Willie Paycek was a good kid; that was the word on him. He had done some favors for someone in the East, so—no questions asked or answered—he was presented with his Teamsters card and paid his dues and kept in good standing.
Assignments were a matter of who knew whom or what. Since Willie Paycek came recommended, he was carefully watched the first few weeks. He drove heavy, midsized, and lightweight trucks, carrying scenery to location shoots; he assisted the technicians in loading valuable equipment for delivery from place to place. No matter what the cargo, Paycek was interested, alert, bright; he showed interest not only in the cargo, but in the technicians responsible for its use. He was hungry to learn, and, facing long layovers and wait-outs, the technicians, knowing he was a Teamster, and no threat to their jobs, shared their expertise with the funny-looking, bright little guy from the Bronx.
Willie was fascinated by the young extras on the set who had left their homes, places like Iowa and Arkansas, and. found their way out here, searching for the dream. He watched the kids who counted themselves lucky to get one or two days’ shooting as “background.” Bright-faced youngsters, smiling their hearts out, trying to hide sweaty underarms, dying when some third assistant director screamed. “Who the fuck put that curly redheaded boy in the middle of that crowd?”
Hollywood had its own rules and those who would succeed were by nature not only ambitious, determined, and driven; they were also the best at lying. It was essential not just to make up your life, but really to believe your own creation. Willie watched and studied the most successful up-and-comers. All the middle-aged Jewish producers became more American than the flag, with their thin blond gentile wives and their blue-eyed children sent off to private schools after having been raised by Irish or English nannies. Their tailoring was impeccable, and why not? They were the sons of sweatshop tailors, and they knew how to get their money’s worth. Willie knew from the product they put on the market what their perception of America was: shiny-faced lovers who locked eyes, but blinked quickly so that there could be no possible hint of lustful follow-up. Eventually, he was assigned to drive studio limousines.
Willie knew the moviemakers themselves were lusty men. He delivered their girls to hidden locations, skinny, gorgeous young things who smelled so good he wanted to suck their skin. Mysterious girls, filling the car, from the deep well of the back seat all the way to his open glass chamber, with the fragrance of sex.
From time to time, Willie was approached by an assistant director for a favor. A between-us-no-questions-asked assignment, which paid over and above overtime. Discretion was the main thing; the word on this skinny, funny-looking kid was pretty good.
He drove a long black studio limo up into the Hollywood Hills, waited outside the door, patiently turning his head as a studio star was carefully loaded into the backseat. He was handed a slip of paper: some sanitorium out toward Vegas. Don’t talk to the guy, don’t open the glass window, just drive straight there; people will be waiting to take him off your hands. You don’t even have to go inside. In fact, none of this ever happened, so you don’t even have to forget it.
Willie began to keep notes in a small five-and-dime spiral notebook. Whom he picked up and where; their condition—drunk, drugged, unconscious, loudly carrying on (in which case there was often an escort to quiet things down, to maybe shoot the guy up en route, or hand him a bottle); the destination. He came to recognize studio people, semi-big shots who always seemed able to maintain a nonspecific assignment with a good-sized office, a large, pretty staff, not too many working hours. Sometimes the passenger was a woman: a face known, revered by the public—the storybook wife, the girl back home, the loving daughter. Howling filthy words, tears smearing her makeup. Always, his face was implacable, unconcerned, as he drove her to a well-established Hollywood abortionist. His job was to drive the car from one location to the other. To return the limo to the studio, check in, leave. Period.
Drug deaths were turned into unfortunate, terrible, witnessed and documented car accidents. He had driven a corpse, leaning upright against stone-faced executives on either side, to a remote location where a prop car waited, skid marks to be provided by experts. He had watched the famous face placed inside the accident car, had taken part in the faking of an honorable death for a dishonorable man.
To his surprise, one star, a tall, blond, handsome sonofabitch he had admired through the years on the screen of the Avalon, asked for him as a driver. He was sober, just returning from a month’s stay at a dry-out clinic. The star, healthy and easygoing, a good-guy cowboy, sat up front with Willie and thanked him. He knew Willie had helped save his life and certainly his reputation. Discretion was hard to come by out here.
The star confessed that he felt awkward here in never-never land. He was genuinely a small-town boy, a Midwestern soda jerk with few acting pretensions. He was the right type in the right place at the right time, and the camera caught something he didn’t even know he had, in a small, one-line part. He was catapulted into a starring role in a major western, where he was required to do little more than appear. His presence dominated every scene; his lines were kept to a minimum, since he had a poor memory and a somewhat light voice.
His hours were filled with acting lessons, with voice lessons. It was discovered he had a pleasant singing voice—untrained and natural. They trained the naturalness out of it and starred him in a musical for which they finally hired a stronger, more professional voice to overdub all his numbers. He was, in effect, a mannequin.
“I watched you shooting today,” Willie confided. “Don’t put yourself down. I think the problem is that director don’t know shit from Shinola.”
It was Willie’s first directing job—unofficial, off the books, secretive, and intuitively excellent. Day after day, the young star grew in confidence as he absorbed Willie’s advice on the ride to the set in the morning and home afterwards. Soon he was inviting his driver over after work, which led to more lessons in how to move, to pause, to hesitate, to speak a line quickly, to get deeper meaning out of a scene.
The director of the film didn’t really care enough to object. The handsome schmuck wants to try something new, what the hell. People came to look at him, not to listen to him. The guy was box-office no matter what—even if he was turning into a real actor.
At a large party held in the incredibly lush Beverly Hills mansion of a Hollywood lawyer, the actor confided in a few of his colleagues. This guy Willie Paycek, my driver, this guy is a gem. He has a gift for direction. Someone should give him a chance.
One of his drinking companions, a huge, dark-skinned Arab, listened politely, snapped his fingers at one of his aides, who dutifully wrote down Willie’s name and phone number. He looked at two of his companions, who nodded approval. They chatted up the star for a few more minutes, then put their untouched drinks on a silver tray on a small, silver-topped table.
“So perhaps we have found our director, yes? An unknown, desperate to make movies.”
His partner shrugged. “Why do we even need a director? That to me makes no sense. These sort of things … they take on their own momentum. Who needs a director?”
The heavy man stared coldly and said softly, “Because all of these damned movies are the same. We should make one special movie, one classic, one perfect example of the art.”
They were talking about a snuff movie.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AFTER ONE BRIEF CONFERENCE IN A DELI, over a less-than-wonderful pastrami-on-rye and iced tea, they hired Willie Paycek. They would provide the location, the scenery, the lighting and the cameras. They would allow him to write a script, since he felt this was important. They agreed not to question his decisions and to allow him to rehearse, since those were his terms. They would provide the male stud. The older, heavier, black-browed businessman would play a crucial role.
It was left to Willie to provide the girl.
He remembered when he was a kid, on his way to the Loew’s Burnside, off the Grand Co
ncourse, down Burnside Avenue; on certain days of the week there was a long, milling line of black women standing outside of Woolworth’s. Waiting. Some had small children. Some were girls in their early teens. They all carried brown paper bags with their working clothes. He had watched as neighborhood white women would look them over, talk to one or two, make a selection, and lead the chosen woman along. For twenty-five cents an hour, a cleaning woman had been hired.
Willie, sensing a possibility, carefully screened the line one day when he was about fourteen years old. He was short and thin, hunched forward, pimply, his eyes crossed and devious. There was one beautiful girl, more girl than woman. She had light skin and pale eyes and she was tall and bone-thin. She stood with her legs apart, hands on her hips, head up, not making eye contact with any of the white women. She seemed to intimidate them; no one approached her.
Except Willie. He slouched over to her. In one respect, he felt sorry for her. Hell, she had to earn a living, same as anyone else. He fingered three quarters in his pocket: they had been hard-earned and would see him through a week of movie-hopping. But she seemed worth it.
When she realized the dirty little riffraff white boy was speaking to her, she leaned forward, glared into his face.
“What you want, boy? What you after?”
“You”, he said, looking directly at her for one split second. His hand slid into his pocket, he showed her his three quarters.
The girl roared in a loud voice, calling attention to the boy and his offer. The other women laughed, some of them nearly falling down with the release of tension, the amusement, the anger, the furious insult. They laughed at the trashy white boy. The girl smacked his hand, and his quarters went flying.
He had a choice. He could turn and run from the line of mocking black women, or he could creep around and find his quarters.
Willie shut out their voices, their taunts, their filthy remarks, and reclaimed his quarters. Then he stood up and stared at the girl, memorizing her face. Remembered the moment and how she had made him feel. To him, his request had not been insulting or demeaning. He had wanted to buy some portion of her time, for himself.
The whole scene was projected again in his mind now, years later, the moment he spotted the slender, light-skinned black woman as she turned away from an extra call. He watched as she sighed heavily and left the lot without speaking to anyone.
Willie followed the girl from a safe distance. There were certain required qualifications for his star. Looks were one, and she qualified. After two days of watching her, Willie was convinced that she met the rest. She lived alone; she never seemed to talk to anyone: she answered only open calls, and was never selected; she seemed to be totally disconnected. On her own.
She would not be missed by anyone.
On the third day, Willie approached her as she turned away from yet another rejection. He bought her a cup of coffee at a diner a few blocks from the studio. She was out here alone from Detroit; her mother was dead, her father had split. She’d had hard times; anything she found out here would be better than what she’d left. No, she’d never connected. There was no film footage on her of any kind. She was registered as an extra under her “professional” name, Kitty Jones. Her real name was Serena Johnson, but no one knew that. She’d earned a few bucks, enough to pay for her furnished room and a meal or two a day. Never mind how. None of his business. Unless he was offering her something. He wasn’t a pimp, was he, because she worked alone. Didn’t see any reason for sharing her hard-earned cash, such as it was.
As she spoke, he watched her carefully, recalling and then releasing the memory of his humiliation in the Bronx. No, this was another girl altogether. He explained the movie. It was a skin flick, but with a difference; it was a love story. It would be shot in a very luxurious location.
As he went on, Willie explained even more to Serena; the film was going to appear to be a snuff movie. Some very big money was behind it. A very expensive set, beautiful costumes, all done with great style.
The trick was, of course, that no one was going to get killed. But it was going to be done so realistically that anyone seeing it would be fooled. What he showed her now was a plane ticket, in her name, to New York City. He admitted he knew a great deal about her.
“See, you’ll have to leave L.A. You’re supposed to be dead. We can’t have you turning up in casting calls and maybe getting on film. This is a really big deal. One thousand bucks for a coupla hours work, then, right from location, a limo takes you to the airport, you’re on your way to the Big Apple, and there’s a contact who will meet you. Guarantee you work, maybe in Europe, but definitely in New York. In a big-time nightclub, sell some cigarettes, then a little singing, a little dancing. You’ll be able to afford to decide what you want. Now, this is it, right now, I gotta know. Yes or no. If it’s yes, we go right now out to the location for fitting and for rehearsal. We get it done right away. You got any problems with that?”
She sat motionless as she turned inside to her own thoughts. What the hell was this guy up to? On the other hand, he showed her the ticket, with her name on it. He explained he’d been watching her, selecting her. He opened a brand-new red leather wallet, stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. Her new wallet. There would be a new suitcase for her, with some clothes. She could shop for more in New York.
She thought about the dirty, musty room with the landlady who smelled of her six cats and who made Serena pay for her own forty-watt bulb replacement and still yelled at her for using too much electricity. And about the landlady’s lecherous old shit of a husband, who breathed on her in a whiskery, dirty way every chance he got. She thought about her narrow bed with the stinking mattress and the unclean sheets and the smelly pillow. She thought about the few ragtag dresses she had hanging on hooks in the room, absorbing the awful smells; her meager supply of underwear; her stockings with rips she couldn’t mend or hide. “You mean right now? We go and do it right now?”
“After I make a phone call. For the limo to pick us up.”
They waited a few blocks away, on a dark street corner, and sure enough, a large black limo slid up to the curb.
Willie opened the door for her, and she slipped inside and sank back against the luxurious softness of new-smelling upholstery. She was on her way.
The set was in a large room, separated from the main part of a huge house, in the Hollywood Hills. It was soundproof, carpeted, isolated, and beautiful.
The scene of the action was the inside of a luxurious tent, furnished with magnificent silk pillows, carpets, lamps, and low tables laden with fruits and candies. The lighting man left after briefing Willie, who would be his own cameraman. He put the cast through their paces. It was not to be a rip-the-clothes-off, jump on, grunt and groan, fall-back-and-be-discovered epic.
But there was very little dialogue, since Willie didn’t trust either of his two main actors.
“This is a love story,” he told them. “She is a slave in the caliph’s harem, and you, Ali, have fallen in love with her. Genuinely in love with her. You are to look at her and feel your heart breaking; she is a captive, and you are a captive. Your love could lead to your deaths, both of you. But at this point you don’t care.”
He led them through several rehearsals, until he got some response. They were to make eye contact; they were not to think of the sex act, but of each other. They loved each other to the point of recklessness. If the cost of their love was death, then it would be better to die together than to go on this way, both slaves of a hated caliph. They were to take each other’s clothes off carefully, as lovers. No ripping and tearing. Gently, sensuously, each discovering the other, each loving the other. No sense of speed—slowly, tenderly. They were to touch each other tentatively, kiss lightly, then with more passion, their hands moving over each other with lovers’ discoveries.
He rehearsed them carefully, stopping them before the sex act had been accomplished.
“Save it, Ken,” he told his stud, a large blond actor who h
ad a barely double-digit IQ but a magnificent body. They faked the intercourse, and then the caliph entered. He wore flowing robes and ballooning pants, with a silk turban and soft slippers. His anger was quiet, rather than histrionic. He was genuinely sorry for what he had to do. He had, in his way, truly loved the girl. He was hurt because of her betrayal, and heartbroken because she must die.
The blond slave was taken away, and the caliph removed his billowing trousers and simulated inserting himself into the girl. Then he rolled off her, snapped his fingers. An aide brought in the head of the blond stud. It was a good papier-mâché likeness, and the caliph’s guard, displaying a bloodied scepter, carried it by the yellow hair, the neck dripping bloody liquid.
The caliph sighed, stood up, and removed a prop dagger from under his shirt. He pulled the slave girl to her feet and simulated stabbing her in the jugular. The blade of the knife retracted, the girl gasped, grabbed her throat, and slumped in his arms (her blood would be supplied for shooting). The caliph gently placed her on the carpet at his feet, knelt for a moment, and sobbed.
“I really loved you,” he whispered to the dead girl.
He dropped his head, kissed her dead lips, collapsed over her body.
End of rehearsal.
“It must be played as a genuine love story,” Willie told his cast for the final time. “That is the difference here. It is a tragedy. The two slaves love each other and are willing to die for their love. The caliph loves the girl, too, and sacrifices her because she has betrayed him and he has no choice, but it is awful for him, too.”
The Ryer Avenue Story: A Novel Page 29
