Flavor of the Month (84 page)

Casting for AD was going to be easy. Since Sam wasn’t looking for someone with creative ability, just a gofer mentality, the field was wide open. He supposed that A. Joel Grossman was as good as anyone. But he didn’t say that right away.

“What do you think?” April asked, after the interview was done and Joel walked out of the room.

“He hasn’t had very much experience,” Sam said.

“But he comes well recommended.”

“He’s your boss’s secretary’s son. What kind of a recommendation is that?”

April dismissed Sam’s question with a shake of her head. “He’s done those jeans ads. They were hot. And about a thousand other commercials. And he’s been on enough sets to know how to handle himself. He’s dependable. And I think he can be inventive, if not creative. You’ll get your money’s worth, Sam. Trust me on this.”

That was the whole point: Sam trusted no one. But he did think A. Joel would work out, just because he had little experience, and had artistic pretensions. If he could shoot those jeans ads, he could walk around behind Sam carrying a clipboard. This guy wanted a job in features, any job. “Okay,” Sam finally said. “But I hope it doesn’t come back to bite me on the ass. And you owe me.” Sam looked down at his list of actresses scheduled for readings today. “Who’s next?” he asked.

April raised her empty coffee cup in the air without looking up from the script notes in front of her, and the cup was immediately taken by an unobtrusive hand. When a refill was placed in front of her, she took a sip, then suddenly spit it out on the floor. “Who the fuck did this? Goddamn it, Melanie, this has Equal in it.”

The young woman came running up to her. “I’m so sorry, Miss Irons…”

“Sweet ’n’ Low—how many times do I have to tell you?” Melanie ran off to get a fresh cup. “Christ!” April said to Sam on her right at the table. “Where do these people
come
from? Can’t even remember how I take my coffee.” April pushed the script aside, along with a stack of rejected résumés. “And I can’t get an actress to read a few lousy lines through without a flub.
Read
them, for chrissakes. Not memorize and
act
them, just fucking
read
them.”

Sam thought of Jahne Moore and how she’d blown him away with her audition monologue. At night, alone, he ran the film of it over and over. Sam brushed his dark hair back on his head, then let his forehead rest on his palm. He was tired. They’d been at the casting table since eight this morning. It was now almost four. Seventeen readings, and not one even adequate, let alone good enough for a screen test. It was going to be a long night. “I got better reads from the kids trying out for my group in New York. At least they could read. Hollywood,” he said, shaking his head. He’d better stop there. Sam knew April didn’t want to hear another attack on Hollywood by “Mr. Off-Broadway,” her derisive nickname for him. But now, apropos of nothing, Sam remembered Mary Jane Moran, and the time she had come for that first cold reading of
Jack and Jill
. She had been one of a slew of actresses, all good. Except she was the best. By far the best. Why couldn’t there be another Mary Jane in this town?

He realized that lately what he missed the most was playing mentor. Mary Jane had been a wounded bird who had blossomed under his direction. And she had also bloomed in their personal relationship. Why did he so like the role of director, of Pygmalion to Galatea? He enjoyed being needed, being wiser, being more experienced, more in control. Was it a power trip? Yes. Was it because he was insecure? He didn’t think so. What was so wrong about wanting to teach someone, wanting to help someone? How would he find that fulfillment? Where was another pupil for him?

Well, perhaps, in a way, there was. Jahne Moore, Sam knew, had already memorized the entire new script, and they weren’t even in rehearsal yet. She was intelligent, hard working, and she was good. He was sure of it. But she was young, and needed direction. He had been working with her for a little over two weeks, every day, and was amazed at what a quick study she was. He knew filming
Birth of a Star
was going to be a breeze with her. He’d calmed her down about the nudity, and he enjoyed their give-and-take. Jahne was professional, refreshing, beautiful, and funny. Yet not hardened, the way April was. A dynamic woman, he thought. Yet still vulnerable.

Sam had been impressed first with Jahne’s looks, then her talent, and now by her brains and professionalism. He found that, more than any other part of his job, directing Jahne was what he most looked forward to. It would be…satisfying. There was something special about Jahne Moore.

But now April was talking. “You’re wasting our time, here, Sam. And time is money. You have to change the way you motivate actors, Sam. Movies are different than plays. I’ve been telling you that. You’ve got to approach movie actors in a different way. They’re used to a scene-by-scene prep. You’re giving them the script overview. Just do the moment. Don’t waste your time. Or mine.”

“Look, that’s just not the way I work.”

April looked at him coolly. “Well, this isn’t working. We haven’t cast one more part.” She paused. “Maybe it’s not the direction, Sam. Maybe it’s the script. Try using the word ‘abandonment’ in a sentence. It can’t be done. But this character has to say the word
three times
in a page and a half of dialogue.”

Of course she was right. No one had ever accused April of being stupid. His script was rough—very rough. And Sam was, he had to admit to himself, scared. And he didn’t like the feeling. Always before, he’d been the most powerful person in any group. Back on off-Broadway, at St. Malachy’s, even on
Jack and Jill
. He hadn’t just been the shmuck writer, he’d also been the director; it was
his
movie. The line producer Seymore LeVine was a nothing, the son of Bob (International Studios) LeVine, and Sam had bedded Crystal Plenum right away. Although
she’d
been the real star of the movie, once he’d slept with her,
he
had the power.

Of course, he told himself, he hadn’t slept with her for the power. Who wouldn’t sleep with her, if they could? An entire nation of men wanted to sleep with her. And they’d had a good time, until the end of the picture. Then he had started up again with April…Well, being with April was a whole other scene.

Sam knew the world of acting, of directing. Hell, he’d been at it all his life. But April seemed to know
everything
. Including that grown-up world of money, deals, and percentages of the gross. She was as smart and as tough as any of the men, and as sexy as any of the women. And he liked that. With April, he felt like he was with the very best, the Rolls-Royce of women.

It was only that with April he sometimes felt different about himself, almost, well, inadequate. It wasn’t the way it had been with the other women. When he slept with April, instead of gaining her power, it was as if
she’d
stolen
his
. Not sexually. She was a tigress, but he could keep up with her. And it wasn’t anything she said or did. It was just that he didn’t feel any submission from her. Not that he asked for any. Certainly not. And he knew she liked him. But with other women he had felt his leaving them would matter. With April, he knew she would continue, as seamlessly as before.

It unnerved him, and on top of that there was the problem of Michael McLain. Let’s face it, I hate the prick and he hates me, Sam told himself. The guy was a coaster—he’d coasted through on his good looks and his reputation as a womanizer, not as an actor. Perhaps April was right. That as a guy on the slippery slope down, he’d be perfect.

But the problem was that the prick had accepted the role and now didn’t want to play it. Christ, the guy couldn’t act, but if he simply
read
these lines he’d get an Oscar on this one. This part
was
Michael McLain. All he had to do was show up. But now he wanted to “improve” on it, to sweeten it. He wanted the character to have an upbeat, charming slide, not a desperate one. He’d actually suggested that, instead of a suicide in the sea, James should die saving Judy from drowning! What bullshit!

So the son-of-a-bitch was taking every cheap shot he could at the script to try to get his way. His way, which would weaken or kill the goddamn thing.

Sam didn’t have to tell April there were problems with the script. Act Two was weak as hell. She knew it, and had said as much this morning, both to him and to Michael. But she’d stuck up for me, Sam thought. “James is a suicide,” she told Michael. “He has to be.” But what, Sam thought with a little chill, what if she hadn’t sided with me? Because that was the least of Michael’s script suggestions. The script had already gone through five revisions even before this casting call. Sam looked over at April. How long would she side with him, and what would happen when she didn’t? She looked at him now, with that unnerving look, as if she were reading his mind and found it amusing.

“Get them to
act
, Sam. We can always fix the script later. Okay? Ready?”

Sam nodded.

“Send in the next bimbo, Melanie,” April called out, and leaned back in her chair, her arms securely folded.

After Lila had been pulled off Ara, she managed to get herself home. Then she spent three days licking her wounds and regrouping.

She’d lost
Birth
, and there was nothing she could do about it. All she could do was focus on her future, a future that had to be bigger and better than Jahne Moore’s. There were three things she could do: First, get Marty to direct her in a film, a major feature. Second, be sure that it was her, not Sharleen, and certainly not Jahne, who won the Emmy. Lastly, get Sy Ortis to represent her.

She handled the first part of her campaign with a phone call to Marty, setting up dinner. If he was surprised by her invitation, he didn’t show it. Then she called Sy Ortis’ office for an appointment at the end of the week. Only then did she get dressed and leave the house.

Lila drove to the right address and stood looking at the facade of the two-story building in front of her. It was far from the typical excessive Malibu and Beverly Hills real estate she was used to, in one of the seedier sections of Los Angeles, an area not well known to the Hollywood crowd, unless their business was of the nature of Lila’s.

Lila figured this was one way she could help herself win the Emmy. And Nadia had shown her how. Not with the stupid candles and incenses. That was beat. But Nadia had won an award. And, by thinking it out carefully, Lila realized what she needed. Lila Kyle needed a private detective.

The requirements for the job were basic enough: a nose for digging up dirt and a love for money, whatever its source. Lila looked down at the card in her hand, the one Aunt Robbie had once given her. “Minos Paige, Private Investigator.” Lila had learned from Aunt Robbie that Minos Paige’s expertise was used from time to time by the national tabloids. This was the guy who got the picture of Jimmy Swaggart coming out of a motel room with a prostitute. And she’d heard from Robbie that Minos was the one who tipped Mia about Woody’s affair. Lila wanted no less from Minos Paige. It was time to get the upper hand again.

Since the word had got out that she hadn’t got the part in
Birth of a Star
, Lila had felt her upper hand lowering. And now that they were in hiatus, she felt she was losing the publicity edge she had on the show.
TV Views
had run a story about trouble on the set, blaming her. Suddenly Jahne Moore was getting the professional respect Lila had been demanding, and Sharleen Smith had become everyone’s darling, thanks to the album publicity and the poor-little-Texan act she was able to pull off. It was clearly time for action.

Lila pushed through the glass door at the entrance to the building and walked up the flight of stairs to the second floor. Paige’s office was one of four on the floor, the last one at the end of the corridor. She knocked loudly, then opened the door without waiting for a reply. Instead of the reception area she anticipated, Lila found herself in a room hardly bigger than a closet, facing a large desk, behind which sat a small man in a gray polyester suit. He had on a dull-white shirt and a god-awful orange rayon tie. She could see the pilling along the suit sleeves from here. His shirt collar was a size too big, making him look even smaller.

“Minos Paige?” she asked.

“What does Lila Kyle want with Minos Paige?” the figure asked, not having moved a muscle since she opened the door.

“That’s only your business if
you’re
Minos Paige,” she snapped, staring down at the pale-faced man. He blinked, nodded, then indicated a seat in the corner of the room.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, now leaning back in his creaking chair.

“I need someone investigated. Two people, actually. I understand that’s your line of work.”

He nodded his head imperceptibly, almost without moving. “Who?” he asked.

Lila took in a breath. “Jahne Moore and Sharleen Smith.”

Minos didn’t react. That was something he knew: don’t react no matter what you hear. He, like Lila, also knew that most people had more to hide than they would like to admit.

Lila reached into her bag, then handed Minos two sheets of yellow legal paper. “These are the details of their present lives—addresses, where they eat, where they shop, recording dates, and their shooting schedules.” Lila placed the sheets on the desk in front of Minos when he didn’t reach out to take them. “I’ve also included some of the facts about their pasts that I’ve dug up on my own. Not the publicity stuff—facts. Things I got directly from them, in casual conversations.”

Minos didn’t say anything, just peered down at the notes in Lila’s plain block print. “Those details would be the starting point. Like”—she leaned over and pointed to a line on the page—“what did Jahne Moore do before the Melrose Playhouse? How did she get that part? Not much is known about that.”

Paige continued to look at her.

“And Sharleen Smith. Supposedly, she came from some town in Texas. What about her family? High school?”

Minos Paige finally spoke. “What do you want this information for, Miss Kyle?”