Ordinary Joe

by Jon Teckman

  I also had a thirst. I found a small bar nestled just behind the main drag, a popular hang-out for the less glamorous members of the British contingent. Tired-of-life film critics huddled with independent cinema programmers in the narrow street behind the bar enjoying a relatively inexpensive beer and arguing about the best James Bond or the worst screen Jesus or discussing the amazing low-budget Albanian film they’d watched that afternoon. And I sat and sipped my beer and eavesdropped on their conversations and wondered what they would think if they knew they were sitting in the presence of a man who had once spent the night with the delectable Olivia Finch, had achieved something that most of them could only ever dream about – and turned his life into a nightmare as a result.

  The next morning I woke up early and headed back down to the sea front. I had several meetings set up with British producers looking to Askett Brown for finance – meetings which could just as easily have taken place in London but which were so much more pleasant here on the Riviera. Most of the business during the Festival took place in the various hotels on a short stretch of one side of La Croisette or at the hotels’ extensions onto the beaches on the other side. Cannes is, in effect, just an enormous office block turned on its side and opened up to the elements. Coffee and croissants were standard fare at every meeting, so I’d already eaten my way through three breakfasts by the time I headed down to the Carlton Hotel to meet Buddy for lunch.

  I was first to arrive and was shown to a table out on the vast terrace by the outdoor swimming pool. I settled down with an orange juice, which I sipped through a straw while I flicked through the complimentary trade papers that lay around in huge piles at all the top hotels. The main titles all published daily updates on the major deals and rumours of deals at the Festival and reviews of all the films screened the previous day. All of them were reporting that Olivia Finch would be arriving in town that afternoon for the screening of Nothing Happened.

  They were all pretty general, until I turned to one article clearly written by a columnist who fancied herself as a modern-day Louella Parsons. Under the headline ‘Finch Set to announce Long-Term Transatlantic Commitment’, the journalist reported that sources close to Olivia Finch had told her that she was madly in love with a mystery Englishman and might be about to announce her engagement. I felt cold beads of sweat prick my forehead, even though, with the sun almost directly overhead, the temperature must have been pushing thirty degrees. I read on, desperately hoping that the mystery Englishman would remain mysterious, and was so absorbed in this unfolding tale as it snaked its way through the paper’s narrow columns that I didn’t notice Buddy arrive.

  ‘Hey Joey West!’ he boomed from ten tables away. ‘How the devil are you? As he reached me, he stretched out an enormous hand and almost tore my arm off with his enthusiastic greeting. Len and Diana were with him and I greeted them as they took their seats, trying to keep my upper lip stretched over my teeth when I said ‘Hi!’ – the shortest sentence I could get away with. I had left the unsightly braces in my room but still preferred to keep my dental upgrade hidden.

  Buddy ordered an expensive bottle of Chablis and asked to see the food menu. Then he turned to me, asking ‘So, how the devil are you, Joey? I haven’t seen you for days. You don’t write, you don’t call …’

  ‘Sorry Mom,’ I replied and made the mistake of smiling.

  Buddy exploded again: ‘Oh my God! You’ve had your teeth fixed! Hey, look at this, guys – Joey’s gone for the full Tom Cruise! They look great, Joey, but what did you do? Buy your teeth by the yard?’

  I told them the story, stressing that it had been an accidental collision with Bennett’s fist that had done the damage rather than retribution after the incident in the boardroom. Len and Di were sympathetic, but Buddy laughed loudly throughout my tale. Perhaps he and Bennett weren’t so different. There were definitely traces of the Purple Stallion in Buddy.

  Buddy ordered our lunch, then looked at me with a more serious intent. ‘Hey, listen,’ he said, ‘speaking of your pal Bennett, we’ve got to do something about him and Olivia. The poor kid’s really screwed up by the whole thing and I need her on top form for the next couple of days. We’re already in talks with her agent about a sequel to Nothing, so she’s got to be out there pushing the franchise, not moping around over some chinless English cocksucker, if you’ll pardon the expression. Is he here?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I replied. ‘He’s flying in with Bill Davis later today.’

  ‘Oh great! So we get Laurel and fucking Hardy. The point is, Joe, that although I can’t stand the guy, I need him to play nice with Olivia while he’s here. Whatever the hell he really thinks about her, I want him to make her feel special, OK? I don’t care if he keeps his fingers crossed behind his back while he’s humping her, I just don’t want her upset again. You got it?’

  I’d got it. But would Olivia get it?

  Buddy hadn’t finished. ‘Have you got your ticket for the screening tonight? And the party?’

  ‘I have,’ I said, still mumbling in my attempt to keep my new teeth away from public view, ‘but I need a couple for the other two. Is that possible?’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ Buddy said. ‘These tickets are like angels’ farts. We must have got rid of the last of them weeks ago.’ He paused, waiting for my reaction. A big part of me was relieved – it meant one less chance for Bennett to meet Olivia and for my whole paper-thin story to unravel. And one less chance for him to hurt her again. But I was also worried – how would I tell Bill and Bennett that they wouldn’t be able to come to the event they were flying in specifically to attend.

  Buddy let the uncomfortable silence drag on for another few seconds, then reached into his inside pocket, drew out an envelope and continued. ‘Only messing with you, Joey. Here, I swear these must be the last tickets anywhere in fucking France. And the doormen have been told that nobody gets in without a ticket. Absolutely no one. The Queen of England could turn up arm in arm with the fucking Pope, they’re not getting in, you know what I’m saying? So give these to Stan and Ollie and make sure your pal Bennett knows he’d better look after my girl, tonight, OK? Or he’ll have me to answer to.’ I nodded. ‘Great,’ Buddy said as a waiter arrived with a huge platter of fresh sea food, swimming in a lake of crushed ice, ‘let’s eat!’

  Buddy was a generous host and I left the hotel a couple of hours later with the unruly gait of someone who had enjoyed a glass and a half too much hospitality. I hadn’t taken any notes and wouldn’t be able to remember a single word of what had been discussed when I got back to London. But that wasn’t the point. I’d been building my relationship with a key client. Les and Di had drunk less and noted more and would be able to tell us everything we needed to know. The one thing I could remember was Buddy reminding me again to tell Bennett to be nice to Olivia.

  I popped into a souvenir shop to buy some gifts for Natasha, the kids and Polly and bought myself a cheap watch with the Palme d’Or logo on its face to replace the one I’d lost, then I meandered back to my room to shower and rest in preparation for the big night. I could see disaster galloping up over the horizon, led by a rampant purple stallion, and it would be my job to protect the damsel he was almost certain to distress. It was a shame, I reflected, that they didn’t sell pairs of balls in that souvenir shop, with or without the ubiquitous golden laurel wreath design. I was going to need to find a pair from somewhere.

  As Nothing Happened was not entered into any of the official Festival competitions, the protocol for the screening was informal – lounge suits rather than black tie. I put on my favourite pastel green shirt and the trousers of my recently bloodied suit, slung the jacket casually over my shoulder and headed back down the hill.

  Bill Davies and Bennett were staying at one of the better hotels on La Croisette. I reached the foyer a few minutes after eight and was relieved to see that they hadn’t yet arrived. I ordered myself a beer and waited patiently, flicking through another of the daily trade magazines. My colleague
s sauntered into the hotel lobby at quarter to nine, pulling their cases behind them and not looking too concerned about keeping me waiting.

  ‘Sorry, Joe,’ Bill said while Bennett diverted to the reception desk to ask after their rooms, ‘flight was delayed. Spot of fog at Heathrow. What time does the film start?’

  ‘No problem, Bill,’ I replied. ‘It doesn’t start until ten.’

  ‘Great. We’ll dump our bags, get changed and meet you back here in fifteen minutes.’ He walked over to Bennett, then turned back to me, ‘Joseph’s in room 485 – charge any drinks to that. Why don’t you get a bottle of fizz ready for when we come down?’

  I went back to my paper and then, when I anticipated their reappearance must be imminent, I ordered a bottle of champagne and three glasses. I was already enjoying my second glass, reading an enthusiastic review of a Lapp film shot entirely from beneath an ice floe, when they eventually appeared. As far as I could see, neither of them had changed. Bennett’s breath suggested he had already introduced himself to the mini-bar, a fragrant combination of Scotch and peanuts.

  ‘You all right, Joe?’ he asked as he sat down. ‘Love the new teeth! I’ve been telling everyone that story, haven’t I, Bill? Always gets a good laugh! I thought that trolley dolly was going to wet herself. Pour us a glass of fizz then, there’s a good chap.’

  Looking back at all that’s happened since, it’s like watching the highlights of a sports match when you know what’s coming next but the players don’t – when a batsman looks in sparkling form but you know he’s scored his last run. Or Kennedy smiling and waving as his Lincoln turns into Dealey Plaza. Bennett was at the height of his powers, guzzling champagne and regaling everyone in earshot with his stories, but the end of his innings was fast approaching. The lone gunman already had him in his sights. We finished one bottle of champagne and Bennett asked whether we’d like another.

  I looked at my new watch. Quarter to ten. ‘Er … actually, I don’t think we have time for another drink,’ I said. ‘We really should be making our way to the Palais.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Bennett, clicking his fingers to get a waiter’s attention. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. Un autre bottle de fizzy plonk, see voo play,’ he demanded in an accent of broken glass. When the bottle arrived, he poured three large glasses, each of which overflowed, but he carried on, ignoring the lesson like a backward child. When the bubbles had settled and we each had our half a glass, he raised his in a toast: ‘To the AB team – here’s to a blinding Festival!’

  He topped up our glasses. ‘You know what, Bill, I’m not sure I fancy seeing the film tonight. I saw it in New York and, to be honest, I slept through most of it. Not really my cup of tea. And it seems a waste of good drinking time, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well,’ Bill replied, feigning annoyance, ‘I wish you’d told me you didn’t like watching films before I made you Head of Entertainment!’ He paused, then added, ‘But actually, I’m with you on this one, Joseph. Let’s have a couple of drinks, recover from our flight and chat about our tactics for the Festival. Then we can pop down to the party nice and early. Would that be all right, West? We can tell Guttenberg our flight was delayed, which is kind of true. What do you think?’

  What I thought was that, no, it would not be all right. It would be bloody rude. Buddy had gone out of his way to secure the last available pair of tickets for them and would expect to see us there. What I reckoned was that they were a pair of stuck-up, ignorant, inconsiderate bastards. But of course I didn’t say that. I just mumbled that I was sure that would be fine and colluded in their egregious contempt.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Bennett was continuing, still at full volume, ‘I do like some films – but I prefer to watch them on TV so I can get a drink when I want one or take a leak without missing anything. You know what my favourite film is?’

  My mind raced through all the possibilities – from the sublime to the more probable: Les Enfants du Paradis? Battleship Potemkin? Debbie Does Dallas – the Director’s Cut? – while Bill consulted his memory bank and weighed up the competing claims of the two films he could remember the names of.

  After neither of us offered a guess, Bennett roared on. ‘Give up? It’s that one with the old boy and his sons where they’ve got a family business – selling fruit, I think, or flowers – and they keep getting into scraps with all the other businessmen. Oh, damn, what’s it called? It’s got that guy in it who couldn’t talk properly and the other one, the little short-arse bloke. His name’s Don – the dad in the film I mean, not the actor. Don Fonzarelli, was it? They’re Italian but the whole thing’s set in America – I suppose that’s where the money was. Sort of thing you’d know about, West. What was it called? They made a few of them. Come on, West, you must know.’

  ‘The Godfather?’ I suggested.

  That’s it!’ yelled Bennett.

  ‘Gosh! You really do know your stuff, West’ said Bill. ‘Well done!’

  ‘Bloody good film,’ Bennett continued, ‘but I’d still prefer to watch it at home rather than surrounded by a load of other people blubbing into their popcorn every time someone gets shot. Wouldn’t you?’

  Davis nodded in enthusiastic agreement while I shook my head sadly. For me, few experiences could beat sitting silently in a chamber of shared emotions, laughing, crying or gasping in the company of strangers, linked only by our primal responses to the action on the screen. Not for the first time, I found myself asking what I was doing working for these morons. Perhaps I could start again – at the bottom. Become a runner on a movie and work my way up to being a producer. Or get a job as a production accountant, spending the money rather than counting it. I could have a word with Buddy – I’m sure he could get me a place somewhere, working on one of his movies. He’d be happy to look after me. Until he found out the truth about what had happened with Olivia. Once again, I felt the noose tightening around my neck, my room for manoeuvre evaporating.

  ‘When you think about it, we’re a bit like that family, aren’t we?’ Bennett was still going on when I tuned back into their conversation. ‘Bill, you’re like Don Fonza-wotsit …’

  ‘Corleone,’ I said, unable to bear it any longer. ‘And his name wasn’t Don. It was Vito. Don was his title – like Mr or Sir. And the family didn’t sell fruit, they were—’ but Bennett had had enough of this film buffery.

  ‘Whatever,’ he said, anxious to expand his metaphor. ‘As I was saying, Bill’s like Don Wotsit and I’m like his son – except I’m not a short-arse. What was his name, West?’

  ‘Don Corleone had three sons. Which one do you mean?’ I asked as if I didn’t know. ‘There was Michael, the youngest, played by Al Pacino, who comes back from the war and takes over the family business which, incidentally, was—’

  ‘That’s the one!’ said Bennett. ‘Michael. Mikey. That would be me. The real operator who makes sure everything runs smoothly, who takes care of business with just a hint of a ruthless streak.’

  ‘And who would West be?’ asked Davis, encouraging Bennett, even though he gave every indication that he didn’t have the faintest idea what his protégé was talking about.

  ‘Ah, West would have to be the other brother. What was his name?’

  For a moment, I allowed myself to think that Bennett might be referring to Sonny, the big mean motherfucker with the vicious temper, who beat to a pulp anyone who got in his way. Sonny Corleone would know what to do right now, faced with these two annoying idiots. He’d pick up that champagne bottle and smack them with it before producing a handgun from under his chair and blowing them away, starting with that irritating jerk who knocked out two of his teeth. That’s what Sonny would do.

  But, of course, that wasn’t the brother Bennett had in mind. He was thinking of poor doomed Fredo, played by poor doomed John Cazale. The brother few could remember, played by the actor few could remember.

  ‘Not the big bruiser,’ Bennett continued, as if reading my mind, ‘the other one. The little snivell
ing one. What was his name?’

  ‘Fredo?’ I offered half-heartedly, but was drowned out by their simultaneous, glee-filled cries of ‘the Yellow Meerkat!’

  ‘The champagne bottle!’ a demonic voice inside my head implored me. ‘Use the fucking champagne bottle!’ As if on automatic pilot, I grabbed the bottle around its thin neck and lifted it from the table. It felt perfectly weighted. The remaining liquid fizzing away in the bottom half provided a natural amplitude and it gathered momentum effortlessly as it swung in my hand like a glass baseball bat. They were still chuckling away, delighting in their condescending wit. Preening themselves – masters of the universe. Catching them unawares, I brought the bottle down behind Bennett’s head, just out of Davis’s line of sight. It was now or never.

  ‘More champagne, Joseph? Bill?’ I asked, filling their glasses without waiting for a reply.

  No, it was wrong to compare me to Fredo Corleone, quite wrong. At least he had the guts to betray his persecutors.

  I took myself off to the gents to regain my composure. When I returned, Bennett was staring intently at his mobile phone like an Egyptologist examining a set of hieroglyphics. He read out the cryptic message:

  Didnt see u come in, asshole. I should be used to u letting me down by now but it still really hurts. You’d better be at the party later, English. Where the fuck are you? O

  ‘She certainly has a lovely turn of phrase, doesn’t she?’ Bill said, trying to cut the developing tension. ‘Where do you think she went to school? Roedean? Cheltenham Ladies College?’

  Bennett smiled, but without amusement. ‘Any idea what this is all about, West?’

  ‘Ah,’ I began. Always a good opening gambit. Buys a little time and gives the impression you’re thinking about the issue at hand. ‘Yes. I meant to tell you about that, sorry. When I saw Buddy this afternoon, he did mention he wanted you to be nice to Olivia this evening. He said she’s very down at the moment and he wants her on top form while she’s here, you know, to promote the film and everything. Did you know, they’re considering a sequel?. So, as she seems to like you so much, he asked me to ask you to take care of her. I should have said something when you came in, but with all the great banter we were having, I didn’t get the chance. Sorry.’