Flavor of the Month (97 page)

She gritted her teeth. Sam Shields and she had come to an understanding: she had forgiven the dalliance with Crystal Plenum, but before she signed him to direct this turkey, she had made it clear that from that point on she expected loyalty and continuity.

Now the shmuck was sleeping with Jahne Moore, and April would lose face. Not to mention money. Sam had dipped his wick and lost control. Control of himself, the crew, the project, the budget.

April was coming to fix all that. Everyone would be punished.

The plane banked to the right, and the seat-belt sign came on. April noticed that her secretary fastened hers but kept typing. Now, if she could just get that kind of work out of the artistic assholes she was on her way to see, she’d have a movie. Maybe not a box-office smash, but at least respectable return on investment.

They taxied to a stop outside the private terminal. April stood up, smoothed her skirt, and motioned for her secretary to pick up her briefcase. She walked down the lowered steps to see the black stretch limo pulling up. The back door opened, and a young man stepped out, holding the door for her. It wasn’t Sam. She couldn’t believe it. April strode over to the door and looked at him. He smiled, a light mist of perspiration forming on his upper lip. “Good afternoon, Miss Irons,” he said, as she was about to lean forward and step into the car.

When he made a move to follow her into the back seat, she paused, turned, and looked him over from head to toe. “Who the fuck are you?” she snarled.

The skinny kid jumped back. “Joel Grossman, Miss Irons.” He spoke quickly. “Sam’s assistant director, Miss Irons. We met in L.A. I mean, I was at the meeting when Sam hired me and I saw you, Miss Irons.”

This was as good a place as any to start meting out the punishment, she thought. “What do you keep saying my name for? Afraid you’re going to forget it?” She ducked into the car and sat, not moving over to make room for him.

“May I join you, Miss…I mean, do you want me to ride in the front?”

“Am
I
supposed to move?” she asked. He didn’t answer. Instead, he closed her door and ran around to get in the other side. The secretary got in the front, next to the driver.

“Okay,” she said, when he’d got in and closed the door, not looking at him. “What are the problems, and what are the solutions? In twenty-five words or less.”

“No problems, no problems,” he hurried to explain. “We’re just a little bit behind because of the weather. Other than that…”

“You got ten more words left. Better talk to me straight.” Just as I thought. This asshole is going to try to make a fool out of me.

“Well, Miss Irons,” he said, really getting into it now, “you know what an artist Sam is. Everything has to be perfect. In that way, he’s a lot like Oliver Stone—he’s dragging it out of himself, relying on personal experience…”

Oliver Stone! Why not quote Oliver Hardy? She held up her hand. “Just tell me one thing. Was it your idea for you to meet me today, or was it Sam’s?”

The kid’s face dropped. “It was, uh, Sam’s, Miss Irons.”

She flicked the switch on the intercom to the driver. “Pull over. Right now.”

The long black car came to a quick halt on the shoulder of the highway back to town. April turned to the kid. “Get out,” she said, looking into his eyes. “And tell Sam he should never send a boy to do a man’s job.”

“But, Miss Irons, we’re on a highway! It’s three, four miles to the next exit.” She saw his lower lip begin to quiver.

“You’re an AD. Be resourceful. Now get the tuck out of this car,” she told him. She hated it when they made her have to do this. But, goddamn it, I got forty million bucks riding on my ass, she reminded herself, and this little shithead is going to fuck with my head? “Out!” she repeated.

Joel stumbled out, his face imploring her.

“Shut the goddamned door. I’m in a hurry.”

The set on the otherwise deserted beach was chaotic. Goddamn it, the set costs were astronomical. And what for? They were shooting the ocean, not some dotty Ferdinando Scarfiotti folly. Klieg lights were on all over, but no cameras were running. How much was
that
costing her? Another indication that this film was getting away from Sam. If he couldn’t keep the crew running smoothly, he wasn’t going to be able to make a film.

Where was he? Busy playing with Jahne Moore’s clit? The movie was the only important thing right now, she reminded herself. Not Sam, not who was fucking who. Just the movie, and her forty mil. Well, not
hers
, but gotten on her name from the sons-of-bitches at American National Bank and Trust. She thought of Sam, wasting her money and gritted her teeth again. She would
never
allow her credibility to be undermined by
anyone
, whether she was fucking him or not.

She sat in the car for a few minutes, waiting for the location manager to notice the only goddamned limousine on the beach and come to her. Finally, he did. “Get Sam,” she spat through the open window, then rolled it up in his face as the old guy started talking.

Another ten minutes; then Sam knocked on the door. This was the part she hated the most—wiping asses. She didn’t mind it so much with actors. They approached life events as if they were movie roles. They were like troublesome children. But directors—they believed that
life
was a fucking movie. “Get in,” she said, not bothering with preliminaries. “I haven’t been getting dailies lately, and you haven’t returned my calls.” She watched as Sam brought back his head and stared for a moment at the ceiling of the car. “No bullshit, now, Sam. I mean it.”

Sam began to shake his head. “I don’t know, April. It’s just not coming together.”

“Well,
make
it come together,” she snapped, forcing herself not to speak through clenched teeth. “If I had been getting the dailies, I might have been able to help you sooner.” And saved us all time
and
money, for chrissakes. “Why haven’t you been sending me the dailies?”

Sam put his intense look on, the artistic-fucking-New York-theater-turned-Hollywood-director look that she was beginning to despise. They forget that this is a
business
. The
movie
business. It’s not art. It’s money. “Jahne’s not coming across on the screen. I’ve been working with her—really hard—and she puts out a lot of energy, but…”

April dropped the sympathetic-ear shit. “I already know she puts out. If you can get her to do that, then, goddamn it, get her to come across.”

“April, don’t think I don’t have total commitment to this project. Jahne and I…”

“Let’s get this straight. I’m your producer, no matter how well we fuck. Do you get that? I’m your
boss
, and right now I don’t give a shit what you do with your dick except when it interferes with my money. Your spot in bed can be filled with just a phone call. So don’t talk to me about total commitment. You know, when Barbet Schroeder’s movie was about to go into turnaround at Cannon, he showed up at his boss’s office and threatened to cut off a finger with a jigsaw. They let him continue. Are
you
that committed? Me, I’d
help
you cut off body parts, and not just fingers. As your boss, I’m telling you that your job and your future can be taken care of that easily too. So don’t get confused. You’re working now. For me.” She allowed her voice to return to normal. “Why are you three weeks behind schedule and two point six over budget?”

“Mostly the weather. We haven’t had sun in seven days. I was hoping we’d get some sun this afternoon, but it doesn’t look like it.”

“Then what?”

“Then…” Sam shrugged his shoulders.

April felt like choking him. He had no plan B? Why had she let him talk her into filming this on location? “You wanted to play God, so you became a movie director. But this isn’t a stage, Mr. Off Broadway. This is the movies—the great outdoors. So, when you can’t shoot outside, shoot interiors. Christ, do I have to tell you
everything?
Okay, make sun. You have fucking kliegs on, and you’re not even shooting. You’re over budget and you’re going to tell me about
sun
light?”

“Wait, it’s not only that. Michael’s been giving me a lot of shit. He’s playing temperamental.”

“You’re fucking his snatch. What the hell do you expect?”

“Jahne and I…”

“I told you,
I don’t give a fuck
. Except it’s costing
me
money. Now, what’s the holdup on shooting this beach scene? It’s James and Judy walking on the beach together, the next-to-last scene in the movie. What’s the
problem?
”

“Michael is only five four.”

“So was Alan Ladd. So what?”

“But Jahne is five six. Plus heels. Plus hair.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, we needed time to come up with a solution that would allow us to shoot long shots front and rear. We finally got it. We had a ramp built the length of the beach. I think it’s going to work.”

“I’ll go you one better, Sam. It had fucking
better
work, because all you’ve got is tomorrow.” She pointed to the door, dismissing him. “I’ll be here at six in the morning, rain or fucking shine, Sam.” She paused, turned to him, and looked him in the eye. “Oh, and Sam: another thing. You had best show up in my hotel room tonight. I don’t care if you can’t get it up, but I won’t be left looking as if you prefer some television starlet to me.”

On the way back to the hotel, she laid her head on the cushioned headrest. Another migraine. The doctor said it was stress-related. Fucking shmuck.
Life
is stress-related. She wondered for the millionth time why she hadn’t picked Bo Goldman for the project right after he came off
Scent of a Woman
. She had barely got into the hotel room when the phone began ringing.

“April, I heard you were on the set, but you didn’t come to see me.” It was Michael. This one was hurt Michael. Well,
you
didn’t come to see
me
, she thought. And
I
sign the checks. Instead, she just sighed.

“I have a lot on my mind, Michael. And a major migraine. I had to get back here and lie down.”

“Migraine? I know an ancient Chinese cure for migraines. Want me to come over and show it to you?” His voice was syrupy.

“This is a forty-million-dollar headache, Michael. I don’t think the ancient Chinese had a cure for anything that expensive. I’ll see you on the set in the morning. That’s six
A
.
M
., Michael. We’re doing that scene, sun or no sun.” She thought of the six million bucks he was getting for this and gritted her teeth again.

“Of course I’ll be there. I’ve been there every day, ready, willing, and able.” His voice dropped, sexy. “But, hey, April, this is
Michael
. I can cure
anything
. And I happen to be free tonight.”

“You’ve
never
been free,” she said, and hung up.

The next morning, April was on the set before Michael, Sam, or Jahne. She spoke to the lighting director, who then pulled in more lights, and had reflector boards positioned around the beach. Sam was the first one on the set. “I see you’ve taken to directing?” he said.

“You sound surprised, Sam. As if it’s a rare talent or something.” She turned to him before he could respond. “Let me put it straight to you. You’re not doing your job, so someone’s got to do it. Either you do what I tell you today, or I’m going to get someone who will. Do you understand me?” He paled, nodded, and began to walk away.

“And, Sam,” she said, still not finished with him. “What’s with Jahne and all that makeup on her legs? Is she trying to cover leprosy, for chrissakes?” She saw Sam look over at Jahne’s trailer, where the actress was walking toward them, her leg makeup thicker by inches than the rest of the body makeup.

“She’s nervous about this scene. She wants to look right, so I gave her permission to do the makeup her way. I think it calls for it.”

“I hope you’re right, Sam. That one’s a judgment call. And you’re being paid for your judgment. I just hope that’s not your dick talking.”

Michael was walking quickly toward them, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his robe. April braced herself, but she was in no mood for his bullshit today. If he didn’t like getting turned down last night, fuck him.

“What’s the look for, Michael? You’ve got a face like a man who’s found out he has something that can’t be cured.” Let
him
start off on the defensive, she thought.

Michael ignored her, and walked up to Sam. “What the fuck is that?” he asked, indicating the length of wooden boards running along the beach. “Is that a fucking ramp?”

“Yes, Michael. It’s the best way we could compensate for Jahne’s excessive height.” April could see Sam sweat. Pussy. He’d never manage Michael
that
way.

“I’m not walking on any fucking ramp. You can forget about it.”

“We got the lighting just right, the crew and cast is ready to go. I want this scene shot today, Michael. We’ve lost too much time on it as it is.” April had moved to stand next to Sam in front of Michael.

“Fuck you,” Michael said, turning his attention to her for the first time today. “
I’m
the one that’s carrying this dog on my back. And I’m not going to lose my dignity by subjecting myself to walking on any fucking ramp.”

April had a movie to make, and investors, and a forty-million-dollar budget that was getting out of hand. “But, Michael, how do we do the long shots?”

He took a couple of steps back toward his trailer, then turned and looked at them. “Dig the bitch a trench!”

Jahne sat in her trailer, waiting to be called for the next take, writing to Dr. Moore. Because, after all, she had no one else to explain anything to. Mai’s death had hit her harder than she could have imagined it would. She wasn’t sleeping, and the resulting bags and swollenness were making photography a nightmare. And her almost constant crying wasn’t helping.

I know you’re going to think that you told me so, but even if you did…

She paused. She had everything she’d ever wanted. A great career and the man she loved. But did she? It was still hard for her to believe that she had Sam now, again. That he loved her, held her, wanted her. She still felt his hands run over her body, caressing it. His mouth against hers, on her neck, her breasts, her shoulders, her belly and lower, even lower.