The Movie (12 page)

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After all, Kevin reflected, all screenwriters were vulgar oafs by definition. And in this crass and vulgar world, many of them were very highly paid.

He took a slice of that high pay, which normally consoled him for having to put up with hawking their trash for a living. Today, it didn’t even come close. What had happened, Kevin wondered, to the appreciation of literature? To delicate sensitivity and free writing? Oh, for a Proust or Joyce that he might represent, selling exquisite penmanship for large amounts of money. Or at least a Norman Mailer.

Kevin Scott was f’y-five, and a long time ago he had been educated in England. How his old beaks at Eton wotfld cringe for him now. How his Oxford dons would wince. He considered himself a gentleman in a world overrun by ruffians, subliterate, ill-educated ruffians who wanted Jadith Krantz, John Grisham and Forrest Gump. Even the President of the United States had had a ‘popular music’ group playing at his Inaugural Ball. There was simply no end to it. And now he himself was embroiled in the indignity. For a while, at least, he had been able to carve a small oasis of sanity in the Hollywood madness - while the unpleasantness of working with scripts could not be avoided entirely, his literary division had managed to work almost wholly with quality films, producing a run of Original Screenplay and. Adaptation Oscars that was the envy of all the other big agencies. Although the division hadn’t turned out all that much profit in and of itself, the Oscars and Golden Globes had attracted acting and directing talent Sam’s way, and once ;n a while one of the obnoxious kids that reported to him - all hired by Sam or Mike Campbell direct-shopped some piece of violent or pornographic trash to Columbia or Paramount, and they cleaned up. Thus Kevin had been tolerated, allowed to go about the more serious business of selling novels in New York.

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Lately, that had all gone to the wind. As the packaged movies dried up, Sam had been putting more and more pressure on him to come up with commercial scripts. The pushy little Tauber brat hadn’t helped that situation much, either. But after the Artemis meeting, forget about it. Word from the top was loud and clear. They wanted a script for the rock star and they wanted one yesterday.

Outside the air-conditioned, soundproofed sanctum of Kevin’s office, he could see hordes of people milling about, many carrying bound manuscripts or parcels, their noiseless mouths opening and closing furiously as they argued with the harassed assistants and a couple of the junior agents. They’d been arriving all morning - the scumbags, the bottom of the pile, low-life writers with no contacts

‘ and no reputations and not so much as an article in the Nowheresville, Alabama Gazette on their r6sum6s, and yet every one of the losers thinking that SKI would be impressed with their bravado if they crashed the doors in person.

They’d been watching too many movies, Kevin th’ought, pleasing himself with the ironic conceit. Turning up as singing telegrams. With huge bouquets of flowers. Holding massive bunches of balloons. One, heaven preserve him, had even sent a stripper. He recalled seeing her shaking her tassels in poor Katherine’s astounded face, thrusting a script forward between two sets of blood-red talons, before the grinng SKI security arrived to throw her out on the sidewalk. There was, as he had discovered, absolutely no limits to how deeply embarrassing this business could be.

And yet the sheer volume of these wretched scripts was taking him aback somewhat. The meeting with Artemis had obviously been leaked minutes after it had finished, because by the time their limo had returned him to the SKI oces there were already ten calls on his sheet about ‘the Mason/Florescu project’, and the first manuscript, about a

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rock star who lives a double life as a sexual serial killer, arrived an hour later. They might as well have put up a billboard on Sunset and an ad in Daily Variety. Forget the Information Superhighway. Showbusiness gossip was the universe’.s most efficient communication mechanism, because by theend of that day every two-bit hack in LA knew all about it. And by Monday six hundred of them

had written instant movies over the weekend. And yet not one of them was any good. ‘Mr Scott.’ Katherine was buzzing him.

‘What is it?’ Kevin snapped, chucking another pile of nearly typed pages onto the floor. The trash basket had given up the unequal struggle this mormng, so now he was just throwing them down for the janitors to deal with. ‘I thought I told you no calls.’

‘But it’s Mr Tauber again, sir. He insists on being put

through,’ aid Katherine weakly, sounding distraught. ‘No! Goddamnit, Katherine!’

Scott felt his blood pressure rise. Two calls per hour from Sam and one from Mike and now that - that odious little toad Tauber thought he had the right to bother a depattment head? ‘Especially not Tauber! Not under any

circumstances! Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Katherine meekly.

He slammed down the receiver and tried to concentrate on the next script, Hot Rockin’.

FADE IN

INT. BACKSTAGE-A SEEDY CLUB A SERIES OF ANGLES

A naked WOMAN is tied down with scarlet rope across two Marshall amps. ZEKE and BEILTIE stand to one side, watching the DOBERMAN PINSCHEI. that is licking her between the legs.

Sighing heavily, Kevin Scott lifted the manuscript and threw it behind him without another glance.

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‘You OK, hon?’

The waitress looked Megan over with genuine concern. Most of the time she was too busy or too hardened to worry herself with the punters’ problems - bleak-eyed hookers that might stumble in with braised faces and call for coffee, or the shabbily dressed unemployment types that turned up for the cheap burgers and beer. Don’t talk, don’t get involved. Too much heartache that way, not to mention that you wanted them out so you could serve someone else. In cafes as cheap as this one, volume was where it was at. Pack them in and throw them out. Shit, this wasn’t the Ivy. But something about this girl was touching; a little fat and plain maybe, but she’d ordered a full meal and then hardly touched it, just drunk pot after pot of coffee and sat there shaking. She looked real innocent, in a way. Soft and lost. Must be new in town.

‘What? Oh, thanks. I’m fine,’ Megan said, giving her a little smile to back up the lie.

The waitress hesitated, hovering, but what could she do? If they don’t want to talk- ‘OK. Well, if you’re sure,’ she said, moving off.

God, how obvious I must be, Megan thought miserably. She’d arrived there half an hour ago and ordered lunch, all keyed up, excited, nervous but a little thrilled in a way. After all, this was it. She’d taken the day offwork, as little as she could afford to piss Mr Jenkins off, she’d taken the original copy of See the Lights out of its special hiding place in the back of her cramped closet, and she was going to come out here to storm right through the hallowed doors of Sam Kendrick International, script in hand, to make

their deal come offand her dream come true.

Ha, ha, ha. Nice joke, God.

Pete’s Caf had been her choice for a good reason: despite being crowded, noisy, dirty and full ofscumbags, it was situated just offSunset, and through its grimy windows she could watch the immaculately clean black .marble

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fronting of the SKI offices, check out the agents coming and going, psych herself up. Megan recalled what a good idea she thought that would be; she could get all inspired, get up the courage to just bttrst in there and blow them away.

It hadn’t exactly worked out like that. From the moment she sat down at eleven-thirty, Megan had watched with growing horror as a stream of people - men, women, and your guess is as good as mine - all clutching scripts, or parcels that looked like scripts, or briefcases that must contain scripts, had fded steadily through the doors. Some of them wore the most outlandish rig, including some raddled hag in an overcoat and stilettos. Megan had watched with a kind of sick fascination when she landed back on the sidewalk, nude except for tassels and a gold G string-and still clutching a script. In they poured and right back out-they poured, cursing, shaking themselves down and still clutching their scripts. She saw some of them txying to warn off the others coming in, who merely cursed them and chanced their luck anyway.

The plan that she’d thought unique was being tried by every schmuck writer in LA, right in front of her eyes. And it was failing.

‘Jerks, huh?’ the waiter had asked, reftlling her coffee cup. ‘Some people.’

‘Some people,’ Megan agreed.

She wondered if she’d been this dumb growing.up, or if it was a talent she’d only recently perfected. What was she going to do now? Sitting here with her script, opposite SKI, with her perfect story for their perfect deal and not a damn way she could get them to read it.

Above him, David Tauber could see the craggy side of the cliff, with a smattering of green scrub vegetation clinging gamely to the rock face, determined to survive and grow, no matter how hostile the conditions. He focused on it fdr

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a second. He empathized with it. It could have been an agent.

But there wasn’t much time to start meditating on the Malibu vegetation. His dick wouldn’t allow it. There wasn’t much space for concentration on anything except the obvious - Gloria’s heavy, sculpted silicone tits bouncing nicely in front of him, her curvy ass grinding from side to side as she danced for him, crooking her long, tapering legs as she twirled, letting him get a good look at the silky brown hair on her pussy, damp with her arousal. Jesus, this was turning him on. A little strip on the sand, a little head in his Lamborghini at the side oŁthe road while he talked to Sam Kendrick, making his point about Kevin Scott. His cock pulsed a little harder at the thought of it, Gloria *making those little sucking noises he loved to hear while he was being fellated, his hand covering the carphone so Sam wouldn’t hear, while he slid the knife deeper and deeper into Kevin Scott’s useless fat belly. The old guy had snubbed him one too many times and now he was going to pay. The image warmed David’s already hot blood, adding to he sensations of desire and languorous lust that were pooling in his cock. God, look at Gloria. She was totally wet for him now, her pussy flexing closer and closer towards his face, golden-brown haunches shuddering forward. That was what got him going: the way she wanted him, just for himselŁ. Sure, David enjoyed the power-trip fucking, e little starlets, the Hollywood wannabees who’d do anything . you cared to suggest, whether it involved bringing their friends round for a floor show or going down on one of your buddies in front of you. That had a thrill all its own which had nothing to do with desire. But this was different; this was a woman who desired him for himself, for the muscled body and deep tan, the hazel hair and his big, thick, beloved cock. Gloria was a corporate attorney and one of the best lays he’d ever known. Her desire, the way she choked out his .name

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when she came, the way she’d start breathing raggedly if he talked dirty to her down the phone, all of it tickled his vanity.

Shit, they had a mutual fan club. He loved her large, berry-brown nipples and the way they .jumped in his mouth, the tips of them hard as sun-dried raisins. He admired her large, toned butt and the way it tapered in to a minute waist. The original hourglass figure.Jesus, that butt was something else, the way she’d grind and swing it. David grunted, his cock aching now. Enough. He reached up to grab her, tripped her over on the sand and felt her crotch. Ohhhh, man … slippery wet like somebody

poured a bottle of baby oil all over her.

‘Want it?’

His question was a tease, asking her like that while his fingers were busy stroking her labia, making her moan and twist into him.

‘Yes. Now,’ she gasped. He could sense that he’d better be quick if he didn’t want her to come right there. He could se6 her lower belly tightening up, flattening. Swiftly he took his hand away and twisted her over, placing her on her hands and knees. Gloria groaned. He put his hand under her, giving her a quick, almost patronizing caress between the legs. She knew better than to break position, just lifted her head, shuddering with arousal. His hand slipped to her midriff, lifting her up, arranging her for his entrance. David felt her respond all over her body as he touched her, the nipples on her delicious pendant breasts stiffening even more, shrinkingtiny and tight like his balls. The skin of her belly was incredibly hot, warm with her blood pooling in desire. He fluttered his fingers across it and heard her gasp. That was so horny, feeling her lust literally burning at his touch. He saw a drop of moisture pearl on the end of his cock. Time to go for the main event.

David walked round behind her as she crouched in front of him like some wild beast, the smoky scent of her arousal

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distinct even through that designer perfume she was wearing. He put his two hands on the soft curves of her hips, allowing himselfa little leverage. Then he was leaning forward, over her back, his dick finding the entrance to her like some military fucking torpedo guided by radar. He inserted just the tip, going maybe a quarter of an inch inside her, forcing himself to resist the temptation to shove it right in and nail her fabulous fucking ass until he boiled over, emptying himselfimide her. Time for that later. Control, control.

‘Madre de DiosP Gloria sobbed. ‘More! David, Jesus Christ!’

‘More?’ he asked softly, sinking in another inch.

She was so aroused now, she was desperate. She was obbing openly from wanting it.

He slid in another inch, smiling despite the fury of his own lust.

‘Hey, take it slowly, baby. Don’t get greedy.’

‘David!’

She’d come any second. So would he. David Tauber pulled out, slowly, until he was almost completely withdrawn from her, and then thrust savagely, quickly, back inside her, all the way in, right up to the hilt, hearing her ecstatic scream only dimly because of the burning blood pounding in his own ears, finding his rhythm immediately, thrusting, thrusting, feeling her spasms start up, and then there it was, that great white fucking wall. Oh JesusJesusJesus, oh, yes…