Authors: Ron Renauld
There was no one in the waiting room, and the doors around it were closed.
Eric peered in through the window of the receptionist’s area. The secretary was bent over a typewriter, squinting through bifocals as she pecked out information onto a small card bent around the carriage platen.
“No registrations until two,” she called out without looking up from her work.
“I don’t have anything to register,” Eric explained shyly. “I remember reading that you people had a listing of agencies for new writers.”
The secretary finished typing the card and pulled it out of the carriage, fixing it to a three-page memo with a paper clip. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and turned to look at Eric as she fit a cigarette into a long ebony holder.
“Another lamb for the slaughterhouse, eh?”
“Excuse me?” Eric asked politely.
The secretary shook her head and opened a drawer in her desk, pulling out a five-page listing of addresses and phone numbers.
“Good luck,” she said, becoming more friendly after she took a long drag on her cigarette. “The agencies with an asterisk before their name are the ones that will consider material from new writers, okay?”
“Thanks, thanks a lot,” Eric said. “Oh, if it’s not too much bother, could you give me any hints that could help my chances?”
The secretary smirked. “There’s a four-point plan. First, put together your best material into a presentable portfolio. Make sure you know the format for what you’re trying to sell. Second, if you have any ideas developed to the point where you can call them your own, register them with us here. That’s why we’re here. Third, start knocking on doors until one opens or your knuckles start bleeding.”
“What’s the fourth?”
“Learn a trade.”
Eric laughed. “Well, all I have to do is the third step, then. I already got Gary Bially to do my idea into a movie.”
The secretary looked at Eric through the smoke of her cigarette.
“You’re sure of that,” she said.
“Well, I haven’t signed up yet,” Eric said. “That’s why I need the agent.”
“Hmmmm,” the secretary said. “I suppose, then, you know he’s being interviewed by Eve Christopher on Channel 8 in about half an hour.”
“On ‘Hollywood Today’? Bially? You’re kidding?”
Eric left hastily after thanking the secretary, racing down the stairs, too excited to wait for the elevator.
He had to run four blocks until he came to an audio-visual store. He stayed outside long enough to catch his breath, then went inside. Ignoring the display area where a salesman was showing a potential customer a wide-screen Advent, Eric went over to the row of standard consoles and portables lining the wall. All the sets were tuned into afternoon soap operas, so Eric switched channels on one to “Hollywood Today,” a televised fanzine hosted by one of Tinseltown’s more notable gossipmongers.
Onscreen, Eve Christopher sat showing off her latest high-fashion outfit. Her synthetically layered face was turned to Gary Bially, who sat beside her, his shirt unbuttoned to the navel to better flaunt the golden trinkets gleaming like lost treasure through the jungle wilds of his chest. The interview was already in progress. Eric turned up the volume so that he could hear the banter above the lobotomized drivel coming from the other sets.
It was a typical “Hollywood Today” interview: trite shoptalk passed off as quotable profundity, a conversational equivalent to mutual masturbation.
“Let’s get to the hot news for the viewers. I love your new film, Gary.”
“Well, that’s really nice coming from you, Eve. I tell you, it was a tough film to make, and we got mixed reviews. But I’m very proud.”
“How do you get that special chemistry in your films, Gary? They’re all so distinctive.”
“Well, I just think you have to have a feel for it, and I think I have that feel. You just have to have a gut instinct.”
“That’s great. Now, what’s next on your breakneck schedule?”
“Well, I’m glad you asked me that, now, Eve. It’s a real departure for me. A grass-roots story called
Alabama and the Forty Thieves.”
Eric’s face struggled to keep a smile from snapping his jaw off its hinges.
This was it!
“That sounds fascinating! Now, where do your ideas come from, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“Oh, wow . . . well, in different ways. This time, let me see . . . I was feeling kind of down, so I went out and bought a 1934 Auburn Speedster.”
“A car?”
“Oh yeah. And it just flashed on me when I was coming home after a meeting with Dick and David. You know, as a matter of fact—”
Eve clucked her tongue as an offscreen piano twinkled a few high notes to cue the show’s end.
“How time flies. Gary, thank you so much for coming and sharing your insights with us.”
“My pleasure, Eve.”
“This is Eve Christopher thanking you for watching, and remember, Hollywood, I love you!”
As the production credits rolled down the screen, Eric clapped his hands to himself and spun around, bolting high-spiritedly through the door to the nearest pay phone.
It took several calls before he could get through to the studio that had broadcast the show. While he waited for Bially to be paged to the phone, Eric plugged his free ear and huddled into the booth, away from the street noises.
“Hello,” a distant voice came on the other line.
“Hi,” Eric said. “Is this Gary Bially?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Eric Binford.
Alabama and the Forty Thieves?”
There was a pause on the line, then Bially’s voice came back, polite but firm. “You must be mistaken, friend. I’ve never heard of you.”
Eric recalled that he’d never introduced himself. “Remember?” he said. “You picked me up hitchhiking,” he prompted, “I . . . I gave you the whole idea for my movie.”
“Now, firstly, son,” Bially said, taking a parental tone, “I never pick up hitchhikers. And secondly, we never accept outside material.”
“Look,” Eric said, confused, “you said that I ought to call you . . . and . . . and—”
“I’m sorry, pal. I’d love to help you, but I can’t.”
Dazed, Eric stood up in the booth, dropping his hand from his ear but staying on the phone.
“Sure,” he muttered.
“Bye now, take care,” Bially said cheerfully before hanging up.
Eric put down his receiver slowly, then stood in the booth a moment, staring outward, uncomprehending.
The phone rang.
Eric grabbed it expectantly.
“Mr. Bially,” he began, only to be answered by the dreary voice of an operator telling him to insert another quarter into the phone to pay for overtime.
CHAPTER •
27
Back in his room, stewing in his latest rage, Eric smoked down another cigarette as he watched
White Heat.
Cagney, as Cody Jarrett, was holed up with his gang in the mountains after having pulled the train heist. They were waiting for the heat to die down before they made their next move. The men were restless, particularly Big Ed, Cody’s right-hand man. Cody was wary of a possible mutiny. He also didn’t like the way Big Ed was making eyes at his wife. They were all together in the main room of their cramped cabin. Cody, Ma Jarrett, Verna, Big Ed, the others. When Verna offered to pour Big Ed a cup of coffee, Cody exploded, telling Verna that if Big Ed wanted coffee he could get it for himself. The tension in the cabin became intense. It was time to get everything out in the open. As Cody spoke, Eric mouthed the words along with him.
“You know something, Verna? If I turned my back long enough for Big Ed to put a hole in it, there’d be a hole in it. Big Ed. Great Big Ed. You know why they call him that? Because his ideas are too big. Someday he’s gonna get a really big one. About me. It’ll be his last.”
Eric snapped off the projector and took another drag on his cigarette. He nodded to himself.
“Big Bially. Great Big Bially . . .”
Eric went downstairs and sat in the theatre chairs in the empty room. He slouched back in the seat and finished the cigarette, tapping ashes in the tray provided along the armrest. By the time he had smoked it down to the butt he had come up with his plan.
He went into the kitchen and used the phone to dial Bially’s production company. When the receptionist came on, he mimicked Mr. Berger’s voice.
“Get me through to Bially, would you? This is Blanke.”
“Blanke?”
“Look, sweetheart, Bially wants Wildmond to star in
Alabama.
Wildmond’s my boy. Now will you cut the crap and put him on? I ain’t got all day, lady!”
“Mr. Bially’s not expected in today, Mr. Blanke.”
“Don’t hand me that! I talked to him last night and he said he’d have some figures on my offer by three. Now, where the hell is he?”
“He’s over at Allied for the rest of the afternoon, then he was going to stop by his shop on the way home.”
“His shop?” Eric barked. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Bially sat in the barber chair at the Final Cut Salon, a high-rent clipjoint, two blocks from his home, that he’d bought the previous year as a tax write-off and so he could have a place to go for a shave without waiting. It was a posh affair of mirrored walls and thriving houseplants, tastefully decorated and watched over by a screeching canary in a suspended birdcage.
He sat with a striped sheet wrapped around his neck, surrounded by a ravishing woman and three men dressed in unisex outfits that made them look like the groom squad on the
Starship Enterprise.
On cue, the work crew broke out into a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday. One of them produced a candle-studded cake.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Bially insisted, loving it. “Really.”
“Make a wish,” they encouraged. Theirs was for a sizeable bonus once the store celebrated its first anniversary next week. His had more to do with Allied coming up with money for
Alabama and the Forty Thieves.
He blew out all the candles, earning a round of applause and a wrapped present. He shook the box, guessing, “It feels like shoes.”
They were. Gucci. A size too small.
“That’s okay,” Bially said, unfazed, “I can exchange them.”
One of the stylists shrank back from the others, mortified. The others shot him angry glances.
“Well, I didn’t know his size,” the stricken one whined, like a housewife accused of ring-around-the-collar.
There were a few other presents, and Bially went through them while the woman took the cake over to the coffee table, setting it on top of copies of the
Hollywood Reporter
and
Daily Variety
before starting to cut into it.
The celebration continued as a 1936 Packard cruised to a stop in front of the salon. Inside the vintage vehicle, Eric stopped the engine and inspected the trombone case beside him on the front seat. Wearing a fedora and a double-breasted pinstriped suit, his impression of an old-time gangster was surpassed only by the trombone’s impersonation of a Thompson submachine gun.
Eric slapped a circular magazine onto the gun’s stock, then stepped out of the car and slowly walked into the salon, where Bially was feigning sentiment at a Hallmark card in his hands. At the sight of Eric, the work crew fell silent. Bially’s grin only widened at the sight of this latest addition to the festivities.
Eric went over to the radio and turned up the volume.
Although the heavy makeup made him look more like David Bowie than James Cagney, he addressed Bially in the latter’s voice.
“Happy Birthday, suckah!”
Bially boomed with laughter, looking over at the others.
“A real live birthday card! Shit! Which one of you jokers is responsible for this?” He couldn’t stop laughing. “That’s great. That’s too, too much!”
Eric glowered at the work crew.
“Everybody out!”
There was a moment’s hesitation while the workers nervously debated whether a prankster had gone them one better or if they were facing a certified psychopath. Eric helped make up their minds by leveling the Thompson and pumping a spray of bullets into the dangling light bulbs and walls of mirrors, filling the salon with the sound of thunder and shattering glass.
The others fled past Eric out into the street, but he kept his gun on Bially, and the producer remained in the chair, no longer laughing.
Ashen-faced, Bially raised a hand, hoping to regain control of the situation.
“That’s pretty good.” He tried to send out a chuckle, but it crawled back down his throat after taking a look at the damage. “Hey, who hired you?”
“Never mind that,” Eric said, continuing to mimic Cagney. Bially made a motion to get up out of his chair and Eric pointed the submachine gun at his face. “Stay put . . . bigshot!”
“Say, ah,” Bially said, licking his lips, “I think you’re carrying this gag a little too far.”
“Sure,” Eric taunted, “it’s gonna be a lotta laughs. Try this on for size . . .”
Eric fired another burst Bially’s way, destroying the birthday cake and more of the salon, leaving the blanching producer unharmed but terrified.
“Jesus Christ!” he cried, the authority gone from his voice. “What do you want from me?”
“Nuthin’ much from you, you dirty rat. In fact, nuthin’ at all!” Eric recited the jibe like a line out of a Cagney film. It was.
“Who are you?”
“Me? Nobody!” Eric tipped his fedora back on his head, letting a few strands of his unwashed hair spill onto his forehead. “You remember . . .” He took a step closer to Bially and tapped the machine gun on his knee. “You’re somebody.”
Bially tried to look at Eric’s face, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the tip of the Thompson. It wavered before him like the head of a cobra about to fan out for a strike.
“Wait, you’re making a big mistake,” Bially bargained frantically, “I can do a lot for you!”
Eric grinned exultantly.
“But not for long, mistah!”
Taking a step back, Eric raised the Thompson one final time, emptying his clip into Bially and the chair, spinning the producer to one side. His bib reddened in spots as he slumped to one side. Caught on one of the armrests, he stopped moving.
When the sound of gunfire subsided, Eric lowered the brim of his hat and turned to leave the salon. He stopped by. the birdcage, where the canary was having a fit.