Flavor of the Month (43 page)

Jahne was beginning to see his point. It was, after all, pretty much the point Marty had made when he suggested she see Sy. “So that’s where a good agent comes in?” she asked, saving Sy from having to point out the obvious.

“Exactly. And not just a good agent. A good
businessman
. Someone who can see the big picture, who has enough of an overview of the Industry to know where the placement should be, and with whom, and when. And someone who can read the fine print of a contract. Protect your interests. And that’s me. That’s what I do. That’s what I do for Michael McLain and all the others.” He swept his hand across a wall of pictures of famous people. “And that’s what I will do for you. Just say the word,” he said, his hands open, waiting for Jahne’s answer.

Jahne was committed to acting, but she was no fool. She put aside her prejudices and extended her hand to Sy. “It’s a deal,” she said.

“Michael McLain on line one, Mr. Ortis,” his receptionist said over the intercom.

Sy kept his hand on the phone for a moment before picking it up. Shit, he thought, this is all I need.
Now
what the fuck does he want? Although the meeting with Jahne Moore had, in the end, gone very well, and he now had her as a client, he was pissed. It always got him pissed, pitching a new client. And she’d been uppity. She needed to be brought down a notch or two. By the time they agreed to sign on the bottom line, she had pushed his ass as far as it could go, taking all the fun out of the triumph. Now Michael would drive him nuts. He sighed and lifted the receiver.

“Michael, you’re calling to say you’re going to do the Ricky Dunn movie, right?”

“Maybe. I just thought of something we haven’t discussed yet. Okay?”

Sy leaned his head on one hand, suddenly feeling tired. “Do you want me to guess, or are you going to tell me?”

“I get the girl. Not Dunn.
Me. And
my name above the title? Right?”

Now Sy’s head fell forward onto his hands. This guy is going to fuckin’ kill me. “I’ll have to talk to his people.”

“You
are
his people! Anyway, I get top billing
and
I get the girl. Then I’ll consider it.”

“Michael, it’s a very special screenplay. You won’t be the main love interest, you understand? We can’t have the Olivier of the screen making love to a nineteen-year-old. It would be
ludicrous
. Your fans expect someone more sophisticated for you.” Sy felt his wheeze coming on. Now he was really winging it. “You know,” he continued, “the name above the title is usually for the guy who gets the girl. But your name will be bigger—way
bigger
—than his.”

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘ludicrous’? I fuck nineteen-year-olds all the time, Sy. You should know that. I got them coming out of the woodwork, for chrissakes. Ludicrous!”

Sy was feeling pushed. Normally, no matter how much he wanted to push back, he was usually able to control it. But not today. Maybe if that little bitch Jahne Moore hadn’t just sat there, forcing
him
—Sy Ortis—to make a sales pitch, like a fuckin’ new kid on the block. Jesus, twenty years in the business and a snotnose like her can sit there and interview
him
. But for Michael he needed patience.

“It’s ludicrous when there’s a thirty-four-year age difference. It would be like watching Sean Connery fuck Drew Barrymore, Michael.”

“
I
fucked her,” Michael said.

Jesus, Sy thought to himself. Was it true? And who cares? “You did, huh? You’re
amazing
, Michael. Think you can fuck anyone you want, right?”

Michael laughed.

“How about a real challenge, Michael? I bet you can’t fuck all three costars in DiGennaro’s TV show. They’re all kids—maybe nineteen, twenty—but I bet you can’t.”

“And when I do? What do I get?”

“I’ll guarantee your name above the title in this project.”

“And if I don’t?…”

Sy laughed for the first time during the conversation. “You do
this
movie without top billing,
and
the next two I tell you to.”

Michael paused.

“Hey, what’s the matter, Michael? There isn’t any real problem for you here, is there? Not Michael McLain, questioning his prowess?”

“You got a deal, you prick. All three.”

“Right you are! But I want proof, Michael. Not just war stories. Proof!” Sy hung up. If Michael McLain made Jahne another notch on his belt, it should take her down a notch or two. And if he didn’t, well, he’d have to make Sy’s movies. Sy breathed deeply for the first time that day.
Now
he felt better.

Hollywood, like Dante’s hell, has many levels. And rarely, if ever, do they mix, except at work. I—Laura Richie—have been on stage sets, TV sets, movie sets, and location shoots, and, believe me, that is one thing that never changes
.

The technical staff, the boom operators, the other sound men, the camera crews, the lighting designers, the gaffers and best boys and grips all belong to one level. The suits, those businessmen in charge of production, budgets, the front office, publicity, marketing, and the like, all belong on another
.

Then there are the extras: part of the talent, but not really belonging to it. They play the small roles, the crowd scenes, the background, the color
.

And there are the stars. On a successful TV show, the set is built for them, the schedule is designed for them, the catering caters to them. Well
, everyone
caters to them
.

Lastly, there is the director. Even on the shows where stars actually rule, the director is still on the highest level. But remember: that it is only the highest level of hell
.

The hell is trying to take three hundred people and get them to the right location with the right clothes and the appropriate weather to have the right light, the right script, the right performances, to ensure that whatever is being taped or filmed or (God forbid!) performed live gets performed according to the director’s vision. At least that’s the theory. And on the soundstage of
Three for the Road,
Marty DiGennaro was going to ensure that that theory was put into practice. He was going to create a show, a wonderful show, that transcended anything that had been done on television before. And to do it, he had only to concentrate on that one thing. Wasn’t it Lanford Wilson who had said that style was nothin’ but always concentrating on one thing?

Marty had the vehicle for a hit. He had the first three scripts, the cast, and the crew. The only thing, the one thing he might lack, just a little, was concentration
.

Because, since he had met Lila Kyle, it seemed he couldn’t get her out of his mind
.

Marty DiGennaro looked across the bustling sound-stage, his laboratory for dream-making. Even now, after all his years of success, it was hard to believe all these toys were his. A funny-looking little Italian kid, growing up in Queens, he’d been too puny to play with the tough kids of his neighborhood. And he’d been lousy in school, a failure with girls, bad at sports, even bad with his hands. He’d escaped, whenever he could, to the safety of the darkness of the movies. The Roxy, the Corona, the Flushing Loews. They’d been his haven, his home, and it was a daily miracle to him that they’d given him this life, this almost perfect life.

The success, the money, the perks, the opportunity to make movies of his own. All unbelievably lucky. It was only in his private life that things weren’t absolutely perfect. Because it was hard, maybe even impossible, to know who his friends were. Even Joanie, his soon-to-be-ex-wife, had benefited from him, had built her career on his contacts. He hadn’t minded that, but then, when he wanted the child, and wanted her to stay home with Sasha, she left him.

Now women, other women, virtually
any
woman was more than available. Eager, even. Too eager. Because, despite his success, his power, his enormous wealth, his contacts, he knew he was still Marty DiGennaro, a skinny, funny-looking Italian kid who was bad with his hands. He suspected all those women were disappointed in his sexual performance, all merely faking their response. Lovemaking was, too often, a burden. And the parade of anonymous lovelies that he’d started seeing since his marriage broke up were rarely asked to return or spend the night. Work, work, and more work was all there was for him. For, just like back in Queens, the only place he was comfortable was in the movies—on a set or a soundstage, except instead of watching magic, now he made it happen.

Go know.

This was Marty’s mantra in show business. It was the punch line from an old borscht-belt joke. A guy goes to the doctor for a complete physical. After a thorough exam, the doctor, an old Jewish type with an accent, says, “Mister, you are in top condition for a man of your age. Lungs, heart, colon, all in great shape. You’re a lucky man, in peak physical condition. You could live another hundred years!” The guy thanks the doctor, gets dressed, walks out the door, and drops dead of a thrombosis on the doorstep. The doctor looks at the corpse, shrugs, and says, “Go know.”

Go know.

Hollywood marveled at Marty’s unbroken string of hits. They wondered what the secret was to his magic formula for picking them. Marty knew the secret.

There was no magic formula.

If bankers wanted to believe this wasn’t the biggest crapshoot on the face of the earth, let them. But Marty knew how dangerous a game it was. Still, no matter how dangerous, he was getting tired of it. He’d always been a thrill seeker, and putting out another movie, getting another Oscar nomination, or even winning one was beginning to pall. So he’d started gambling in Vegas. But that thrill had died, too.

So then he’d thought of TV. The vast wasteland. The thing called a medium because everything on it was so very average or below. Yet watched. Watched and watched. What if he, single-handedly, could help one of the dying networks, the dinosaurs that were having the living shit kicked out of them by MTV, by cable, by home videos? He could be a hero to Les Merchant, but, more important, he could have autonomy and a vehicle that didn’t have to prove itself every fucking time it came out of the gate. He could take hours developing characters over seasons, instead of minutes in that precious 120. What if he put together something that had never been seen, never been done before?

The idea had intrigued him, and when he ran across the remaindered copy of
Three for the Road
by that obscure woman Grace Weber from Jersey, he knew he had his stepping-off point. He’d bought it for a song, and now, for the first time in years, he was excited by a project. Excited and scared.

He reminded himself that all he had to do was concentrate. He had the scripts, the cast, the crew. Still, he was frightened. Because, if he fell flat on his face, all the jealous bastards in town (and they were
all
jealous bastards in this town) would dance on his grave. But frightened felt alive; he was in the game.

He reminded himself that he had everything he needed for another huge hit. And then he reminded himself of his mantra.

Go know.

Jahne and Pete arrived at the studio separately. He had been grateful for the job, and accepted her explanation that it was best to be discreet about their relationship because Marty seemed concerned.

But was that really her reason? she wondered. With excitement and nerves churning her stomach, she knew that having Pete on the set was just an extra complication, one she wished she did not have to consider. Her relationship with him was BTN—better than nothing—but little more than that. He was a warm body in the dark, a generous sex partner, a nice kid, but no one who could ever know her.

In a way, now. the relationship made her more lonely than if she had been alone. Because how could she explain how she felt? How could a young kid like Pete, honest and clean and simple, understand what she was going through? There was no way to explain it to him. To be honest, she could barely explain it to herself. There were so many feelings that swirled through her, minute by minute, that she couldn’t keep up.

Right now, on the first day on the set, she knew what she felt. It was a single feeling, strong and deep, and it left a metallic taste at the back of her tongue.

She had never been so frightened in her life.

Sharleen stepped out of the trailer she had been assigned as her dressing room and placed her hand on the director’s chair that had her name stenciled across the back; her other hand held her mother’s small Bible. Until this moment, none of it had been real to her: the contract, the publicity-photo sessions, meeting all those important people. Not even the dressing room. But
this
was real. She tried to remember; no, she had never seen her full name printed out, except in her own handwriting. She wished Dean could see it, but she couldn’t have him come to the set. She’d have so much to tell him about tonight.

“Miss Smith,” the man with the headphone said. “Mr. DiGennaro would like to see you at the cast meeting.”

She realized she was being spoken to. “Oh, am I late?” she asked, jumping up.

“No, Miss Smith. Miss Kyle hasn’t gotten here.”

Sharleen walked gingerly across the floor, stepping over lighting cables and electrical tape, afraid to put her feet down for fear of upsetting something. There was a lot of bustling, and people with clipboards, and other people with headsets on, but they weren’t listening to Walkmen. Everything looked confusing to her, but she was sure it made sense to
somebody
.

“Sharleen,” Mr. DiGennaro said, coming toward her. “I’m sorry we kept you waiting. I’d like to introduce you to everyone.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I was just sittin’ back, like a hog on a barrel, looking around. It’s kind of like a circus I seen back home once. Everything happenin’ at once. ’Cept in the circus, at least they had a ringmaster keeping that organized.” She turned back to the chaos she had just passed through. “Does everyone know what they’s supposed to do?” she asked.

Marty laughed. “Yes, that’s my job. I’m the director—a lot like a ringmaster—and I’d
better
know what everyone’s supposed to do, or I’m out on my ass. This is Ted Singleton, he’s in charge of special effects; that’s Dino, my right-hand man; and Bob Burton from Wardrobe; Jim Sperlman, lighting technician; the tubby one is my new AD, Barry Tilden; over that side, Charley Bradford, technical consultant from Harley-Davidson…”