The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2

by Douglas Kennedy

“Rumor has it that the guy has vanished back to England,” Alison told me on the phone. “Or at least that’s what my PI tells me. You know what else he told me? According to McCall’s bank statements, he got paid a cool million last week from Lubitsch Holdings. And you can guess exactly what kind of deal Fleck cut with him: you take the fall, you get your reputation trashed, you leave town in a hurry and don’t show up again, you collect one million dollars.”

  “How does your guy find all this stuff out?”

  “I don’t ask. And he’s not my guy anymore. As of today, he’s off the case. Because the case is closed. Oh, and by the way, the contracts for all four scripts arrived today from Fleck Films. Twelve mil. Pay or play . . .”

  “Even though he’ll never make any of them.”

  “With the exception of We Three Grunts.”

  “But he told me he was killing it.”

  “Yeah, but he said that right after you trumped him on Today. I think his wife has convinced him otherwise.”

  “By which you mean . . . ?”

  “There’s a story on page three of this morning’s Daily Variety, announcing that We Three Grunts will start shooting in six weeks’ time and that Fleck’s wife Martha is now the movie’s producer. So obviously, you’ve got a real fan in Martha Fleck.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Hey, who cares if the dame likes you or not? They’re making the movie. It’s good news.”

  And the good news kept rolling in. A week later, I got a call from Brad Bruce.

  “I hope you’re still willing to talk with me?” he asked.

  “I don’t blame you for anything, Brad.”

  “That’s more generous than I’d be under the circumstances. But thank you. How’s it going, David?”

  “Compared to the last six months, somewhat better.”

  “And you’re still up the coast in that little place Alison said you were living?”

  “Yep. Working out my notice in the local bookshop.”

  “You’ve been working in a bookshop?”

  “Hey, I had to eat.”

  “I hear you. But now that you’ve scored that twelve-million-dollar deal with Phil Fleck . . .”

  “I’m still working in the bookshop for the next five days.”

  “Fine, fine. Very admirable, in fact . . . but you are planning to come back to LA, aren’t you?”

  “It’s where the money is, right?”

  He laughed.

  “How’s the new season shaping up?” I asked.

  “Well . . . that’s what I’m calling you about. After you left, we put Dick Delaney in charge as overall script editor. And we’ve got six of next season’s episodes in. But I have to tell you: the powers that be are less than pleased. They lack all the sharpness, the edge, the manic wit that you brought to the series.”

  I said nothing.

  “And so, we were wondering . . .”

  A week later, I signed a deal with FRT to return to Selling You. I would write four of the last eight episodes. I was back in charge of overall script supervision (and agreed that my first order of business was to sharpen up the first six scripts for the new season). And the debt I allegedly owed for the disputed episode in the previous season was instantly canceled. I was given back my “created by” bonus, not to mention my office, my parking space, my medical insurance, and—most of all—my street cred. Because as soon as the new FRT deal—worth just over $2 million—was announced in the trades, everyone really wanted to be my friend again. Warners rang Alison to say that they planned to get Breaking and Entering back on the development track (and—naturally—that silly business about the first half of the first draft fee . . . please tell Mr. Armitage to keep the change). Old business acquaintances phoned me up. A couple of industry pals asked me out to lunch. And no, I didn’t think to myself: Where were they when I needed them? Because that’s not how it works out here. You’re in, you’re out. You’re up, you’re down. You’re hot, you’re not. In this sense, Hollywood was a purely Darwinian construct. Unlike other towns—which veiled the same merciless streak under elaborate layers of politesse and intellectual affectation—this place operated on a simple premise: I’m interested as long as you can do something for me. To a lot of people, that was LA superficiality writ large. But I admired the ruthless practicality of this worldview. You understood exactly what you were dealing with. You knew the rules of the game.

  The same week I signed the FRT contract, I moved back into town. Though I could have easily started house hunting, a new elemental caution kicked in. No snap decisions. No grabbing the first glossy thing on offer. No more belief in the red-hot incandescence of success. So—instead of the big minimalist loft or some hyper-nouveau-riche Brentwood pile—I rented a pleasant, modern town house in a pleasant, modern development in Santa Monica, $3,000 a month. Two bedrooms. Nice and airy. Well within my means. Sensible.

  And when it came time to choose that essential LA symbol—a car—I decided to keep my battered VW Golf. The first day I showed up back at FRT for work, I arrived just behind Brad Bruce in his Mercedes SR convertible. He eyed my jalopy with amusement.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “It’s a retro college thing . . . and you’ve got a glove compartment full of Crosby, Stills and Nash tapes.”

  “Hey, it got me from A to B up in Meredith. So I figure it can get me from A to B around here for a while.”

  Brad Bruce smiled knowingly, as if to say: “Okay, do the sackcloth and ashes routine for a while . . . but you’ll upgrade soon enough. Because that’s what will be expected of you.”

  I knew he was right. I would get rid of the jalopy eventually. But only when it didn’t start one morning.

  “Ready for the big welcome back?” Brad asked me.

  “Yeah, right,” I said. But when I entered the Selling You production office, the entire staff stood up and applauded me. I gulped and felt my eyes sting. But when this little ovation died down, I did what was anticipated of me. I made a quip:

  “I should get fired more often. Thank you for that extraordinarily nice greeting. None of you belong in this business, you know. You’re all too damn decent.”

  Then I retreated to my old office. My desk was still there. So too my Herman Miller chair. I pulled it out. I sat down. I adjusted the height. I leaned back. I thought: this is a place I never expected to see again.

  After a moment, my old assistant Jennifer knocked on the door.

  “Well, hello there,” I said pleasantly.

  “May I come in?” she said, all anxiety.

  “You work here. Of course, you can come in.”

  “David . . . Mr. Armitage . . . ?”

  “Stick with David. And I’m glad to see they didn’t fire you, after all.”

  “I got a last-minute reprieve when one of the other assistants decided to leave. But David, will you ever forgive me for the way I—?”

  “That was then. This is now. And I’d love a double espresso, please.”

  “No problem,” she said, the relief showing. “And I’ll also be back with your call sheet in a moment.”

  Same as it ever was. Prominent on that call sheet were two names: Sally Birmingham and Bobby Barra. Sally had called once late last week. Bobby, on the other hand, had phoned twice every day for the past four days. According to Jennifer, he’d all but pleaded for my home number. And he kept giving her the same message: “Tell him I’ve got good news.”

  And when she told me that, I knew that Fleck’s hand was behind whatever good news Bobby was going to give me.

  But I still refused to take his calls for a week—just to let it be known that I wasn’t going to be won over that easily.

  Finally I capitulated. “All right,” I said to Jennifer when she told me that Bobby was on line one for the third time that day. “Put him through.”

  As soon as I said hello, Bobby was off and running.

  “You really know how to make a guy suffer,” he said.

  “That’s rich,
coming from you.”

  “Hey, you were the putz who went ballistic . . .”

  “And you told me you never wanted to deal with me again. So why don’t we simply tell each other to fuck off and leave it at that?”

  “Ooh, listen to the cool customer. Back on top of the world, and back treating the little people like caca.”

  “I am not at all size-ist, Bobby. Even though you are a nasty, duplicitous, short little shit.”

  “And here I was, about to give you some great news.”

  “Go on,” I said, sounding bored.

  “Remember that ten grand you left on account with me?”

  “I never left any money with you, Bobby. When I closed the account—”

  “You forgot about ten thousand dollars.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “David, I’m going to say it again: you forgot about ten thousand dollars. Got that?”

  “Uh-huh. And what, pray tell, happened to this ‘forgotten’ ten grand?”

  “I bought you a small but significant position in a Venezuelan dot-com IPO, and hey presto—the stock increased fiftyfold, and—”

  “Why are you telling me this absurd story?”

  “It’s not absurd. You’ve now got five hundred grand back on account with Barra & Company. In fact, I was about to get my people to send you and your account guy a statement today.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe this?”

  “The fucking money is there, David. In your name.”

  “That I believe. But this Venezuelan IPO yarn? Couldn’t you do better than that?”

  A pause. Then:

  “Does it matter how the money found its way into your account?”

  “I just want you to admit . . .”

  “What?”

  “That he told you to set me up.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t talk about other clients.”

  “He’s not a client. He’s fucking God.”

  “And sometimes God is good. So stop with the sanctimonious shit . . . especially when God’s also paid you twelve mil for four old scripts that were picking up athlete’s foot in your sock drawer. And while you’re at it, congratulate me on leaving you two hundred fifty k better off than where you were when it all went down.”

  I sighed. “What can I say? You’re a genius, Bobby.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. So, what do you want me to do with the dough?”

  “As in, how do I think you should invest it for me?”

  “That’s what I’m asking.”

  “What makes you think I still want you as my broker?”

  “Because you know I’ve always made you money.”

  I considered this for a moment.

  “You know, after Alison’s commission and the IRS, I’m also going to have about six million of the Fleck deal to play with.”

  “I had done the math, yes.”

  “Say I wanted to take that six million—along with the half million you just made for me—and put it all in a trust fund—?”

  “We certainly do trusts. They’re not the sexiest kind of investment . . .”

  “But the funds can’t somehow get switched into an Indonesian IPO, can they?”

  Now it was his turn to sigh loudly. Instead of making a retort, however, he said: “If you want safe, blue-chip investments—with ironclad permanence—that’s easily doable.”

  “That’s exactly what I want. Ultra-safe. Rock solid. And to be put in the name of Caitlin Armitage.”

  “Nice one,” Bobby said. “I approve.”

  “Why, thank you. And while you’re at it, thank Fleck for me too.”

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going deaf?”

  “Hadn’t you noticed? We’re all falling apart. I think it’s called life. Which is why, my friend, it’s best to maintain an amused attitude at all times—especially during the bad ones.”

  “And you’re a philosopher to boot. How I’ve missed you, Bobby.”

  “Ditto, David . . . with bells on. Lunch next week?”

  “I suppose there’s no avoiding it.”

  But I did keep avoiding Sally’s phone calls. Not that she was as persistent as Bobby. But her name kept appearing on my call sheet once a week for my first three weeks back on the job. Eventually, a letter arrived for me on Fox stationery:

  Dear David,

  I simply wanted to write and say how pleased I am to see you back in business after that dreadful campaign of vilification by Theo McCall. You are one of this industry’s major talents—and what happened to you was nothing short of appalling. On behalf of everyone at Fox Television, congratulations on overcoming the worst possible adversity and triumphing again. Sometimes the good guys do win.

  I also wanted to let you know that Fox Television is extremely interested in moving forward with the comedy series idea Talk It Over, which we discussed some time ago. Your schedule permitting, it would be nice to meet up for lunch and chat things over.

  Hope to hear from you soon.

  Best,

  Sally

  PS You were brilliant on Today.

  I didn’t know if this was Sally’s way of sending me an apology. Or if this was some carefully veiled hint that (as I was now bankable again) she’d like to chat things over. Or if she was simply playing the canny television executive and chasing the so-called talent. I didn’t care to find out. But I wasn’t going to be rude or triumphalist either . . . because, quite frankly, there was nothing to be triumphalist about. So I sat down and—using official FRT stationery—wrote the following businesslike reply:

  Dear Sally,

  Many thanks for your letter. Pressing work on the new series of Selling You means that I won’t be available for lunch. And my writing commitments are such that I am not interested in pursuing any work with you for the foreseeable future.

  Sincerely,

  And I signed my entire name.

  Later that week, there was one final piece of good news—delivered to me by Walter Dickerson, who after months of negotiating with the other side, finally got what I’d been longing for.

  “Okay,” he said when he called me at the office. “Here it is: you’ve got your physical access back.”

  “Lucy actually relented?”

  “Yes—she finally decided that Caitlin needed to see her father. I’m just sorry it took so damn long. But the good news is not only can you have your regular access back, she’s not insisting that it be supervised . . . which is often the case in a situation where access has been suspended for a while.”

  “Did her lawyer give any reason why she changed her mind?”

  “Put it this way: I’m certain Caitlin played a role in changing her mother’s mind.”

  But there was another reason—and one that I only discovered when I flew north for my first weekend in eight months with my daughter.

  I drove a rental car from the airport to Lucy’s house in Sausalito. And rang the bell. Within a nanosecond, the door flew open and Caitlin fell into my arms. I held her for a very long time. Then she nudged me with her elbow and said, “Did you bring a present?”

  I laughed—both at the splendid impertinence of the comment and at her extraordinary resilience. Eight freakish months had gone by—yet here we were again, father and daughter. As far as she was concerned, nothing had changed.

  “The present’s in the car. I’ll give it to you later.”

  “At the hotel?”

  “Yes—at the hotel.”

  “The same hotel we stayed in once—up in the sky?”

  “No—not that hotel, Caitlin.”

  “Doesn’t your friend like you anymore?”

  I stared at her, bedazzled. She remembered everything. Every detail of every weekend we spent together.

  “It’s a very long story, Caitlin.”

  “Will you tell it to me?”

  But befo
re I could find a way of answering that little question, I heard Lucy’s voice.

  “Hello, David.”

  I stood up, still holding Caitlin’s hand. “Hi.”

  An awkward silence. How can you exchange pleasantries after all that enmity, all that horrible legal stupidity, all that useless damage?

  But I decided I should make an effort, so I said, “You look well.”

  “So do you.”

  Another awkward silence.

  A man emerged from the rear of the house and came into the doorframe where Lucy was standing. He was tall, lanky, in his early forties, dressed conservatively in that standard-issue WASP weekend uniform: a button-down blue shirt, tan Shetland sweater, khakis, boat shoes. He put his arm around Lucy’s shoulder. I tried not to flinch.

  “David, this is my friend, Peter Harrington.”

  “Nice to finally meet you, David,” he said, extending his hand. I took it, thinking: at least he didn’t say, “and I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” I said.

  “Can we go, Daddy?” Caitlin asked.

  “Fine by me.” I turned back to Lucy. “Six o’clock on Sunday.”

  She nodded, and we left.

  On the drive back into San Francisco, Caitlin said:

  “Mommy’s going to marry Peter.”

  “Ah,” I said. “And what do you think about that?”

  “I want to be the bridesmaid.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged. Do you know what Peter does?”

  “He runs a church.”

  “Really?” I said, mildly alarmed. “What kind of church?”

  “A nice church.”

  “Do you remember the name of it?”

  “Uni . . . uni . . .”

  “Unitarian, maybe?”

  “That’s it. Unitarian. Funny word.”

  Well, at least, as religions go, it was civilized.

  “Peter’s very nice,” Caitlin added.

  “I’m glad.”

  “And he told Mommy that you should be allowed to see me again.”

  “And how did you know that?”

  “Because I was in the next room, playing, when he said it. Did Mommy stop you from seeing me?”

  I stared out at the lights of the bay.

  “No,” I said.

  “That’s the truth?”

  Caitlin, you don’t need to hear the truth.