“That’s because it’s a collaboration between the record end and the film end,” Taub said. “Isn’t that right, John?”
Horst nodded. “I’m overseeing the film budget, and Mike is in charge of the festival budget.”
“It still sounds to me as if no one’s in charge of the whole project,” McDonnel said. “Who actually signs checks for what?”
“Oh, I sign checks for everything as producer,” Jango said. “John cosigns my checks for the film end, and Mike cosigns the other checks.”
“So
you’re
really in charge?”
“That’s rather ambiguous.”
“That’s the trouble.”
Jango leaned his elbows on the table and regarded McDonnel with thin amusement. “I’m all in favor of ambiguity,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
“No I’m not. I must insist that one of you three assume overall responsibility for this project.” McDonnel exchanged glances with the other two bankers; Gilbert and Palmer nodded their agreement.
Christ, I don’t want any part of
that,
Taub thought. It’d be tempting to be Horst’s boss on this thing, but then there’d be no way to stick him with the festival expenses. But I sure don’t want Horst breathing over my shoulder either.
But Horst seemed just as reluctant; he was looking at Jango. Sure, he’s in the same position I am! Taub stared at Jango, and in a moment, all eyes were on Beck.
“Me?”
Jango said with mock humility.
“You,” said McDonnel. “You’re the only one that cosigns all the checks. You’re the only one in a position to supervise the overall budget.”
“He’s right, Jango,” Taub said.
“I concur,” said Horst.
Jango smiled sardonically. “I’m touched, gentlemen,” he said. “But if I’m going to accept this responsibility, equity demands that I be paid for my additional troubles. Another fifty thousand would be a nice gesture, don’t you think?”
“Do we have any objections?” Horst said, in a tone that indicated there had better be none from his flunkies. “I so move. Unless there are any objections, we will consider the motion passed and go on to other business.”
Silence. And the moment was past.
My God, we’ve pulled it off? Taub thought. I can spend Horst into the poorhouse with only Jango watching. Jango and I are running the whole show.
His eyes met Beck’s in a moment of silent communion. Then Jango looked away, and Taub saw that he and Horst were making similar eye contact. Too much! The poor sap thinks he’s won, too!
“Now don’t worry, lover, they won’t bite,” Sandra Bayne said, planting a light kiss on Paul Conrad’s lips. “They don’t have the teeth to do it with.” She gave Paul a final look-over. The black zipper boots and the blue denim pants were perfect; but the paisley shirt was too modishly cut, and his lovely wavy hair was only about two inches below his ears and much, much too neat. I wish you looked a little bit more the hippie today, love, she thought.
Paul kissed her back. “Why should I be worried?” he said. “These are the same nerds that were hanging around you at Jango’s party, aren’t they? They’re not very intimidating.” He smiled a small confident smile, just for her.
I
don’t want any more hippie in you personally, Paul. I like the style you have. But what
I
like doesn’t count. Hmmmm....
She unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, ran her hand through his carefully combed hair, tousling it, giving it a more casual texture.
“Hey, what’re you... not in here...”
“I’m not attacking you, I’m just making you more presentable to the rock press. You’ve got to come on as a man of the people, not a slick Hollywood director.”
“Right on!” Paul said, raising his fist. “Power to the people! And so forth.”
“Please, no humor,” Sandra said. “They won’t appreciate it. I’ll make the announcement, you smile, I’ll introduce you, they’ll ask a few questions, you’ll give a few dull answers. We don’t want to generate publicity for the movie now; we want to get the announcement made with as little fanfare as possible. Don’t be too quotable.”
“That doesn’t make much sense to me.”
What do I tell you, Paul, that this is going to be a hostile press conference because they’re going to consider the film a rip-off of the people at the festival? That the film
is
going to be a rip-off, that all Jango cares about is using it to promote the albums? Poor baby, you’ve got enough to contend with!
“Yours not to reason why,” she said lightly. “Shall we go meet the brothers and sisters of the underground press?”
“Lead on, Svengali.”
Sandra led him out of the small antechamber and into the main press room of the Eden Tower. This room had been set up by Mike Taub, not Jango. Jango didn’t want his aura hovering over this project yet, or at least that was the excuse he gave when he told her to use this press room instead of Dark Star’s more popular velvet womb.
They entered the room directly onto the low stage that ran across one end—just a foot-high platform with a podium, a mike, and four ordinary folding chairs. The rest of the room was occupied by two dozen intimate round tables. There were bottles of red and white wine (Paul Masson Chablis and Almaden Mountain Burgundy)—stacks of polyurethane cups, and simple platters of cookies and cold cuts on each table. Arlene Braithwaite, in a mini that went halfway up her ass, was going from table to table passing out discreet joints and indiscreet smiles.
There were about twenty-five people in the room, clustered at the tables nearest the stage. The usual crowd, mostly: the regular stringer from
Rolling Stone
; Cindy Paoluzzi, who covered the “Hollywood scene” for three or four loathsome teenybopper fan magazines; a couple of people each from
FM & Fine Arts, LA,
and the
Staff;
a few radio people; Artie Dugan, half a dozen hangers-on like Eric Green, who showed up everywhere there were freebies of any kind and who published just enough in fourth-rate publications to maintain their dubious press credentials.
Just the kind of crowd Jango wanted, Sandra thought. Low key and not too important. Her eyes were drawn to the huge bulk of Artie Dugan by the red and blue target printed on his bright yellow T-shirt. The balding, bearded man at the table with him was Barry Stein.
What’s
he
doing here? He’s a
political
heavy; he never covers the rock scene for the
Flash
himself. She found her hand moving into Paul’s and squeezing it; something about Stein’s presence made her nervous, and she found herself strangely pleased at having instinctively sought the comfort of Paul’s flesh.
Paul gave her a strangely cold sidelong glance as they walked up to the podium. What did I do wrong? His hand in hers seemed tense and distant, rather than warm and comforting.
The bad moment—whatever it was—passed as the kids in the press room squirmed around in their seats to face the podium and Sandra used both hands to adjust the microphone. “Sit down till I introduce you, love,” she whispered in Paul’s ear. He nodded, gave her the ghost of a wink, and sat down. I’ve been in this business too long, she thought. It’s starting to make me paranoid.
“Good afternoon, folks, and welcome to the leaning tower of pizza,” she began, turning off her head and turning on her rap. “Jango would be here today except he’s busy stealing candy from babies.” Dead expressions out there—too many of them really believe it. And they don’t look very stoned. Better just get this over with.
“By now everyone in the universe knows about the great Sunset City festival that Dark Star and Eden will be putting on over the Labor Day weekend on the Sunset Ridge Ranch in the Santa Monica Mountains. Over twenty top acts, free admission, cheap food and drink, a midway, a People’s World’s Fair, and lots of surprises that the madmen at Eden and Dark Star are dreaming up for our loyal customers. It’s our way of saying we love you, and we hope it’ll be an occasion for everyone to show how much they love each other—”
“Is it true that the Velvet Cloud will appear at Sunset City?” Artie Dugan shouted in his oleo baritone.
“We hope so, but we haven’t actually signed anyone up yet—”
“Are you going to have the Dead?”
“The Airplane—”
“Bob Dylan—”
Jesus Christ, this is going to turn into a brawl! Sandra held up her hands. “This press conference wasn’t called to discuss what groups will be appearing at—”
“Is it true that all the groups appearing at the festival will be under contract to either Eden or Dark Star?” Dugan shouted rather belligerently. Hell, how did
that get
out this early?
“I told you, Artie, no one has been signed yet. Will you please let me make my thrilling announcement and then you can ask your questions. Relax, drink some wine, have a cookie.”
As the muttering died down, Sandra stole a glance at Paul. He had a deadpan expression, but she could sense his unease. The natives are restless tonight, and he knows it. Don’t worry, baby, Sandy will protect you.
“Now then,” she said, “the thrilling announcement. Eden Pictures in conjunction with Eden Records and Dark Star Records is pleased to announce that a feature film will be shot at Sunset City, to be written and directed by a brilliant young filmmaker, Paul Conrad, whose bod graces this very stage beside me. Paul?”
Paul walked to the podium with a wooden expression on his face. Sandra took his hand as he came within reach, squeezed it for luck as she led him to her side. Again, she felt that strange distancing in his grip. What the hell am I doing wrong, lover?
Still holding Paul’s hand, she delivered her prepared introduction. “Paul Conrad is originally from New York, where he made several award-winning shorts, and a feature film,
Down Under the Ground
, shot entirely in the New York City subway system, an underground classic in every sense of the word. [Groans.] He’s worked on several projects in Hollywood as assistant director and cameraman, and he’ll be in complete creative control of the film, which will also be called
Sunset City.
” She put her arm protectively around Paul’s waist. “The floor is now open for questions.”
“Is this going to be a documentary like
Woodstock
?” asked Bob Hunt of the
Staff.
“No,” said Paul.
“Is it going to be a documentary like
Gimme Shelter
?” Uneasy laughter, in which Paul joined. But Sandra could sense the hostility, both in the question and in the tone of the laughter.
“I hope not,” Paul said. More laughter, this time even more unpleasant. She felt Paul’s body tense under her arm. She slid her hand around to the small of his back, where, hidden from sight, she slipped her fingers down under his belt, and rested them in the smooth flesh at the top of his buttocks. I’m with you, lover, she telepathed, you’re doing all right.
“It’s not going to be a documentary at all,” she said. “Isn’t that right, Paul?” She felt his buttocks grow tight, slid her fingers down a little further, wanting to reach all the way down, into the quick of him.
“That’s right,” Paul said in a somewhat strained tone of voice. “This is going to be a regular scripted feature, played with actors, using Sunset City as a background.”
Ouch,
that
was a boo-boo! Sandra could sense the bad vibes pulsing up at the stage. Any form of the verb “to use” was a dirty word here.
“What kind of story is it going to be?”
“Your basic love story,” Paul said, before Sandra could come out with a way to slip the question. “Boy meets girl.” More bad vibes.
She pinched his flesh inside his pants, trying to signal him to let her do most of the talking. He stiffened and took two quick steps to the side, jerking himself away abruptly, exposing her hand as it was yanked out of his pants to the sound of titters. Paul flushed red, but Sandra laughed and mugged at the audience, grateful for the comic relief, even if it was at her own expense.
“Girl gropes boy...” she said, making cow eyes at Paul for the benefit of the audience. “Girl loses boy?”
There was some laughter, but Paul glared at her with a truly poisonous look on his face. Sandra winked at him, trying to get him to understand that she had to do this to save the situation. Damn it, why aren’t you catching on?
She did a little soft shoe across the stage to him. “Girl get boy?” she said, looking up at him imploringly. More laughter, but even less this time. She could see comprehension of a sort beginning to dawn behind his anger. He looked down at her, batted his eyelashes with exaggerated grossness, and she loved him for it, for the perfection of the gesture.
“Is this going to be a sexist movie?” a female voice shouted.
“No, m’dear,” Paul said in a W. C. Fields voice, “but this is sure turning into a sexist press conference.” He took a step back to the podium, dropped into his normal voice. “In reverse.” Everyone laughed but Paul.
Sandra went back to the mike and got control. “Does anyone want to ask us about anything but our sex lives?” she said.
“I’d like to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Barry Stein said ponderously, speaking so slowly, so ominously, so skating on the edge of pomposity, that there was instant heavy silence. Sandra didn’t like that tone of voice at all. “What kind of love story is this, I mean what kind of message does it have?”
“Message?” Paul said.
“Woodstock
was a love story with a message,” Stein said. “It was the message of the people who were in the movie. It didn’t rip them off. It didn’t say, look at these weird freaks. What kind of message is
Sunset City
going to have? Is it going to celebrate the life-style of the hundreds of thousands of people you’re going to be using as free extras, or is it going to be a rip-off of the people?”
Sandra started to say something about messages and Western Union, but Paul cut her off peremptorily with a wave of his hand and a sudden alteration of the tone of his voice into a professional projection of command that made him seem five years older and stronger. “Let’s get one thing straight, I’m a filmmaker, I’m nobody’s propagandist. I’ve written a script about two people who meet improbably, fall in love, and lose each other. That’s what the film is about. That’s
all
that it’s about, understand?”