The Deal, page 5
The rabbi warmed to his lesson. “At the age of twelve, this man’s father had him baptized in the Christian religion in order to try to facilitate his movement in the polite society of the time, which, of course, did not accept Jews. Nothing new there. Been going on since the days of the Romans. But can we hold a twelve-year-old responsible for his father’s actions?”
The rabbi shook his head rhetorically. Bobby Mason followed suit.
“As you know, Bobby, we Jews recognize thirteen as the age of responsibility, the age at which a young person takes on the covenant with the bar mitzvah ceremony. So this conversion that the father forced on the son was not to be charged against the son’s account with God. God would forgive him. But he spent his entire life with an aching gap in his soul. He was an incomplete man. Despite all the worldly honors he received, despite being knighted by the queen, despite having a requiem mass performed at Westminster Abbey upon his death, this man lived a hollow life. This man walked in weariness wherever he went.”
“Yeah.”
“You see, Bobby, he tried to take the coat off. It doesn’t work. Judaism, Bobby, is strictly pay or play. You don’t settle out on it once you sign on. There is no out deal….”
At nine that night Howard Draper was sitting with his wife, Winnie, and his accountant, Yale Canoff, at the Bellagio Gardens about to order dessert. The rack of lamb forestier was not overly tender, and he was thinking of something soothing to chase it with.
“What are you going to have, Winnie?”
His wife, petite and lean, blessed with a digestion that could compact anything without serious consequences, replied, “I don’t know. Maybe the îles flottantes…what do you think?”
Howard Draper shrugged. He had no opinion at all about what his wife should have for dessert. He wanted her opinion on what he should have. All day long he was required to have opinions. At night he would like others to have opinions for him.
“I had îles flottantes once at this little château in Normandy. To die from.” Yale Canoff flushed with pleasure at the memory. By all indications this large florid man should have been dead a long time ago, judging by his total disregard for calories and cholesterol. Howard Draper, who was told by the doctor at his last checkup to eat more prudently, resented the fact that his accountant not only gallivanted around France on his clients’ money but ate potentially lethal items without keeling over.
“Christ, it’s been so long since we’ve been abroad I can hardly remember,” Winnie announced with a martyred expression. “Howard has to work all the time.”
“If I didn’t work, Winnie, Yale wouldn’t be able to eat îles flottantes in little châteaux in Normandy.”
“I’d settle for a long weekend in Santa Ana….”
“If I were you, Winnie, I’d go with the assorted sorbets. They’re very good here,” Yale Canoff volunteered, trying to sidetrack the conversation from its potentially inflammatory course.
Howard Draper was tempted to announce to his wife, right in the middle of the Bellagio Gardens and her agony over dessert options, that if he didn’t somehow manage to turn things around at the studio by that summer the options for dessert would become considerably more limited. He hadn’t even confided in his own accountant that Frederick the Great had issued a fiat about profitability in the entertainment division. There was no point in telling Winnie. Nothing would slow her down. She would have sailed right through the Depression without missing a beat. She would have sold the plumbing before she gave up her îles flottantes….
So immersed was he in these unpleasant thoughts that he didn’t notice a short chubby man in a Stetson hat, who walked up to the table and stuck out his hand.
“Howard.”
Howard Draper did a momentary take before he recognized Bobby Mason’s manager. Bert Sully was a soft-spoken, vapid Texan, who affected a genteel politeness to camouflage the talons—a barracuda with soft gums. He had gotten his hooks into Bobby Mason a few years ago and had taken him to the bank and back many times. He wore string ties and called women ma’am.
Howard Draper recovered with his best demi-WASP smile. “Bert. How are you?”
“Just dandy.”
“Say hello to my wife, Winnie, Yale Canoff…Bert Sully.”
“Howdy do.” Bert nodded, tipped the Stetson imperceptibly. “See here, Howard, I don’t mean to bother you over your dinner, but I need to have a dozen or so words with you.”
“Certainly, Bert. Have a seat.”
“No reason to bother your pretty little woman’s head on that account, Howard. You come take a stroll to the conveniences with me, and I’ll have you back here in no time.”
“Would you excuse me,” Howard said, as he got up, untucking his napkin.
“He’ll be back for dessert, ma’am. You have my word. It was indeed a pleasure.” He bowed to Winnie, then nodded at Yale. “Mr. Granoff.”
After Howard Draper followed Bert Sully toward the men’s room, Winnie piped up, “Christ, only in this town do you do business in the crapper. Who is that guy anyway?”
“Bobby Mason’s manager.”
“He looks like Jack Ruby.”
Meanwhile, in the art deco men’s room of the Bellagio Gardens, Bert Sully moseyed over to the urinal and unzipped.
“You don’t mind if I have a whizz, do you, Howard? I talk business better on an empty bladder.”
“Not at all,” Howard Draper assured him, the WASP side of his split personality cringing.
“How would you people like to make Bobby’s next picture?”
Howard Draper replied with as much poise as he could muster under the circumstances. “You know we want to be in business with Bobby.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, Howard. Now I’m going to tell you something. Probably shouldn’t tell you this because you don’t tell a fella you’re about to make a deal with how much your boy wants to make this deal. Kinda like letting a steer in on the fact that you’re about to put a branding iron up his ass, if you follow me.”
Howard Draper smiled, nodded vacuously.
“See, my boy Bobby’s got a picture he wants to make.”
“What’s that, Bert?”
Bert Sully shook himself off slowly, deposited a lungful of phlegm in the urinal, zipped up. He walked over to the pale pink sink, started to wash his hands.
“There’s a script he’s in love with. Wants to put it in the works. And he wants to put it in the works at your shop, Howard. What do you say?”
“Great…what’s it called?”
“Bill and Bob.”
“Bill and Bob…who owns it?”
“If you move fast, Howard, you will.”
Norman Hudris’s voice kept fading on the car phone as he drove through Beverly Glen at nine-thirty the next morning, trying to have a conversation with Howard Draper on his car phone as he drove in from the beach on Sunset. Every time Norman went around a steep curve his voice evaporated into the foggy morning air.
Howard Draper was already furious that Norman had not been home when he called him immediately upon returning from the Bellagio Gardens last night. The vice president for production, West Coast, had spent the night with Cissy Fuchs at the latter’s house in Toluca Lake. And when Norman called his service in the morning and got Howard’s urgent message, his boss had already left for the studio.
He dressed hurriedly and got in his car, finally managing to get patched through to Howard Draper’s car phone through Howard’s secretary.
“Where were you, Norman? I kept calling until midnight.”
“I’ve been having trouble with my phone….”
“What?”
“My phone. It’s been acting weird lately.”
“Well, get the phone company to fix it.”
“They’re supposed to be…”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“I said they’re supposed to be out this week…. Hello, can you hear me?”
“Norman, you keep fading on me. Where are you?”
“I’m having trouble with my car phone too….”
“What?”
“The car phone…”
“Norman, can you hear me?”
“What?”
“Can you hear what I’m saying?”
“I can hear you fine. Can you hear me?”
“Just listen, Norman. I want you to buy a script.”
“What script?”
As his Corniche passed over the San Diego Freeway, traffic noise rose to provide further interference. Howard yelled into the phone, “Buy a script called Bob and Bill.”
“Bob and who?”
“Bob and Bill.”
“Bob and Bill?”
“Right. Buy it.”
“From who?”
“What?”
“Who do I buy it from?”
“Call Bert Sully.”
“Bob and Bill?”
“No…Bob and Ben…”
“You said Bob and Bill….”
“I meant Bob and Ben. Maybe it’s Ben and Bob….”
Deidre Hearn was having a Cobb salad in the commissary when she got paged by Norman Hudris. She disliked being interrupted during lunch, the only time of the day that she theoretically wasn’t at the beck and call of her boss. There was a waspish tone in her voice when she picked up the phone.
“What?”
“I want you to put a deal memo through on a script.”
“Don’t tell me Howard bought the werewolf story.”
“No. This is another script. It’s Bobby Mason’s next picture. Call Bert Sully. He’ll give you the details.”
“All right…can I go back to my lunch now, Norman?”
“After you call Bert.”
“It’s one o’clock. People are at lunch.”
“Deidre, this is important. Howard wants us to close on this before the end of the day.”
“You’re kidding….”
“As soon as you close with Bert Sully, have Business Affairs lock up the writer.”
“Norman, what is the project?”
“Something called Ben and Bill. Or Bill and Ben or Bob and…the fuck do I know. Sounds like some sort of buddy picture. Get me coverage on it as soon as you can.”
“Did anybody read the script?”
“Deidre, we’re talking about a Bobby Mason picture. Call Bert Sully now.”
He hung up. She stood there for a moment, holding the phone, as Norman Hudris’s voice dissolved into the ether. Across the room the abandoned Cobb salad looked back at her forlornly. Jesus, she swore under her breath. Didn’t anybody ever shut down for a minute? She managed a caked smile at an agent she knew, started to try to find a waitress to wrap up the remainder of her lunch, decided she was no longer hungry, put a ten on the table and left the commissary.
Back in her office, she went to the big Rolodex on her secretary’s desk for Bert Sully’s number. Alan was having lunch at Pesto, the nouvelle Italian place in Brentwood. One of these days she’d get around to firing him, but for the moment she didn’t have the patience to break in someone new.
“Well, howdy do,” Bert Sully said to her when she’d gotten him on the phone. She couldn’t stand the man. He made her Cobb salad start to churn.
“Hello, Bert. How are you?”
“Just dandy.”
“Norman tells me Bobby wants to put a script in development.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s terrific….” She tried to keep the vinegar out of her voice.
“It’s a heck of a notion.”
“So I hear.”
“You happen to have a gander at the Korean grosses on Vigilante Destroyer, by the way?”
“Not yet.”
“Broke the house record in every theater in Seoul. And those little yellow fellas know a thing or two about martial arts, now, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do….”
“Course, this new thing’s a little different cup of tea, but I said to Bobby, ‘Bobby, you can’t keep doing the same old thing, now, can you? Got to keep stretching. You’re a star, Bobby, and your fans’ll follow you from here to eternity.’…”
“What’s the name of the script?”
“Ben and Bob.”
“Ben and Bob? Norman said it was Bill and Bob.”
“Could be. I haven’t finished reading it yet. It’s about this Jewish fella over in England who fights injustice.”
“What?”
“Some fella name of Disraeli. Israeli fella…”
Deidre dug her heels into the carpet to keep from sliding off the desk she was leaning on. It took every bit of strength to keep from losing it, as Bert Sully went on about Bobby Mason’s commitment to playing Benjamin Disraeli.
“…wins out against tremendous odds. David and Goliath. Death Wish. High Noon. But, you see, this Jew fella is in the government. Fighting injustice from within. Helluva story. He’s crazy about the area….”
When Deidre finally recovered, she muttered in a barely audible whisper, “Bert?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who controls the property?”
“Producer by the name of Charlie Berns. With an E. Jewish fella, I reckon…”
While this conversation was taking place, Brad Emprin was having lunch at Pesto with a hot young director he was trying to sign. They were commiserating over problems with their BMWs in a window banquette diagonally across from where Deidre Hearn’s secretary, Alan, was sitting with his friend Brian.
“I’ve had it in three times. They’ve ripped it apart, top to bottom, can’t find a thing. As soon as I get two blocks from the place—galump.”
The hot young director nodded supportively over his angel-hair pasta. “I’ve had three complete brake jobs in twenty-five thousand miles. Seven hundred bucks a throw. I’m seriously thinking of trading it in for a Honda.”
“You can trade it in for three Hondas.”
“Tell me about it.”
Brad Emprin took a sip of his San Pellegrino with a twist and sighed, “C’est la vie.”
The director had just made a picture in Paris, and this was Brad Emprin’s attempt at a segue.
“I hear,” he said, following up, “the picture you just did is fabulous.”
The hot young director looked dubiously across at the agent and said, “No one’s seen it.”
“I mean, from dailies…”
“Dailies have been closed. I haven’t even shown it to the studio yet.”
Fortunately, Brad Emprin was interrupted by a phone page at that moment. Excusing himself hastily, he got up and crossed to the telephone, heard the voice of Deidre Hearn on the other end.
“Sorry to bother you at lunch, Brad, but I’m getting heat to close this deal fast.”
“What deal?”
“We want to buy Bob and Ben.”
“What?”
“Bob and Ben, the Disraeli project.”
It took Brad Emprin several moments to remember the events of yesterday. Charlie Berns. The staff meeting. The sinus headache…
“Right,” he said. “Fabulous script, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t even seen coverage on it. Howard wants to buy it, so I’m buying it. And I’d like to buy it before the close of business today. Do you represent the writer as well as the producer?”
“Uh-huh,” he lied again. “One-stop shopping.”
“Brad, this is just one of a shitload of scripts in development for Bobby Mason. So don’t back up a truck, all right?”
“Deidre, have I ever backed up a truck?”
Deidre was tempted to tell him that he’d never had the opportunity to, but she knew, with her instinctual sense of jungle survival, that small animals were the most vicious. She remained businesslike.
“I just checked Charlie Berns’s credits out. He hasn’t worked in three years.”
“His wife’s been terribly ill…some sort of inoperable thing….”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Look, we’re taking a big chance here giving him control of this picture.”
“Uh-huh,” Brad Emprin said, noncommittally, keeping the ball in her court, as he tried to remember if Charlie Berns even had a wife.
“We’ll come in with a respectable figure, but don’t expect a piece of the studio on this one, all right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll have my Business Affairs person call you in thirty minutes with a firm offer.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“By the way, Brad, how is that restaurant? My secretary loves it.”
“It’s fabulous….”
He apologized to the hot young director, who told him he was due in the cutting room in five minutes and offered to split the check.
“Please,” Brad Emprin insisted, “this is on us. We never let a client, or a potential client, pay for his own lunch.”
Driving back to the agency, he felt the little trickle of panic sweat under the armpits, the first sign of an anxiety attack. How the fuck was he going to negotiate a deal for a writer he didn’t represent on a script that he hadn’t read for a client he wasn’t even sure was still with the agency? And what if Charlie Berns’s wife was in perfect health and happened to be a close friend of Deidre Hearn’s?
He reached into the glove compartment, took out the car tranks and popped a five-milligram tab.
At three forty-five that afternoon the author of Bill and Ben, Lionel B. Traven, né Travitz, was sitting on a bus surrounded by three bags of melting groceries. Traven was the pseudonym he adopted in honor of the famous B. Traven, the rumored author of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, a film that Lionel Travitz had seen thirty-one times before deciding to adopt the nom de plume of his alter ego.
Though he didn’t know it yet, Lionel was on the wrong bus, destined to make a left instead of a right on Beverly Drive and begin its descent into the bowels of Los Angeles. He was thinking of other things, his mind spinning with the possibilities of his new career as a Hollywood screenwriter. His uncle had said there would be rewrites to do on the script, but not to worry about them at the moment. The first step was to package the material, as he referred to it, and get a studio interested in the story. Then they’d take care of fixing the script.
