That wasn’t what happened later, when the groupies were gone, and I tried what I assumed were normal relationships. The only women I fell in love with were the ambitious ones who were using me for my industry contacts, and who—once they knew everyone I did—dropped me to climb further up the Hollywood ladder.
I was bewildered. At least it was clear from the start what the ladies from the sex industry wanted.
And so now, here at Dove Bar, I find myself falling into my former life like a tired field hand into a soft feather bed. It’s all familiar. I know the moves.
I don’t remember whether I meet Ramona at the Club Kali or at the Dove, but I know that she shares the backseat with me on the drive back to the NoHo, and that the party in my room continues pretty much till dawn.
She’s tall and raven-haired and has a winged Eye of Horus tattooed on the small of her back, a butterfly on her upper thigh, and a dragon coiling around an upper arm.
Her breasts have had work, but hey, this is Hollywood.
Simon looks her over carefully before he lets her into my room, but he doesn’t give her anything more than an eye-frisk. Apparently even under Level III Paranoia the customer can get laid.
If he’d checked her bag he would have found the cocaine. I decline but she snorts at least half a gram off the polished surface of my bedside table, and then licks up the rest with her active little tongue. When I kiss her I can savor the quinine taste of the drug. The coke probably explains why she’s awake at seven and I’m not. She nudges me out of slumber long enough to tell me she’s got to go to work, and then she dresses and leaves.
I make sure that she leaves her cell number and collapse back into sleep. Some hours later I rise and shower and call room service for breakfast, only to be told that breakfast is no longer available. I order a pulled pork sandwich. Nothing like red meat to get the day started.
I think about the previous night’s call from Gregg with three g’s, and realize that it’s getting to be time to replace Cleve. Whatever Cleve’s virtues might be—and if I think about it real hard I might envision a couple—it has to be admitted that Baker and Baker does not have anything approaching worldwide dominance in, say, artist marketing, motion picture financing, book publishing, literary rights, theater, stand-up comedy, commercials, personal appearances, and corporate events.
Not that I plan to be a stand-up comic any time soon. But still.
So as I eat my sandwich I consider acquiring new representation. I wonder if Joey will set me up with a meeting at Huston-Hauser, the outfit he joined after he fired William Morris years ago when they failed to find him work after his career collapse.
And then my phone gives its horror-movie shriek, and I see that it’s Cleve calling.
“I’m not interrupting anything?” he says.
“Nothing but a sandwich.”
“Can we talk a minute? I’ve got some important news.”
“Sure.”
“I want you to know that I’m going to be closing Baker and Baker.”
I’m taken aback, but also delighted. Problem solved! I think cheerfully.
In my reply, I affect concern. “You’re closing the agency?”
“Yes. I’m moving on to PCTA, and I’m only bringing a few of my clients with me. I hope you’ll agree to be one of them.”
PanCosmos Talent Associates is one of the top five or six agencies, just like TRI, except that it also has a huge sports division. (Not that I’m planning to join the NBA or anything.) I have to pause for admiration when I consider that Cleve managed to parlay his one asset—me—into a berth at a place like PCTA.
Which, it now occurs to me, means I must be a bigger property than I had assumed.
“I’ve got a free afternoon,” I say. “Why don’t you show me around your new digs?”
He hesitates. “I don’t actually have an office yet,” he says.
“Show me around anyway.”
Simon is off, since I kept him busy guarding me till dawn, but a colleague named Astin is on duty, a soft-voiced black man with gold-rimmed shades and a shaved head. He’s built like a football player, and probably was one. He drives a black Ford Expedition, which causes me to do a double take and sends paranoia screaming along my veins like the LAPD racing down the Ventura Freeway to a crime scene. For half a second I’m convinced that Astin is my mystery driver, but then I see that his Expedition is new and gleaming, and I remember that the SUV that tried to run me down was older and belched blue smoke.
Astin takes me to PCTA’s jade-green octagonal tower in Beverly Hills. It’s got weird jagged black objects projecting from the roof, like giant jigsaw pieces, and though they’re supposed to have something to do with feng shui, the whole structure is clearly something the Emperor Palpatine built to house an Ultimate Weapon, probably one that sucks in all power for a thousand miles around. Just inside the front door, inset into the marble floor, is another octagon, with each segment marked by an I Ching trigram. More evil magic. Cleve waits in the lobby, wearing a three-piece suit, glossy wingtips, and a chin dark with fashionable two-day stubble.
“Ready to join the Axis of Evil?” he asks me.
He’s only half-joking. Even if she is a terrorist, there’s a limit to the number of people Dagmar can frighten at a time. PCTA is so huge it can terrify an entire industry.
“You’re in an awesome new house, man,” I say.
“I’d like you to meet Mr. Kravitz.”
I figured I could judge my degree of clout by which of the top brass pitched me, but I sure as hell hadn’t expected Bruce Kravitz, who is vice president in charge of talent. He was one of the three original founders of the company, and one of the others is dead.
He takes me up to Bruce’s office, which is about as big as the set for Celebrity Pitfighter and nearly as gaudy, with Chinese vases in every corner, gold Chinese characters set into the walls, and a gold-plated samurai sword mounted under Plexiglas behind Bruce’s desk. Bamboo flutes and mirrors, important in feng shui, hang in the corners and on the walls. There are ancient bonsai on little stands. The center of the carpet features a giant mandala, probably one that means I own the Tao and you can’t have it.
Bruce is lean and balding and has a dry handshake and a dry manner. His eyes are a pale blue. Mild irony seems to surround him like an aura, and I figure John Malkovich should play him in the biopic. I thank him for seeing me on such short notice, and he asks if I’d like anything to drink. I accept a cup of tea, first cuttings from some valley in Oregon that, apparently, has the best microclimate for tea in the world.
Bruce accepts the teapot from his assistant and pours it himself.
I have to admit that it’s a pretty darn good cup of tea.
Bruce gives me what I assume is a speech he’s given many times before, mostly about the all-consuming mightiness of PCTA. Talented writers will develop or adapt scripts just for me, and PanCosmos will package these with directors and other actors, grab studio heads by their gonads, and demand that they be produced. We will trample Hollywood beneath our collective feet. A future of gold-plated Gulfstream jets and mattresses stuffed with gold double-eagle coins will soon be ours.
While this conversation goes on, Bruce calls in a stream of sub-agents from various departments: publicity, literary properties—an autobiography is mentioned—and the woman from the speakers’ bureau. I have a long talk with her.
“You’re hot right now in the tech field,” she says. “Game conventions, tech conventions, industry gatherings—you can make a nice packet giving talks.”
“And you’ve got a great story,” Bruce says. “Early success, the theft of your heritage, the wilderness years…and now, of course, you’ve crossed into the promised land.”
Great! I think. I’m Moses!
I wonder if my mom would be impressed, but then I decide she wouldn’t. After all, she knows God personally.
Bruce steeples his manicured fingers. “I’m interested in Escape to Earth,” he says. “I’m interes
ted in the technologies and the techniques.”
Aha, I think. It’s not just me he wants, it’s also Dagmar and everything she knows and all her skills. But he can’t get Dagmar, so he’ll settle for stealing as many of her innovations as he can, packaging them with his own people, then selling them himself.
“That’s a long conversation,” I tell him. “Better save it for another afternoon.”
Bruce offers a languid, cynical smile. “Absolutely,” he says. He leans toward me. “Sean,” he says, “what would you like to do? What’s your dream? Because I’d like to make your dream come true.”
I feel my mouth going dry as I stare into Bruce’s pale eyes. I have absolutely nothing to say. And at this instant, right now, I realize just how pathetic my ambitions have been. All I wanted was to work steadily and not be poor and have women like me—and now I’ve got that, got it all in the last week, and I can’t think of anything more I want.
Cripes, you’d think I could come up with a better fantasy than that, wouldn’t you? What the hell can I tell him? Richard III? That’s ridiculous.
I lean toward Bruce, and put as sincere a look on my face as I can.
“You know,” I say, “I’ve always wanted to play our lord and savior, Jesus Christ.”
There’s a strange shift that goes on behind the blue eyes as every switch in Bruce’s brain resets to zero, and for a moment there’s a slackness in the lower jaw as he tries to process the idea of an unnaturally tall, watermelon-headed Klingon playing the Son of God, and how he’s now going to have to promise that he’ll try to make that happen. But I have to say that he handles it well.
“Just kidding,” I say.
Bruce gives a thin smile that tells me he doesn’t like being pranked. Cleve breaks into laughter.
“You even had me going!” Cleve says. It’s the first thing he’s said in maybe half an hour.
“Honestly,” I say, “it’s all happened so fast, I haven’t had a chance to reorder my priorities. I have a whole list of ideas, but I’m going to have to look through it and see what really speaks to me now.”
Bruce nods. “Fine. Take your time.”
He offers to refresh my tea, and I decline.
“Look,” I say. “I just need to say this one thing. I got fired by Sam Kripenevitch. I got fired by Alan Franz. Getting fired by Bruce Kravitz would make the trifecta, but—” I try to focus on what I’m attempting to articulate. I have the sense that simply expressing my insecurities would be wrong in this setting.
When in doubt, I think, try flattery.
“Okay,” I say. “If I go with PanCosmos, it’s because I think you’re better than those guys. I think maybe that’s what I’m trying to say.”
Bruce has an expression of professional concern on his face. “Sean,” he says. “I won’t fire you.”
“Fire me if I’m an asshole,” I say. “Or if I get drunk and throw up on Michael Jackson’s grave or something. But don’t fire me just because I have a dry spell.”
Bruce nods. “We don’t do that here.”
He’s lying, and I know he’s lying, and he knows I know, but it’s probably as good a guarantee as I’m ever going to get. I stand up.
“I should stop taking up your time.”
Bruce stands. “You can take up my time whenever you need, Sean.” He comes around his desk and joins me. “Will we be doing business together, Sean?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, we will.”
We shake hands. Cleve is grinning like someone who’s been teetering on the edge of a cliff, and has just been yanked to safety. I turn to him.
“Cleve,” I say, “could you possibly check to see if my car is ready?”
“You got it!” he says, and bustles off. I turn to Bruce.
“Beautiful office,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“It’s a big jump for Cleve,” I say. “Baker and Baker to here.”
Bruce nods. His blue eyes gaze at me palely. “He’ll be fine,” he says.
“I’m sure he will,” I say. “But if he isn’t—”
Bruce looks at me in silence.
“It’s okay with me if you have to fire him,” I say.
There’s that little shift behind the eyes again, and I can practically hear the circuits in his brain clicking over.
He nods. A nod from Bruce Kravitz is like a nod from Don Corleone. It’s a nod that promises a lot.
Then Cleve comes in, very happy, and he and I hug each other while Bruce Kravitz looks on, smiling, his hand half-raised in a gesture of blessing.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HEAVY LUGGAGE BLOG
I would like to announce to all and sundry that I have made a will. As my family seems to have abandoned me, I decided to leave my entire estate to the Motion Picture and Television Fund, which is a fund that provides assistance to those in our industry who have fallen on hard times.
The MPTF is a noble institution, and I urge those of you with means to contribute.
Comments (1)
FROM: LadyDayFan
I have checked, and the MPTF is a legitimate charity with a long history, and therefore unlikely to be a part of the ARG.
* * *
FROM: Sean Makin
SUBJECT: Your “Car”
Hi Mom.
I don’t know if you’ve been following my adventures here in California, but it appears that one of Babaji’s devoted followers has torched your car.
I’ve filed for the insurance, but you may have to come here to pick up the money.
Yr Son
P.S.: You wouldn’t happen to know this “Trishula,” would you?
P.S.2: Does Babaji have any comment on this act of violence perpetrated by one of his followers? I mean, is he for or against? And can he make his comment public?
FROM: Parmita
SUBJECT: Re: Your “Car”
I don’t know why I should respond to you, because you will only put my words on your “blog” and encourage your “friends” to make unkind comments.
Of course Babaji is against violence! He has spoken against violence countless times! But when you speak such slanders against God, it is obvious that God’s “true believers” will grow angry! I am angry myself!
There is no reason why you shouldn’t send the insurance check to my home here in India.
Parmita
* * *
FROM: Sean Makin
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Your “Car”
Hi Mom.
Wow, what kind of insurance did you have on that car? I thought the premiums were awfully high, but then I figured, what the hell, it’s a Mercedes.
But it turns out that you were paid the replacement value instead of the value of the car! I have here a check for $105,249.00, the cost of a brand-new S-Class!
The check is made out to you, and I can’t cash it. I also can’t send the check to you, because the insurance company won’t honor a check deposited in a foreign bank. Apparently there are too many foreigners involved in insurance fraud.
I guess you’ll have to come here and pick it up, then open an account with it.
Sean
FROM: Parmita
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Your “Car”
My friends here say that you should use it to open a “joint account” in both our names, and then send the money electronically.
FROM: Sean Makin
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your “Car”
Hi Mom.
I checked with the bank, and they won’t open an account in your name without a signature. You’ll have to come here for the signature, if nothing else.
I checked to see if I could set up a trust, like you did for me, so that you could pick up the money whenever you wanted, but they say they can’t set up a trust in the name of someone who doesn’t live in the country.
Apparently there was a lot of fraud connected with trusts and there are new regulations. They’ve closed a lot of loopholes.
&nb
sp; So you’ll have to come here after all. Or I could burn the check. Your choice.
Sean
Of course I’m lying. A fourteen-year-old Mercedes is worth a little over eight thousand dollars, and that’s what the check is actually for. In these emails I’m making up bank regulations wholesale.
I just want to see what will bring my mother to California. Obviously she doesn’t care enough about me to visit, so I thought I’d tempt her with money. I didn’t think eight grand would do the job, so I’m madly inflating the value of the check.
Of course she may be all spiritually advanced and above greed by now, but I’ll bet that Babaji would like to get his hands on the cash. We’ll see.
INT. NOHO PLAZA LOBBY—DAY
I give Ramona a call from the car on the way home, but instead I get a man with one of those Yat accents they have in Pasadena. He tells me he doesn’t know any Ramona.
I must have copied the number into my phone wrong.
We get back to the NoHo, and Astin walks with me into the lobby. On one of the chrome-and-glossy-leather sofas I see Richard the Assassin waiting for me, netbook on his lap, one Converse-clad foot crossed over the other. He gives me a jerk of the chin that means Come join me, and Astin and I join him. He rises, glances at his Girard-Perregaux chronograph, then looks at me.
“We have a problem,” he says.
Astin is instantly alert, scanning the lobby from behind his gold-rimmed shades.
“Not that kind of trouble,” Richard says. He turns to me. “Your room is bugged.”
Richard has a key to the room, and also the combination to the safe he’s put in a corner of my bedroom, so that he can swap out old scripts for new ones. When he’s there he sweeps the room, and he tells me he’s found five bugs, two each in the main room and the bedroom, and one in the bathroom.
The Fourth Wall Page 24
