Glenn, we need to be ready for an onslaught of agents. Hold hard, but be reasonable.”
“There’s no such thing as reasonable, Martin. This is Hollywood.”
“Tough but fair,” Allerby insisted. “And fast. I want to make this move without a single missed day. I want to have the feature in theaters before our January season opener.”
“That’s pushing things.”
“That’s what I want. Use standard guild levels for mid-budget features right across the board. Remind anyone who balks they can be easily replaced. Oh, and open a new expense line for our star. Whatever John Junior wants, he gets.”
There was a stunned silence. “You can’t be serious.”
“Run anything outrageous by me. But I want this guy to deliver. And if he’s the star I think he’ll soon be, I also want him to stay good and bought.”
Martin slipped the phone back in his pocket. Saw his partner’s grin. “What.”
Milo said, “You’re thinking you can corrupt this guy, ruin him in one season?”
That was exactly what he was thinking. But some things were to be savored in secret. “Don’t talk silly, Milo. I’m just protecting our assets.”
Milo laughed and turned back to the road. “Whatever.”
Chapter 29
Ahn arrived late that afternoon, accompanied by a man who would have looked comic except for the somber way he carried himself. The stranger had white quarter-moons of fluffy hair that grew above his ears, a bald head burned the color of old oak, an eagle’s hook of a nose, no shoulders whatsoever, and a beer barrel for a belly. But his gaze was clear and direct and very intelligent. His voice was his finest quality. “Mr. Junior, I’m Barry Henning. I teach the business of film at UCLA. Before I retired I was an agent with CAA. Ahn asked me to join him today. May I call you John?”
JayJay and Kelly had migrated to the ranch because they were growing stir-crazy hanging around the pool. There was no filming that day. But the activity around the ranch was something to behold. All day long, trucks and people kept coming and going. Derek had sprinted by them so often they had stopped counting. The AD kept wandering past, worrying over whether they needed something. All of a sudden Kip’s first duty in life was to make sure they were coddled like poached eggs.
He slipped off the rail and shook the man’s hand. “JayJay’s worked well enough all my life long.”
“Yeah, I hear the PR folks are salivating over you and this name thing.” Barry Henning eyed JayJay like he was a prize heifer. “Now that we’ve met, I can see why. And you must be the lovely Ms. Channing.”
Kelly sat on the railing beside JayJay’s shoulder. She wore his hat far down over her eyes. She accepted Henning’s hand without moving from her perch. “Call me Kelly.”
Every now and then Skye trotted over to their side of the corral, looking for sugar or an excuse to break free and gallop. Which to JayJay’s mind was looking more inviting with each passing moment. “What can I do for you, Mr. Henning?”
“Call me Barry. Ahn here tells me you’ve appointed him your manager.”
“We shook hands on it.”
“That is definitely a bad idea, JayJay. You’d be handing your career to a minnow and sending him into shark-infested waters.”
“Is that a fact.” JayJay disliked the way Ahn held back, picking a splinter from the fence post.
“Yes sir, it is. Now, I’d be happy to make an introduction to my former partners. CAA handles some of the biggest names in the industry.”
“What about Ahn?”
“He would certainly have some cachet attached to his record when he graduates, having negotiated an initial agreement on your behalf.”
“Ahn, this is the guy you were telling me about?”
“My thesis adviser.”
“Well, I guess that means I’ve got to be polite here. On account of how I think the world of this young man.
” JayJay pushed himself off the fence. Something in his expression caused the agent to falter. “Now let me tell you how this is going to work out. Him, I trust. You, I don’t know. That goes for every single one of those mighty important folks in your alphabet soup of a company. If Ahn here tells me he needs to bring in somebody else to help, that is Ahn’s decision. But he stays in control.”
“But JayJay—”
“Mister, you keep pressing me, and I’m bound to tell you where you can stick that cachet of yours.”
Kelly coughed discreetly. Which the former agent most definitely did not like. “I’ve watched a lot of new stars wreck their careers, JayJay. It never gets easier.”
JayJay retorted, “Who’s talking career? I just want somebody I can trust to make sure these fellers don’t treat me like a rogue steer, wrestle me to the ground, and brand my backside.”
“Your attitude toward this incredible opportunity doesn’t make your actions any less of a mistake. Ahn, I’ll wait for you in the car.”
When the agent had moved off, Ahn said quietly, “He was on the phone the whole way up here. Talking to his former partners. Trying to decide which one of them he was going to pitch to you. Loving how they had to suck up to him. He mentioned me every now and then. Like he was throwing me a bone.”
“Like I was already roped and saddled.”
“Pretty much.” Ahn started kicking the fence post. “He’s right, JayJay. This is so far beyond what I can handle it’s silly.”
“So go out there and hire yourself an expert. That’s what they’re there for, right?” When Ahn did not respond, JayJay guessed, “Your folks giving you a hard time?”
“They alternate. One minute they’re thrilled for me. The next they’re worried I’m going to drive your career off a cliff.”
“See, that’s the same mistake everybody keeps making. I’m not after any career.”
“That could change.”
“It might. But that is in God’s hands. Right now all I want is somebody I trust to count the numbers and keep them fellows honest.”
