by Alan Hruska
“You shouldn’t have,” he says, by way of greeting.
“We didn’t have a chance to talk last night.”
“Nor will we now, Jess. I’m pretty wiped.”
“Just a word,” she says.
He drops into the wing chair in the living room, loosening his tie. She takes the sofa, tightening the sash to her bathrobe. He looks at her with resignation. There’s actually no one he’d rather be talking to, if he must talk. And he already knows that. As tired as he is. And it’s not, dammit, because you look like your sister. But she’s plainly keyed up to talk about something else.
She says, “I had to leave that job. I had no place else to go but here. I’ll move out as soon as I can.”
“What did he do, Stashinsky? Proposition you?” Her expression confirms it, and Alec’s laugh is dry. “Little early, even for him.”
“I know you warned me.”
“Which makes it worse, sorry.”
“He apparently considers himself irresistible,” she says.
“What he is—”
“I know what he is,” she says with a twist to her mouth. “And no doubt should have seen it coming.”
“All right,” he says. “You’re here now with absolutely no pressure to move out. Stay until you find something you really want. Independent film is ready to get hot in New York. You’ll land someplace.”
“There are lots of jobs. They pay nothing.”
“So take one anyway,” he says. “Learn the scene, meet the people. Stay on here a little longer. And I know why you’re thinking no, but the fact is—you see how I work. I’m almost never home. What time I have is devoted to Sarah, and she needs me less and less. She probably needs you now more than me.”
“Thank you, Alec, but—”
“Just think about it, Jess.” He starts to get up.
“Why do you work so hard?” she says.
“What?”
“You’re working seventy, eighty hours a week. No one does that. Why you?”
He relapses into the chair. “Lots of people do that.”
“Constantly? All year long? Maybe lawyers and cab drivers. The cabbies don’t love it. Do you?”
“It’s awful late for this, Jesse.”
“Okay,” she says. “Some other time.”
He doesn’t move. “To do what I like doing as well as I like doing it, I have to work harder than I—or most anyone—would care to work.”
“So… just do fewer cases. Lawyers in Dublin—even London—don’t work this hard.”
“The good ones do. It’s the nature of the practice. You either have too many cases or too few.”
“So choose the latter.”
He laughs and shakes his head sadly.
“Why the hell not?” she says.
“Takes your name off the playbill. Very bad. And, if you’re a member of a firm, you have responsibilities to your partners. So can we now go to bed?”
It’s slight, her reaction, but a perceptible flinch.
“No worries,” he says. “I’m not Stashinsky. I’ve many faults, but an illusion of irresistibility is not one of them.”
“Because you don’t think it’s an illusion,” she says with a faint smile.
“Oh, really?” he says. “While you’re standing proof of the opposite fact?”
She closes her eyes for a moment, with a small shake of her head, which he can’t quite interpret. Or ask about, much less use to end the conversation. “How do you know about lawyers in Dublin?” he asks instead.
“I lived with one,” she says. “For almost a year. It didn’t last. It couldn’t.”
“That was your baggage?”
Her double take is a question.
“First night, when you arrived. You said you had baggage.”
“Hmm,” she says. “Yeah, that was it. My boyfriend lawyer in Dublin.”
“Nice guy?”
“Yeah. He was. Is. I’m sure you’d like him.”
“Did you talk about marriage?
“He did.”
“You didn’t want to.”
“Correct. I did not wish to be married.”
“You knew that beforehand?”
“I’ve known that for… well… never mind.” She rises from the chair. “Much too late for this.”
“To be continued,” he says, also rising.
“No, actually,” she says, “this for me is dangerous waters.”
‘Ah,” he says. “Then we won’t swim in them. At least, not tonight.”
“Good for you,” she says, kisses him on the cheek, and leaves the room.
SIXTEEN
Something happened in Cleveland you ought to know about,” Alec says to Ben Braddock at eight in the morning.
Braddock puts down his copy of the New York Law Journal, which he reads every morning at this time, but leaves his legs propped on the corner of his desk. “What makes you think I ought to know about it?” Braddock says.
“It’s your client. They originally came here for you.”
“No, they came here for Chauncey Kendall, a hundred years ago. And we don’t own clients here. What the hell kind of firm you think this is?”
“Well, you’re the head of it,” Alec says. “And Allis-Benoit is not likely to be anyone’s client here much longer. So you want to know what happened in Cleveland?”
“I already know. Your friend Larry”—Braddock pronounces it as if relishing some absurdity—“that’s his name, Larry? ”
“He called?”
“He did,” Braddock says. “Very upset. Seems you don’t value his judgment.”
“That’s accurate.”
“And you laid down an ultimatum, he tells me.”
“I don’t think we should be defending a monopolization claim while another firm prosecutes our monopolization counterclaim in the same lawsuit.”
“That right?” Braddock says. “We really have a counterclaim?”
“We do. Might even be winnable, if we could afford to go to trial.”
“Isn’t it a bit late to be filing a new pleading in this case?”
“Newly discovered evidence.”
“I see,” Braddock says, bringing his feet back down to the floor. “You’re talking about your deposition of Strand.”
“Have you read it?”
Braddock grunts. “Of course I read it.”
“So you know?”
“I know you’ve got half a leg to stand on.”
Not easy following the twists and turns of the older man’s mind. “What about Larry Rilesman?” Alec says.
“What about him?”
“I assume he told you he wants his old firm to handle the claim.”
Braddock scoffs. “You think I’d let that twerp bring another firm into this case?”
“Which is what you told him,” Alec says, now understanding how that conversation was affecting this one.
“In words you and I would recognize as having that meaning, yes I told him.”
“And he’s backed down?”
“Of course he’s backed down.” Braddock swoops up his Journal, repositions his legs on the desk, and recommences his morning read. “Jesus Christ, Alec. Whatta you got, jet lag? From Cleveland?”
When Jesse awakes, at 8:30, she feels like a layabout. Alec’s already downtown; Sarah’s already at school. It propels her to action. Or was it that conversation last night? she thinks in the shower. Toweling herself in front of a full-length bathroom mirror, she thinks, Look what he’s missing. Then at breakfast reflects, Who am I kidding? and Who’s missing what? She’s beginning to talk to herself. Aloud, but in short sentences. Stupid sentences!
Then, popping bread in the toaster, she declares, as if reciting a monologue, Being alone in an empty apartment is not a good thing! Especially his apartment!
She butters her toast, spreads jam on it thinly, takes a bite, drinks her coffee, and calls her agent. I have an agent!—an exhilarating thought, except when one remembers the agent i
s a nobody who’d tacked her number to a billboard at the Thalia movie house on West Ninety-Seventh Street. As desperate as me! When Jesse first called in response, she got, “I am, in fact, Peggy Goldsmith. Used to be Goldschmitters, but I figured, why not go for the spiffier version?” To date, Peggy’s “representation” has been unrewarding. She did put an ad in The Village Voice that listed clients, including Jesse, but that supreme effort, thus far, has yielded nothing, which is hardly surprising.
Peggy remains cheerfully optimistic, however, even after not remembering Jesse’s name at the outset of this morning’s call. “I do have something, a possible assistant director job,” she says. “There’s a man who worked for Cassavetes on Minnie and Moskowitz. Can’t recall off the top of my head what he did for John”—she pauses for emphasis on her implied acquaintance with the noted director—“but he’s starting his own project and might need an AD.”
“So you haven’t actually talked to him?” Jesse says.
“Not actually, no.”
“You what—read about this in Variety?”
“Not Variety, no. Not quite that established a publication. But he must have some money for the project. He has an office in the Brill Building.”
After collecting the man’s name and address, Jesse is there within the half hour. The famous Brill Building on Broadway. With its splendid ebony and gold art deco front and lobby. From the 1930s through the 1960s, piano sounds erupted from every room, since Tin Pan Alley, at least in spirit, had moved into its halls. In 1973, it still houses music publishers, but with a fringe invasion by producers of films. Including Justin Jankowski, who occupies a cubbyhole on the seventh floor, with a desk, a phone, and a wary expression, the latter worn on a pale and weary face, which is also unshaven. “Who are you?” he asks, his expression unchanged, as Jesse peeks through the door.
“My name is Jesse Madigan, Mr. Jankowski.” She boldly steps in. “I’m an assistant director, recently with the Ardmore Studios, which is the largest film producer in Ireland. My agent said you’re starting a new project, and I’ve come to see whether you might be interested in someone of my credentials.” All rehearsed in the subway, and Jesse is pleased the way it came out, but Jankowski’s reaction is not encouraging.
“You a bill collector?”
“No, I just said—”
“They’re very clever now. Sending a beautiful young woman like yourself would be entirely the sort of thing they would do.”
“I can assure you—”
“You just did. And I believe you. And I don’t know you from Adam, but I’m prepared to give you some advice. Would you like some advice?”
“About the film business?” she says. “From you? Very much, please.”
“Then, sit down.”
There’s one chair, and she takes it. He’s a worn-down-looking man in his late fifties, with cheeks sunken beneath the overgrowth of beard. “You’ve hit me at an excellent time,” he says. “Not for a job—I don’t have one to offer. But for wisdom. Are you open to wisdom?”
“Always,” she says.
“I’m inclined to impart it, because I’m bitter, and I like an audience for my bile. More fresh-faced the better—and yours, my dear, looks quintessentially naive.”
“That’s probably an accurate reflection,” she says.
“No compliment intended.”
“None received.”
“I have no job to offer you, or anyone,” he says. “Indeed, I’m firing those I previously overzealously hired, because my project—insidious term in this business, project; insidious because it implies a venture capable of taking on life—my project has gone down the toilet. Which is a crude term, but apt. Let me assure you, apt! Especially for this business.” He throws his hands up. “I keep using that word, business. There is no business. Not in New York. There are bands of desperate people prowling the streets. They have no money, and no one will give them any to make their films. Their precious film projects. So, like drug addicts, they drain their relatives. Or take shitty jobs and hoard their pennies. Then steal locations and shoot on the cheap in sixteen millimeter, even eight millimeter, natural lighting or floor lamps, camera sound or no sound. And they don’t want you. Ireland means nothing here. They want people who can give them money, or the name actor—which is the holy grail. Which will get the great New York Times to condescend to recognize the quality of a film and put tushies in the seats if, by some miracle, you get a theater to take it. Or take your money to four-wall it.”
“People do succeed at this,” she says.
“Here?” He laughs at the notion, then turns on her a serious face. “What’s your dream? You want to be an AD all your life?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not,” he repeats. “You want to be an auteur!” He gives the word a flurry of fingers.
“I’d like to make films of my own, yes.”
“Okay.” Now businesslike. “So here are the ways to do that. The easiest, of course, is to have your own money. Like Cassavetes, who made a lot as an actor, then poured it all into Minnie. You got any money?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Didn’t think so. Do you have any friends who are rich or famous?”
Slight hesitation. “No.”
“You had to think about that?”
“No,” she says. “There’s no one.”
“And you have no friends in the business, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Correct.”
“There’s a group now… out of film school, NYU… tight little community. They’re pooling their talents, resources; low-cost films with fresh ‘method’ actors. You know any of these people? They’re near your age or just a bit younger than you.”
“No.”
“Right,” he says. “You were in Ireland. But I’m sure one of them would take you on as a lover. Or trade a job for a night in his bed. Get you a PA gig, or maybe a second-second. For which you will be paid exactly nothing.”
“I’m a damn good first assistant director,” Jesse says evenly. “I’ve already been a PA. And a second-second.”
“Not here. And so what? You don’t know people here. People who matter. They’re having a tough enough time. Why would they let you in? What do you have to offer? There are hundreds like you. Who also didn’t go to the right film school with the right people. Who also didn’t already do five films here for no pay and suck up to everyone on the set.” He reflects. “Or are too old to work for nothing, because they cannot any longer sleep on other people’s sofas.”
“Like you?” she asks.
“Right. Like me.”
“So what will you do?”
“Go west,” he says, “of course. What you, with your wonderful fresh face, would probably call selling out.”
“I wouldn’t actually,” she says. “A real job? I’d applaud you.”
“And you? How will you cope?”
“I’ll hook on somewhere.”
“Hook?”
She stands abruptly. “I won’t be selling my ass, Mr. Jankowski.”
He laughs. “Good girl. I wish the best for you.”
“Thank you,” she says.
“I did mean to frighten you.”
“I know.”
“Didn’t succeed, though, did I?”
“I was born frightened, Mr. Jankowski.”
“Best state to be in,” he says. “Especially for this business.”
It’s 4:30 in the afternoon. Sarah is on the carpet, unloading her book bag; Cissy is lounging on Sarah’s bed. They’re talking about sex—Cissy’s favorite subject.
“So you two do it yet?” Cissy asks.
“No-o,” Sarah says, her voice rising in umbrage at the question.
“You were alone in his apartment and you didn’t score?”
“No, Cissy. Neither one of us scored.”
“So what did you do? You let him touch your boobs?”
“Jesus, Cissy!”
“Hand jobs?”
“We didn’t have sex, all right? What is it with you? You talk as if you’re the Lolita of the Upper East Side. You’re not even experienced.”
“That’s what you think.”
“I think it,” Sarah says, “because if you’d done it, you would’ve told me. You couldn’t have waited to tell me.”
“I didn’t think you were ready,” Cissy says.
“To what? Hear about how you let Fergy Campbell put his hand on your ass under your panties?”
“Did I tell you that?”
“You know damn well you did.”
“Well, that was nothing. I’ve known Fergy since I was six. He actually lived across the street from me in London.”
“So what are you saying?” Sarah says. “You’re no longer a virgin?”
“No. Technically I am.”
“Technically?”
“There were these two guys I met at a party last week.”
“Two guys?”
“From Princeton, yeah. Beautiful guys. We were, you know, drinking, smoking—”
“You’re smoking now too?”
“Everyone smokes at these parties.”
“What… were you smoking?”
“You know.”
“No,” Sarah says firmly. “I don’t.”
“A little pot.”
“Oh, Cissy.”
“Well, you’ve done that! You told me!”
“Twice,” Sarah says. “Made me weird. And I told you so you wouldn’t.”
“Anyway,” Cissy says, brushing that aside, “we were, you know, just talking, listening to records, off in some bedroom in this huge apartment. There was a wonderful mood—dreamy, sexy—which made me realize that I really wanted to fool around. Also, I had the power, these guys were so turned on. So I’m lying on the bed, and I kind of squish down a bit and let my skirt ride up a bit. Then I watch them watching me. Two guys, mouths open, gaping at my legs.” Cissy laughs. “You dig this?”
“They might have raped you.”
“I know,” Cissy says. “They might have. That was definitely part of the thrill. And I was playing that too. Staying ahead of them. I mean, God, we were all so fucking hot! I said, ‘I see you guys looking. Tell you what—you get up, and you strip. I’ll watch. Then I‘ll let you watch me.’ It was like someone else was saying those things. I couldn’t believe it was me.”
