Hello Hollywood

by Suzanne Corso

  We r headed 2 brooklyn day after tomorrow, King wrote. Pack your bags, folks, and contact Liza for details about travel.

  Six days, people!!!!!! wrote Prince, his six exclamation points making it sound like Brooklyn was up there with London, Athens, Rome.

  Isabella would go with me, of course. She would get to see her grandmother, her uncle, Alec’s family. It would be the first time we’d been back since Alec had died. A new start, a new chapter, and a journey back to the roots of Brooklyn Story.

  The timing on this intrigued me. Here I’d been thinking about how badly I wanted to get away, and suddenly that was exactly what was going to happen. How could I manifest my other desires that quickly? How had desires and events come together so seamlessly?

  This meant I now had an immediate goal: packing for the trip, tending to details that had to be handled before we could leave.

  Six days to visit the past in all of its strange and bewildering glory. Was it enough time to allow myself to release those darker memories so that I could move forward without these destructive inner patterns?

  FOURTEEN

  Our trip to JFK was riddled with setbacks, delays, schedule changes. Our flight was delayed for a couple of hours, and while we were waiting in the passenger lounge, Carl Davidson emailed everyone the latest script changes for the scenes that would be shot in Brooklyn. Then he came over and sat down next to me. “Let me know, Sam, if these changes are okay with you.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “And I want you to know that I think Paul should’ve been fired a long time go. He created trouble for a lot of the cast and crew, but everyone was afraid to speak up because he was so tight with George. The dynamics are much different now that John is a partner.”

  “Thanks, Carl. There were points when I was beginning to feel like I was a curse or something.”

  “The curse was Paul.” He got up and moved, in his frenetic way, across the waiting area to one of the shops.

  When we were finally en route, I felt so incredibly good that it was easy to put the ugliness with Paul behind me. John sat on one side of me, Isabella on the other—how could I possibly ask for more? In fact, the cast and crew took up the entire business section on the Boeing 777, thirty-five of us, and the mood was upbeat and rollicking. The five-and-a-half-hour flight flew by.

  As the plane made its final approach, I spotted central Long Island, a glorious spread of emerald green and houses attached to each other. The contrast excited me. Even though I loved Malibu, I was a New Yorker through and through and didn’t realize until that moment how homesick I’d been. I could feel the pulse of the city’s frenetic energy radiating upward from the streets below. I could almost hear the constant din of traffic, the chatter of voices, and the clattering of trains over subway tracks. I could almost taste the spring air. I could almost taste the greasy zeppole at the 18th Avenue Feast in the heart of Bensonhurst. What a joy it would be to reenact that!

  Then we were on the ground, and excitement surged through me. I was home.

  A private bus took us from JFK into the city, to the Greenwich Hotel in Tribeca. It was a gorgeous building, the color of dark copper, on North Moore Street and Greenwich. There were eight floors, seventy-five thousand square feet, eighty-eight rooms and suites, and no two of them were alike. Travel & Leisure called it the crown jewel in De Niro’s Tribeca holdings, which included the Tribeca Film Center, Tribeca Cinemas, and Nobu and Tribeca Grill restaurants.

  The hotel featured two sumptuous penthouses that were two thousand and twenty-five hundred square feet, respectively. When Alec was at the height of his career, we had stayed here on several occasions, usually in the larger penthouse. I remembered asking Alec how much the place cost, but he refused to tell me. Don’t worry about it. We can afford it.

  Now I knew it cost nearly six grand a night.

  What I particularly loved about the Greenwich was the vast range of cultural influences in the furnishings and spaces: everything from hand-loomed Tibetan silk rugs to English leather settees to the Paris-inspired courtyard. The beds were to die for—Duxiana from Sweden. In the bathrooms, you found hand-laid Moroccan tile or Italian Carrara marble. The Shibui Spa had a shiatsu room, a traditional Japanese bathing room with a large tub, as well as a fitness area with hemlock floors. The Shibui also featured a lantern-lit swimming pool and lounge. As the hotel brochure pointed out, the pool and lounge were under the roof of a two-hundred-fifty-year-old wood-and-bamboo farmhouse that had been reconstructed by Japanese craftsmen for the hotel.

  This Old World charm was carefully balanced and complemented with twenty-first century technology—­Wi-Fi, high-def TVs, iPod-docking stations, laptops. The suites even had iPads. In other words, everything here was first class. The moment you stepped into this hotel, you were transported. To me, it was the perfect place to be, yet private—so close, yet so far away from Brooklyn. The only thing that separated us now was that glorious bridge.

  Liza had booked Isabella and me into the fireplace corner suite, which had a sitting room, dining area and wet bar, huge bathtubs and a walk-in shower, a working fireplace, and everything else we could possibly want for the next several days. John, Liza, King, and Prince had suites down the hall from us, and Susan, Camilla, and Jenean had the penthouse. The rest of the cast and crew had interconnecting rooms. King had also reserved the smaller penthouse for meetings and meals.

  After Isabella and I had showered and changed clothes, we met John and Liza in the lobby and hopped a car for a short ride to Brooklyn. I didn’t want to take the train. I needed to drive over that bridge again. I needed to feel that energy. And, most of all, I needed to cross it once more to get to the final destiny of my dream, the film.

  It felt good to be in Manhattan again, to spot familiar shops and stores, landmarks from those years I spent with Alec. But I was glad to be in Malibu, even as fractured and strange as it had felt recently.

  John asked the driver to let us off in Bensonhurst. “There’s a great pizza place in this neighborhood,” he said.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Frank’s Pizzeria!”

  He laughed. “But first, we’ve got another stop to make. A surprise.”

  “Very mysterious,” Liza remarked.

  “I love mysteries,” Isabella said.

  But I knew where he was headed.

  Sure enough, we stopped in front of Our Lady of Guadalupe, the church where I had so often found solace and peace during the tumultuous years earlier in my life, the years of the Brooklyn Boys.

  Liza saw the name and snapped her fingers. “Hey, we film here tomorrow morning.”

  “You got it,” John said.

  As the four of us walked into the cool silence, I almost expected to see Father Rinaldi, the old priest who had spent so much time with me. The two of us used to sit in one of the pews, talking quietly about God and faith. And when my relationship with Alec had been new, the priest and I had even talked about that.

  It felt odd to think of my younger self talking to a priest about the intimate details of my life. I knew I wouldn’t do such a thing now. But Rinaldi had been a kind of counselor for troubled teens, and I suspected my earlier journey would have been much more difficult without him.

  “Wow,” Liza murmured. “Look at these gorgeous stained-glass windows. Can’t you just see it? It’s going to be perfect for filming. The weather tomorrow is supposed to be sunlight and New York grand.” She suddenly frowned, reached into her voluminous handbag, and pulled out the script notes for tomorrow. She paged through them quickly. “I knew it. There’s nothing in here about who’s playing Father Rinaldi!” She glanced at John. “John?”

  His eyes twinkled. “A secret we’ve kept under wraps quite well, don’t you think?”

  “Another surprise?” Liza drolled.

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “C’mon, Mr. Steeling, tell us who,�
� Isabella said.

  “De Niro.”

  Liza squealed and clapped her hands like a little kid. “My God, that’s fantastic!”

  I was floored. “Really?” I remembered someone had mentioned the possibility of De Niro as a priest, but I’d long since forgotten it. “How in the world did you . . .”

  “He’s in town, knows we’re staying at the Greenwich, gave us a break on the price, so I made a call.”

  “Awesome,” Isabella said. “And I’m going to miss meeting him? That is so not fair.”

  “Maybe your grandmother can pick you up later in the morning. I’ll give her a call and arrange it.”

  The plan was that she would spend the day with Alec’s mother, sister, and brother, who would take her anywhere she wanted and spoil her rotten for twenty-four hours. But how often did you get to meet De Niro? We would work around it. I was sure Alec’s family would understand.

  I went over to the candles and lit three: for my mother, for Grandma Ruth, and for Alec. I stood there for a few moments, drawing the peace and silence around me like a shawl, a cape, a cocoon, and was astonished that I could still feel such peace in a church.

  John came up behind me, touched my shoulder. He gestured at the three lit candles. “Mother, Grandmother, Alec.”

  I nodded.

  He gave my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Ready for pizza?”

  I turned, and for a long moment we simply looked at each other, our eyes locked, both of us remembering those incredibly sensual moments down by the swimming hole. “Thank you,” I said softly.

  “My pleasure, Sam.”

  He clasped my hand, and we headed down the aisle to the front of the church, where Liza and Isabella were ogling one of the many exquisite sculptures. “Pizza time, ladies.”

  “I’m famished,” Isabella said.

  “Ditto,” Liza echoed.

  “Anything Italian sounds fantastic to me,” I said.

  Frank’s Pizzeria wasn’t far, and the evening was perfect for walking. John and I held hands, an electrical current racing between us. We were behind Liza and Isabella, and at one point, he slipped his arm around my shoulders, leaned toward me, and kissed me. “I love being here with you,” he whispered.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “And I love that I can return here on my own terms. You know what I mean?”

  “Do I ever. It’s kind of liberating.”

  We had both grown up poor, had dealings with the mob. He was actually a self-made man who had basically disappeared from everyone’s radar by moving out to L.A. We both had known more than our share of violence. To think about where we had come from and who we had become was incredible. Now we, a couple of orphans, were part of the Gallery Studio family, were with that family in the place where we had grown up and come of age. Pieces were sliding together beautifully. I still could not believe that this man was back in my life after so many years. Sometimes while your eyes are half-closed, love manages to open them wide.

  At Frank’s Pizzeria, we ordered a large pizza with all the trimmings, a round of Brooklyn Lagers for the grown-ups, and lemonade for Isabella. John regaled us with stories about working on Gallery’s movies and some of the comical mishaps that had occurred. We were all in stitches.

  Marvin texted me that he and Flannigan were in Brooklyn—where were we? I told him, and moments later, they walked in and joined us. “I’ve been showing Jim our old haunts around here,” Marvin said.

  “It’s definitely not Malibu,” Flannigan said with a quick laugh. “But it’s all about a kind of Old World charm. I like it.”

  “A Brooklyn convert,” I remarked.

  “Well, not exactly. I’m still a California guy at heart, but there’s something wonderful about walking around in real neighborhoods that have trees and sidewalks and kids playing in yards and parks. Is your son coming to the shoot tomorrow, John?”

  “He and his girlfriend. They were going to join us tonight, but they’re tied up with stuff on campus.”

  “Did you tell them, Mr. Steeling?” Isabella asked. “About tomorrow’s surprise?”

  “Nope.”

  “What surprise?” Marvin asked.

  Isabella looked at John. “Can we tell them?”

  “Can you guys keep a secret?” John asked.

  Marvin and Flannigan leaned forward. “Our lips are sealed,” Flannigan said. “Spill the beans, John.”

  “De Niro.”

  “Oh, my God,” Marvin gasped. “To play the priest, right? Father Rinaldi?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I can so see him playing the part,” Marvin said.

  “Will he sign autographs?” Flannigan asked.

  “I can see it now,” I laughed. “De Niro surrounded by all the Gallery groupies who request his autograph, ply him with questions, ask him to pose for photos . . . He might quit before we start shooting!”

  “We promise we won’t be that bad!” Flannigan said, and crossed his heart.

  John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

  I liked what I saw of John that evening, a fun-loving, personable man who seemed to understand the landscape of the human heart in a way that no other man I’d known had ever grasped. He redeemed himself at every level. As though his past experiences had never occurred. In spite of what he had endured in his life—abandonment by his blood parents; his adoption into a mafia family, where he’d been inducted into the underworld at a young age; the time he’d spent in prison—he had emerged from the darkness as a changed man. It was the archetypal Plutonian journey into the dark underworld. But he had crawled out on the other side and made something of himself.

  It was the classic hero’s journey that Joseph Campbell had written about, upon which all wonderful stories were based. In terms of storytelling, the journey had been broken down into succinct steps, and whenever any of us read a script, we looked for these steps:

  The hero is introduced in his ordinary world.

  The call to adventure.

  Refusal of the call.

  Meeting with the mentor.

  Crossing the threshold.

  Tests, allies, and enemies.

  Approach.

  The ordeal.

  The reward.

  The road back.

  The resurrection.

  Return with the elixir.

  In his personal journey, John had been resurrected already. I figured he was nearing the final step. What would the elixir be for him?

  In many ways, we had been living on parallel tracks, and now those tracks had intersected. We were both a couple of underdogs who had come out on top. But perhaps each of us was missing the essential ingredient—true love.

  During a moment when everyone was riveted by a story that Flannigan was telling, I asked John how he had met De Niro. He smiled. “The truth sounds like fiction, Sam.”

  “Hey, you’re talking to the queen of truth as fiction. Try me.”

  “In 2008, I was involved in the sale of the Greenwich Hotel. I was living in L.A. by then, working with King and Prince, but my real estate license was still active in New York, and one day, I got this random call. . . . I flew back to New York that night and showed him the place the next day.”

  “Just like that?” I snapped my fingers. “Is that how stuff usually happens in your life?”

  “Not before I went to prison. But now, more so. He and I hit it off years ago, and we shared similar interests, similar backgrounds. Over dinner and drinks, he described his vision for what he wanted to do with the Greenwich. And he achieved what he set out to do. Anyway, a few days after that dinner, we had a deal.”

  “I like that he had a vision and sculpted it.”

  “Don’t most of us try to do that?”

  “I think so. But we don’t always succeed.”

 
“When we do, though, the reward is incredibly gratifying. The commission I made on just that deal has facilitated everything since then. I invested the money well, and it grew.” He paused and touched my thigh. “This movie, Sam, is going to be incredible. Paul’s outta the deal, we have a solid script, terrific talent in the cast and crew, and we’re working with a fantastic studio. What could possibly go wrong?”

  The moment he said those words, the superstitious part of me recoiled in horror. If I’d learned nothing else over the years, it was never to tempt fate by asking what could possibly go wrong. When you did that, Murphy’s Law tended to spring into action.

  Not long ago, out in Malibu, I saw a sign that really kicked Murphy’s Law in the ass. It read: If anything can go right, it will. That was also Nina’s motto.

  My resolve was to try to live by those words.

  • • •

  When we returned to the Greenwich, we ran into King, who asked us to have a drink with him. Isabella said she wanted to Skype with some friends, so I gave her the key and she went up to the room. Since Marvin and Flannigan begged off, too, it was just John and me, Liza and King in the hotel bar.

  I thought how wonderful it was to be here, not worrying about Paul suddenly appearing like some monster in a fairy tale. With three thousand miles and his stint in jail separating us, it seemed unlikely that Paul would be a problem, at least not while we were on the East Coast.

  It was in that moment that I recognized the enormous tension and stress I’d been functioning under since early April, when things had started falling apart with Paul. I could feel it across the back of my neck, through my shoulders. I thought about John kneading my shoulders, massaging them, those large, powerful hands of his working the tension out of my muscles. And I fantasized about how his hands would feel against my bare skin, what kind of lover he might be.

  “Sam?” Liza snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Hey, hon, you were a zillion miles away. Rosé for you?”