by Mario Puzo
As usual Moses Wartberg surprised everyone. He did so by doing absolutely nothing. Only rarely did he take his revenge on the lover; he never took reprisals against his wife.
The first time he took his revenge was when a young rock and roll star boasted of his conquest, called Bella Wartberg “a crazy old cunt.” The rock and roll star had meant it as a supreme compliment, but to Moses Wartberg it was as insulting as one of his vice-presidents coming to work in blue jeans and turtleneck sweater. The rock and roll star made ten times as much money from a single album as he was being paid for the featured part in his movie. But he was infected with the American dream; the narcissism of playing himself on film entranced him. On the night of the first preview he had assembled his entourage of fellow artists and girlfriends and taken them to the Wartberg private screening room crammed with the top stars of Tri-Culture Studios. It was one of the big parties of the year.
The rock and roll star sat and sat and sat. He waited and waited and waited. The film ran on and on. And on screen he was nowhere to be seen. His part was on the cutting-room floor. He had immediately gotten stoned out of his mind and had to be taken home.
Moses Wartberg had celebrated his transformation from producer to head of a studio with a great coup. Over the years he had noticed that the studio moguls were furious with all the attention given actors, writers, directors and producers at the Academy Awards. It infuriated them that their employees were the ones who received all the credit for the movies that they had created. It was Moses Wartberg who years before first supported the idea for an Irving Thalberg award to be given at the Academy ceremonies. He was clever enough to have included in the plan that the award would not be a yearly one. That it would be given to a producer for constantly high quality over the years. He was also clever enough to have the clause put in that no one would be eligible to receive the Thalberg Award more than once. In effect many producers, whose pictures never won Academy Awards, but who had a lot of clout in the movie industry, got their share of publicity by winning the Thalberg. But still, this left out the actual studio heads and the real money-making stars whose work was never good enough. It was then that Wartbeng supported a Humanitarian Award to be given to the person in the movie industry of the highest ideals, who gave of himself for the betterment of the industry and mankind. Finally, two years ago, Moses Wartberg had been given this award and accepted it on television in front of one hundred million admiring American viewers. The award was presented by a Japanese director of international renown for the simple reason that no American director could be found who could give the award with a straight face. (Or so Doran said when telling me this particular story.)
On the night when Moses Wartberg received his award, two screenwriters had heart attacks from outrage. An actress threw her television set out of the fourth-floor suite of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Three directors resigned from the Academy. But that award became Moses Wartberg’s most prized possession. One screen writer commented that it was like members of a concentration camp voting for Hitler as their most popular politician.
It was Wartberg who developed the technique of loading a rising star with huge mortgage payments on a Beverly Hills mansion to force him to work hard in lousy movies. It was Moses Wartberg whose studio continually fought in the courts to the bitter end to deprive creative talent of the monies due them. It was Wartberg who had the connections in Washington. Politicians were entertained with beautiful starlets, secret funds, paid-for expensive vacations at the studio facilities all over the world. He was a man who knew how to use lawyers and the law to do financial murder; to steal and cheat. Or so Doran said. To me he sounded like any red-blooded American businessman.
Apart from his cunning, his fix in Washington was the most important asset that Tri-Culture Studios possessed.
His enemies spread many scandalous stories about him that were not true because of his ascetic life. They started rumors that with careful secrecy he flew to Paris every month to indulge himself with child prostitutes. They spread the rumor that he was a voyeur. That he had a peephole to his wife’s bedroom when she entertained her lovers. But none of this was true.
Of his intelligence and force of character there could be no doubt. Unlike the other movie moguls, he shunned the publicity limelight, the one exception being his seeking the Humanitarian Award.
When Doran drove into the Tri-Culture Studios lot, it was hate at second sight. The buildings were concrete, the grounds landscaped like those industrial parks that make Long Island look like benign concentration camps for robots. When we went through the gates, the guards didn’t have a special parking spot for us, and we had to use the metered lot with its red-and-white-striped wooden arm that raised automatically. I didn’t notice that I would need a quarter coin to get out through the exit arm.
I thought this was an accident, a secretarial slipup, but Doran said it was part of the Moses Wartberg technique to put talent like me in its place. A star would have driven right back off the lot. They would never put it over with directors or even a big featured player. But they wanted writers to know that they were not to get delusions of grandeur. I thought Doran was paranoid and I laughed, but I guess it irritated me, just a little.
In the main building our identities were checked by a security guard, who then made a call to make sure we were expected. A secretary came down and took us up in the elevator to the top floor. And that top floor was pretty spooky. Classy but spooky.
Despite all this, I have to admit I was impressed with Jeff Wagon’s charm and movie business bottom line. I knew he was a phony and hustler, but that seemed natural somehow. As it is not unnatural to find an exotic-looking inedible fruit on a tropical island. We sat down in front of his desk, my agent and I, and Wagon told his secretary to stop all calls. Very flattering. But he obviously had not given the secret code word really to stop all calls because he took at least three during our conference.
We still had a half hour to wait for Wartberg before the conference would start. Jeff Wagon told some funny stories, even the one about how the Oregon girl took a slice out of his balls. “If she’d done a better job,” Wagon said, “she would have saved me a lot of money and trouble these past years.”
Wagon’s phone buzzed, and he led me and Doran down the hail to a luxurious conference room that could serve as a movie set.
At the long conference table sat Ugo Kellino, Houlinan and Moses Wartberg chatting easily. Farther down the table was a middle-aged guy with a head of fuzzy white hair. Wagon introduced him as the new director for the picture. His name was Simon Beilfort, a name I recognized. Twenty years ago he had made a great war film. Right afterward he had signed a long-term contract with Tri-Culture and become the ace schlockmaster for Jeff Wagon.
The young guy with him was introduced as Frank Richetti. He had a sharp, cunning face and was dressed in a combo Polo Lounge-rock star-California hippie style. The effect was stunning to my eyes. He fitted perfectly Janelle’s description of the attractive men who roamed Beverly Hills as Don Juan-hustler-semipimps. She called them Slime City. But maybe she just said that to cheer me up. I didn’t see how any girl could resist a guy like Frank Richetti. He was Simon Beilfort’s executive producer on the film.
Moses Wartberg wasted no time on any bullshit. His voice laden with power, he put everything right on the line.
“I’m not happy with the script Malomar left us,” he said. “The approach is all wrong. It’s not a Tri-Culture film. Malomar was a genius, he could have shot this picture. We don’t have anybody on this lot in his class.”
Frank Richetti broke in, suave, charming. “I don’t know, Mr. Wartberg. You have some fine directors here.” He smiled fondly at Simon Bellfort.
Wartberg gave him a very cold look. We would hear no more from Richetti. And Beilfort blushed a little and looked away.
“We have a lot of money budgeted for this picture,” Wartberg went on. ‘We have to insure that investment. But we don’t want the critics jumping
all over us, that we ruined Malomar’s work. We want to use his reputation for the picture. Houlinan is going to issue a press release signed by all of us here that the picture will be made as Malomar wanted it to be made. That it will be Malomar’s picture, a final tribute to his greatness and his contribution to the industry.”
Wartberg paused as Houlinan handed out copies of the press release. Beautiful letterhead, I noticed, with the Tri-Culture logo in slashing red and black.
Kellino said easily, “Moses, old boy, I think you’d better mention that Merlyn and Simon will be working with me on the new script.”
“OK, it’s mentioned,” Wartberg said. “And, Ugo, let me remind you that you can’t fuck with the production or the directing. That’s part of our deal.”
“Sure,” Kellino said.
Jeff Wagon smiled and leaned back in his chair. “The press release is our official position,” he said, “but, Merlyn, I must tell you that Malomar was very sick when he helped you with this script. It’s terrible. We’ll have to rewrite it, I have some ideas. There’s a lot of work to be done. Right now we fill up the media with Malomar. Is that OK with you, Jack?” he asked Houlinan. And Houlinan nodded.
Kellino said to me very sincerely, “I hope you’ll work with me on this picture to make it the great movie that Malomar wanted it to be.”
“No,” I said. “ I can’t do that. I worked on the script with Malomar, I think it’s fine. So I can’t agree to any changes or rewriting, and I won’t sign any press release to that effect.”
Houlinan broke in smoothly. “We all know how you feel. You were very close to Malomar in this picture. I approve of what you just said, I think it’s marvelous. It’s rare that there’s such loyalty in Hollywood, but remember, you have a percentage in the film. It’s in your interest to make the film a success. If you are not a friend of the picture, if you are an enemy of the picture, you’re taking money out of your pocket.”
I really had to laugh when he said that line. “I’m a friend of the picture. That’s why I don’t want to rewrite it. You’re the guys that are the enemy of this picture.”
Kellino said abruptly, harshly, “Fuck him. Let him go. We don’t need him.”
For the first time I looked directly at Kellino, and I remembered Osano’s description of him. As usual, Kellino was dressed beautifully, perfectly cut suit, a marvelous shirt, silky brown shoes, He looked beautiful, and I remembered Osano’s use of the Italian peasant word cafone. “A cafone,” he said, “is a peasant who had risen to great riches and great fame and tries to make himself a member of the nobility. He does everything right. He learns his manners, he improves his speech and he dresses like an angel. But no matter how beautiful he dresses, no matter how much care he takes, no matter how much time he cleans, there clings to his shoe one tiny piece of shit.”
And looking at Kellino, I thought how perfectly he fitted this definition.
Wartberg said to Wagon, “Straighten this out,” and he left the room. He couldn’t be bothered fucking around with some half-assed writer. He had come to the meeting as a courtesy to Kellino.
Wagon said smoothly, “Merlyn is essential to this project, Ugo. I’m sure when he thinks it over, he’ll join us. Doran, why don’t we all meet again in a few days?”
“Sure,” Doran said. “I’ll call you.”
We got up to leave. I handed my copy of the press release to Kellino. “There’s something on your shoe,” I said. “Use this to wipe it off.”
When we left Tri-Culture Studios, Doran told me not to worry. He told me he could get everything straightened out within the week, that Wartberg and Wagon could not afford to have me as an enemy of the picture. They would corn-promise. And not to forget my percentage.
I told him that I didn’t give a shit and I told him to drive faster. I knew that Janelle would be waiting for me at the hotel, and it seemed as if the thing I wanted most in the world was to see her again. To touch her body and kiss her mouth and lie with her and hear her tell me stories.
I was glad to have an excuse to stay in Los Angeles for a week to be with her for six or seven days. I really didn’t give a shit about the picture. With Malomar dead I knew it would just be another piece of schlock from Tri-Culture Studios.
When Doran left me off at the Beverly Hills Hotel, he put his hand on my arm and said, “Wait a minute. There’s something I have to talk to you about.”
“OK,” I said impatiently.
Doran said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time, but I felt maybe it wasn’t my business.”
“Jesus,” I said. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m in a hurry.”
Donan smiled a little sadly, “Yeah, I know. Janelle is waiting for you, right? It’s Janelle I want to talk to you about.”
“Look,” I said to Doran, “I know all about her and I don’t care what she did, what she was. It doesn’t make any difference to me.”
Doran paused for a moment. “You know that girl, Mice, she lives with?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She’s a sweet girl.”
“She’s a little dykey,” Doran said.
I felt a strange sense of recognition as if I were Cully counting down a shoe. “Yeah,” I said. “So what?”
“So is Janelle,” Doran said.
“You mean she’s a lesbian?” I said.
“Bisexual is the word,” Doran said. “She likes men and women.”
I thought that over for a moment, and then I smiled at him and said, “Nobody’s perfect.” And I got out of the car and went up to my suite, where Janelle was waiting for me, and we made love together before going out to supper. But this time I didn’t ask her for any stories. I didn’t mention what Doran said. There was no need. I had caught on a long time ago and made my peace with it. It was better than her fucking other men.
Book VI
Chapter 34
Over the years Cully Cross had counted down the shoe perfectly and finally caught the loaded winning hand. He was really Xanadu Two, loaded with “juice,” and had full power of “The Pencil.” A “Gold Pencil.” He could comp everything, not only room, food and beverage, the standard RFB, but air fares from all over the world, top-price call girls, the power to make customer markers disappear. He could even dispense free gambling chips to the top-rank entertainers who played the Xanadu Hotel.
During those years Gronevelt had been more like a father to him than a boss. Their friendship had become stronger. They had battled against hundreds of scams together, repelled the pirates, inside and out, who tried to buccaneer the Hotel Xanadu’s sacred bankroll. Claim agents reneging on markers, magnet toters trying to empty slot machines against all the laws of chance, junket masters who sneaked in bad-credit artists with phony ID’s, house dealers dumping out, keno ticket forgers, computer boys at blackjack tables, dice switchers by the thousand. Cully and Gronevelt had fought them off.
During those years Cully had won Gronevelt’s respect with his flair for attracting new customers to the hotel. He had organized a worldwide backgammon tournament to be held at the Xanadu. He had kept a million-dollar-a-year customer by giving him a new Rolls-Royce every Christmas. The hotel charged the car off to public relations, a tax deduction. The customer was happy to receive a sixty-thousand-dollar car which would have cost him a hundred eighty thousand dollars in tax dollars, a twenty percent cut of his losses. But Cully’s finest coup had been with Charles Hemsi. Gronevelt bragged about his protege’s cunning for years after that.
Gronevelt had had his reservations about Cully’s buying up all of Hemsi’s markers around Vegas for ten cents on the dollar. But he had given Cully his head. And sure enough Hemsi came to Vegas at least six times a year and always stayed at the Xanadu. On one trip he had had a fantastic roll at the crap table and won seventy thousand dollars. He used that money to pay off some of his markers, and so the Xanadu was already ahead of the game. But then Cully showed his genius.
On one trip Charlie Hemsi mentioned that his son was be
ing married to a girl in Israel. Cully was overjoyed for his friend and insisted on the Hotel Xanadu’s picking up the whole tab for the wedding. Cully told Hemsi that the Hotel Xanadu jet plane (another Cully idea, the plane bought to steal business from the junkets) would fly the whole wedding party to Israel and pay for their hotels there. The Xanadu would pay for the wedding feast, the orchestra, all expenses. There was only one catch. Since the wedding guests were from all over the United States, they would have to board the plane in Las Vegas. But no sweat, they could all stay at the Xanadu, free of charge.
Cully calculated the cost to the hotel at two hundred thousand dollars. He convinced Gronevelt that it would pay off, and if it didn’t, they at least would have Charlie Hemsi and son as players for life. But it proved to be a great “Host” coup. Over a hundred wedding guests came to Vegas, and before they left for the wedding in Israel, they left nearly a million dollars in the hotel’s cashier cage.
But today Cully planned to present Gronevelt with an even greater money-making scheme, one that would force Gronevelt and his partners to name him general manager of the Hotel Xanadu, the most powerful open official position next to Gronevelt. He was waiting for Fummiro. Fummiro had piled up markers in his last two trips; he was having trouble paying. Cully knew why and Cully had the solution. But he knew that he had to let Fummiro take the initiative, that he would shy away if Cully himself suggested the solution. Daisy had taught him that.
Fummiro finally came to town, played his piano in the morning and drank his soup for breakfast. He wasn’t interested in women. He was intent on gambling, and in three days he had lost all his cash and signed another three hundred thousand in markers. Before he left, he summoned Cully to his hotel room. Fummiro was very polite and just a little nervous. He didn’t want to lose face. He was afraid that Cully would think that he did not wish to pay his gambling debts, but very carefully he explained to Cully that though he had plenty of money in Tokyo and the million dollars was a mere trifle to him, the problem was getting the cash out of Japan, turning the Japanese yen into American dollars.
