The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2

by Douglas Kennedy

  “With you facing a crisis like this one? No way.”

  “Listen, I’m going to be working flat out for the next week. I mean, with Barker in charge of the division, the only way I’m going to keep things together is by being at the office fifteen hours a day.”

  “Fine. But at least I’ll be waiting home for you at night, with tea, sympathy, and a martini.”

  She reached over and squeezed my hand.

  “That’s very sweet of you. But I want you to take this trip.”

  “Sally . . .”

  “Listen to me. I really am better off on my own. It means I don’t have to be focusing on anything else—and I can put all my energy into keeping my job. More to the point, you can’t turn this opportunity down. Because, at worst, it will be a laugh . . . and a very luxurious one at that. At best, the paycheck will be huge. Given that Stu Barker would like nothing better than to push me out of the company, the money might come in handy for us, right?”

  I knew that Sally was talking garbage. She was one of the most employable television executives in town. But though I tried to argue her into letting me stay, she was adamant.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” she said.

  “I’m not,” I said, trying to sound sanguine about her need to get me out of the house. “If you want me to go to Planet Fleck, so be it.”

  “Thank you,” she said, kissing me lightly on the lips. “Listen, sorry to do this, but I’ve set up a late-night conference call with Lois and Peter,” she said, mentioning two of her closest Fox associates.

  “No problem,” I said, getting up from the sofa. “I’ll be waiting for you in the bedroom.”

  “I shouldn’t be too long,” she said, picking up the phone.

  But when I fell asleep two hours later, she still hadn’t come to bed.

  I woke at seven the next morning. She was already gone.

  There was a note on the pillow beside me: “Off to an early strategy meeting with my team. I’ll call later.”

  And she had scrawled an “S” at the bottom. No term of endearment. Just her initial.

  An hour or so later, Bobby Barra phoned to arrange for one of Fleck’s chauffeurs to pick us up tomorrow morning and bring us to Burbank Airport.

  “Phil took the 767 when he left for the island on Sunday,” he said. “So I’m afraid it’s just the Gulfstream.”

  “I’ll live. But it looks like I’m coming alone.” And I explained Sally’s career crisis at Fox.

  “Hey, fine by me,” Bobby said. “I mean, no offense, but if she has to stay behind, I’m not exactly going to be crying into my margarita.”

  Then he told me to expect the chauffeur to arrive at my door by eight tomorrow morning.

  “Party, party, guy,” he said, hanging up.

  I packed a small bag. Then I went to the Selling You production office and looked at the early assembly of the first and second episodes. Sally never called once. When I got home that night, there were no messages from her on our voice mail. I spent the evening rereading We Three Grunts. I scribbled some notes about ways I would like to improve its structure, its narrative pacing—and make it a little more up to date. Using a red felt-tip pen, I started excising some of its bulkier dialogue. In screenwriting, the less you say, the better you say it. Keep it economic, keep it simple, let the pictures do the talking—because the medium you’re writing for is the pictures. And when you have pictures, who needs a lot of words?

  By eleven that night, I had worked my way through half the script. Still no call from Sally. I considered ringing her cellphone. I dismissed the idea. She might interpret the call as either clingy, needy, or paternalistic (in a why aren’t you home? sort of way). So I simply went to bed.

  When the alarm went off at seven the next morning, I found another note on the pillow beside me.

  “Crazy time. Got home at one last night, and I’m now running out to a six-thirty breakfast with some of the Fox legal people. Call me at eight on my cell. Oh . . . and get a suntan for me.”

  This time she did scrawl Love, S. at the end of the note. That cheered me up. But when I rang her an hour later (as requested), she was brisk.

  “This isn’t a good time,” she said. “Will you be taking your cell with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll get back to you then.”

  And she hung up. I forced myself not to be troubled by her brusqueness. Sally was a player. And this was how players behaved when things went to the mat.

  A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. I found a liveried chauffeur waiting outside next to a shiny new Lincoln Town Car.

  “And how are you today, sir?”

  “Ready for some fun in the sun,” I said.

  FOUR

  BOBBY AND I were the only passengers on the Gulfstream. However, there were four crew: two pilots and two hostesses. The hostesses were both blond, both in their twenties, and both looked as if they were onetime drum majorettes. They were named Cheryl and Nancy, and they both worked exclusively for “Air Fleck,” as Bobby referred to the gentleman’s fleet of planes. Before we took off, Bobby was already on the make with Cheryl:

  “Do you think I might be able to get a massage en route?”

  “Sure,” Cheryl said. “I’m studying osteopathy part-time.”

  Bobby flashed her a sly smile. “And say I wanted a very localized massage?”

  Cheryl’s smile tightened. Then she turned to me and said, “Sir, would you like a drink before takeoff?”

  “That would be nice. Do you have any sparkling water?”

  “Come on, Dave,” Bobby said, “you’ve got to toast a trip like this with a little French fizz. Air Fleck only serves Cristal . . . isn’t that right, dear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cheryl said. “Cristal is the champagne on board.”

  “Two glasses of Cristal then, dear,” Bobby said. “And please . . . make them king-size.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “And should I ask Nancy to take your breakfast order before takeoff?”

  “That would work,” Bobby said.

  As soon as Cheryl disappeared into the galley, Bobby turned to me and said, “Cute ass, if you like the pert cheerleader type.”

  “You’re a total class act, Bobby.”

  “Hey, I was just flirting.”

  “You call asking for hand relief a form of flirting?”

  “I didn’t ask directly. I was being subtle.”

  “You’re about as subtle as a car crash. And who asks for a king-size Cristal? This isn’t Burger King, you know. Rule number one of being a good guest, Bobby: don’t try to sleep with the help.”

  “Hey, Mr. Hoity-Toity, you’re the guest here.”

  “And what does that make you, Bobby?”

  “The habitué.”

  Cheryl showed up with the two glasses of champagne. Accompanying them were small triangles of toast, dappled with black fish eggs.

  “Beluga?” Bobby asked.

  “It’s Iranian beluga, sir,” Cheryl said.

  The pilot came on the loudspeaker, asking us to buckle up for takeoff. We were seated in thick overstuffed leather armchairs, bolted to the floor but fully swivelable. According to Bobby, this was the small Gulfstream—a mere eight seats in the forward cabin, with a small double bed, a work station, and a sofa adorning the rear cabin. The plane was being flown this morning solely for our benefit. But I wasn’t complaining. I sipped my Cristal. The plane finished its taxi and came to a halt. Then it gathered up momentum and charged down the runway. Within seconds we were airborne, the San Fernando Valley disappearing beneath us.

  “So what’s it going to be?” Bobby asked. “A movie or two? A little high-stakes poker? A Chateaubriand for lunch? They might even have lobster tails . . .”

  “I’m going to do some work,” I said.

  “You’re a lot of fun.”

  “I want this script in improved shape before our host sees it. Do you think he’s got a secretary on the island?”
/>   “Phil’s got an entire business services division there. You want the script typed up, no problem.”

  Nancy came out for our breakfast order. Bobby asked, “Could you do a fluffy egg-white omelette with scallions and just a touch of Gruyère?”

  “Sure,” Nancy said. Then she graced me with a smile. “And for you, sir?”

  “Just grapefruit and toast and black coffee, please.”

  “Since when did you become a Mormon?” Bobby asked.

  “Mormons don’t drink coffee,” I said, then excused myself to work in the back cabin.

  I dug out the script of We Three Grunts and my red pen. I set up shop at the desk. I read through the first half, reasonably pleased with the changes I had made to date. What struck me most about the original 1993 draft was the way I had needed to spell everything out—to ram home a point with a pile driver. There were decent patches of dialogue, but God, how I needed to show my cleverness, my bravado. At heart, this was nothing more than a generic heist movie. But I’d tried to disguise the fact by decorating the action with smart-assed repartee—which did nothing but call attention to itself. It oozed self-consciousness. And continuing the work I had done to date, I stripped it right back—excising vast chunks of overexplanatory dialogue and unnecessary plot points—turning it into something tougher, grittier, more sardonic . . . and definitely sharper.

  I worked steadily for five hours. My only interruptions were the arrival of breakfast and the sound of Bobby’s Hugh Hefner smoothie voice placing further ludicrous orders (“I know this might be a stretch, dear . . . but could you do a banana daiquiri for me?”), or working the phones, barking orders to some minion back at Barra HQ in LA. Cheryl made the occasional appearance in the back cabin to top off my coffee cup and ask if I needed anything.

  “Do you think you might be able to gag my friend?”

  She smiled. “With pleasure.”

  In the forward cabin, I could hear Bobby shout into the telephone, “Listen, you dumbshit guinea, if you don’t sort out our little problem pronto, I’m not just going to fuck your sister, I’ll fuck your mother too.”

  Cheryl’s smile tightened again. I said, “You know, he’s really not my friend. He’s just my broker.”

  “I’m sure he makes you a lot of money, sir. May I get you anything else while I’m here?”

  “I’d just like to use the phone once he’s off it.”

  “No need to wait, sir. We’ve got two lines.”

  She picked up the phone on the desk, punched in a code, then handed it to me.

  “Just dial the area code and the number, and you’ll get straight through.”

  As Cheryl left the cabin, I dialed Sally’s cellphone. After two rings, I was connected to her voice mail. I tried to conceal my disappointment by leaving an up-tempo message.

  “Hey there, it’s me at thirty-three thousand feet. I do think we should buy ourselves a Gulfstream for Christmas. It’s the only way to travel—though preferably without Bobby Barra, who’s trying to win an Oscar for Best Performance by a Sleazy Male. Anyway . . . the point of this call is to see how everything is going at Fortress Fox, and also to tell you that I really wish to hell you were seated opposite me right now. I love you, darling . . . and when you’ve climbed out of the corporate trenches for a minute, give me a call on my cell. Later, babe . . .”

  I hung up, feeling that empty feeling that always accompanies speaking to an answering machine. Then I went back to work.

  As we were beginning our descent into Antigua, I had finished my overhaul of the script. I flicked through the changes I had made, generally pleased with its tighter narrative structure, its punchier dialogue . . . though I knew that, as soon as I read the retyped version, I’d immediately start wanting to make more changes. And if Philip Fleck really decided to film it, he would, no doubt, demand a completely new draft, which would lead on to a second draft, a polish, a third draft, another polish, the arrival of a script doctor, his draft, his polish, then a third writer brought in to beef up the action, then a fourth writer to hone plot points, then Fleck might suddenly decide to shift the entire action from Chicago to Nicaragua, and turn the entire thing into a musical about the Sandinista Revolution, replete with singing guerrillas . . .

  “Mr. Greta-fucking-Garbo returns,” Bobby said as I reentered the front cabin. “Remind me never to travel with you again.”

  “Hey, work is work—and Fleck will have a new draft of the script to look at tomorrow. Anyway, from the sound of it, you were busy too. Was that an associate you were threatening?”

  “Just a guy who screwed up a little deal for me.”

  “Remind me to never get on the wrong side of you.”

  “Hey, I don’t fuck clients—and I’m using the ‘literal and figurative’ definition here too.” He flashed me one of his smiles. “Unless, of course, the client fucks me. But why should that happen, right?”

  I smiled back. “Why indeed?” I said.

  The captain came on the loudspeaker, asking us to buckle up for landing. I peered out the window and saw a large swathe of blue defining the landscape below. Then we banked sharply as sea gave way to a shantytown—dozens of small, grim cubed dwellings, looking like a sprawl of corrupted dice. After a moment, they vanished too—and we were descending fast through the palms, the pock-marked tarmac rising up to meet us, the sun incandescent, unforgiving.

  We taxied to a stop far away from the main terminal building. As Cheryl opened the door and pressed the electronic button that lowered the stairs, we were hit by a rush of rank tropical heat. I noticed two men waiting for us: a heavily tanned blond guy dressed in a pilot’s uniform, and an Antiguan policeman. He had an ink stamp and pad in one hand. As soon as we disembarked, the pilot said, “Mr. Barra, Mr. Armitage . . . welcome to Antigua. I’m Spencer Bishop, and I’ll be piloting you to Saffron Island this afternoon. But first, we need you to clear Antiguan immigration. Would you show this gentleman your passports, please?”

  We handed them over to the immigration officer. He didn’t bother to check our photographs or even notice whether our respective travel documents were valid. He simply stamped an entry visa on the first blank page he found, then handed them back to us. The pilot thanked the officer and proffered his hand. As the officer shook it, I noticed that he palmed a folded American banknote. Then the pilot touched me lightly on the shoulder and pointed to a small helicopter, parked one hundred yards from the plane.

  “Let’s get you guys on board,” he said.

  Within minutes, we were strapped into our seats, talking to each other via headsets, as the rotary blades did their loud concussing thing, and the pilot pulled down the throttle, and the airport vanished, and the blue began again. I stared out of the window at the aquamarine horizon, dazzled by its purity of color, its sheer boundlessness. As we flew closer, this fragment became more visually defined—an island around half a mile in circumference, dappled by thick palms, with a sprawling low-level house smack in the middle. I glimpsed an extended dock, against which a few boats were moored. There was a long strip of sand near the dock. And then, suddenly below us, was a circle of tarmac, with a large X in its center. It took a moment or two for the pilot to maneuver us above it. Then he landed us right on the X with a light, but noticeable, bump.

  Again, two functionaries were awaiting us—a man and a woman, both in their late twenties, both blond and heavily tanned and wearing the same tropical uniform—khaki shorts, white Nikes with white socks, a mid-blue polo shirt with the words Saffron Island discreetly monogrammed in italics. They looked like upscale camp counselors. They were standing next to a new dark blue Land Rover Discovery. When they smiled, they showed off perfect dental work.

  “Hey there, Mr. Armitage,” the guy said. “Welcome to Saffron Island.”

  “And welcome back, Mr. Barra,” the woman said.

  “And welcome back to you too,” Bobby said. “It’s Megan, right?”

  “You’ve got a great memory.”

  “I
never forget a beautiful woman.”

  I cast my eyes heavenward but said nothing.

  “I’m Gary,” the guy said. “And, as Mr. Barra already said, this is Megan . . .”

  “But you can call me Meg.”

  “And we’re going to be looking after you both during your stay here. Anything you want, anything you need, we are the people to call on.”

  “Who’s assigned to who?” Bobby asked.

  “Well,” Gary said, “since Meg looked after you the last time, Mr. Barra, we thought that we’d let her take care of Mr. Armitage during this visit.”

  I glanced at Megan and Gary. Their fixed smiles betrayed nothing. Bobby pursed his lips. He looked disappointed.

  “Whatever,” he said.

  “So let’s get your bags on board,” Gary said, moving quickly on.

  “How many bags did you bring, Mr. Armitage?” Megan asked me.

  “Just one . . . and, please, my name is David.”

  Bobby and I sat in the Land Rover—the motor running, the air conditioning already cranked up—as the two camp counselors loaded up our bags.

  “So, let me guess,” I said, “you put the moves on Meg the last time you were here.”

  Bobby shrugged. “Hey, it comes with having a penis, right?”

  “She’s really the pumped pectorals type, isn’t she? Did she get you in a half nelson when you tried to grab her ass?”

  “It didn’t get that far . . . and can we drop this?”

  “But Bobby, I love hearing about your romantic exploits. They’re so touching.”

  “Put it this way—I wouldn’t come on to her, if I was you. She’s got biceps like GI Joe.”

  “Why would I want to come on to her, when I’ve got Sally waiting for me back home?”

  “Oh, Mr. Monogamous Virtue here. Mr. Great Husband and Father.”

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  “Hey, it was a joke.”

  “Sure it was.”

  “Touchy, touchy.”

  “Did you take lessons in being a moron, or does it just come naturally?”

  “Sorry if I hit a sensitive spot.”

  “I am not sensitive about . . .”

  “Leaving your wife and kid?” he said with a smile.