The Deal, page 9
Charlie Berns must have bought his house a long time ago, when they were still affordable. From what she could learn, his career had been declining for some time. In fact, it had never really taken off. He had produced a bunch of B movies, putting together financing in various creative ways, getting the picture shot one way or another. People like Charlie Berns hovered around the periphery of the business. They were like gypsies, hustling, keeping the balls in the air, surviving against the long odds of staying alive in the jungle.
There was something about the man that had struck her during their brief meeting in her office. A certain quiet aloofness, if not indifference. In his own way, he seemed somehow…focused. He tap-danced without losing the tempo of the music. And when she turned him down, his eyes remained calm. He seemed to be amused inside, as if he had half expected the turndown.
Whatever gave him the notion in the first place of peddling a script about Benjamin Disraeli to Bobby Mason? The idea was completely loony. But Bobby Mason had saluted it and somebody at the Mad Hatter’s tea party had put it in the works because Charlie Berns was now in development. And whatever she happened to think of him, they were in business together—that is, if she could find him.
As she pulled up to the address Brad Emprin’s secretary had given her, she saw a forlorn, neglected-looking house, a house that had not been cared for in some time. The lawn was parched from lack of water, brown and dying; the flower beds looked as if they had been violated by some vindictive animal. There were eucalyptus nuts scattered promiscuously across the lawn and sidewalk.
She walked up to the front door, crunching the eucalyptus nuts under her heels, inhaling their acrid odor. The doorbell looked rusted and unreliable. She pressed it, heard nothing. She knocked on the door. Then, after a moment, she knocked again, louder.
Digging a notepad out of her Vuitton shoulder bag, she began to scribble a note to Charlie Berns. As she was searching for the right tone, a tone that would get results without sounding stern and humorless, the door opened. A young man stood in the doorway, half a sandwich in one hand.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello…sorry to bother you, but does Charlie Berns live here?”
“Yop.”
“Is he in?”
“Nope.”
“Can I ask when you expect him?”
The young man shrugged, took a bite of his sandwich. “Your guess is as good as mine. You a friend of his?”
“Actually, I’m a business acquaintance. It’s kind of important that I talk to him.”
“He’s my uncle.”
Transferring the sandwich to his left hand, Lionel thrust out his right hand. “Lionel Travitz,” he announced.
“Deidre Hearn,” she replied, shaking his hand.
“Tell you the truth, I haven’t the slightest idea where he is. You see, I don’t really know him that well. I just came out from New Jersey and I’m staying with him until I get my own place.”
“I see….”
“I figure the beach’d be nice. Maybe Malibu. Do they got buses that go out there—to Malibu?”
“Yes, they do. Listen, can I leave a message for him?”
“Sure.”
“Just ask him to please call Deidre Hearn as soon as he gets in. Here’s my office and home numbers…. He can call me anytime.”
“The phone’s out of order here.”
“Yes, I know,” she smiled. “That’s why I drove over here.”
“Right. Well, nice meeting you.”
“Good-bye,” she said, turning around and walking away.
Lionel stood in the doorway as Deidre Hearn retreated down the front walk in her short tight skirt. Not bad, he thought. A little chunky in the hips, but definitely above average. He watched her get into an Acura Legend and drive away.
Lionel closed the front door and walked through the living room to the sun porch, where he had started working on his crop-duster movie. Uncle Charlie had told him that his money was still tied up in paperwork, but that he could charge a typewriter in his name at a stationery store in Beverly Hills. Lionel had bought an IBM Selectric and two reams of paper and was trying to rough out some scenes for Dust in the Heart.
He was searching for the central metaphor. Just as protective tariffs dominated Bill and Ben, he wanted an image to run through this screenplay like the nave of the cathedral he was going to design. So far he had sketched an opening scene.
* * *
MEDIUM LONG SHOT of a barren Nebraska cornfield—DAWN. All is deathly quiet except the CLATTER of locusts. Suddenly in the east, the MOTOR of a single-engine plane can be heard, faintly at first, then gathering volume as it rises in the east like Christ on Easter morning….
Maybe the Christ image was too much. He meant it to set the tone. It was only a working metaphor, a brush stroke, a stained-glass window. He remembered what his uncle had told him. Keep your eye on the nave and don’t sweat the stained-glass windows.
He sat down at the IBM, took a moment to get his subconscious untracked and began to let her rip.
5
Deidre Hearn’s secretary Alan’s friend Brian had a small cluttered cubicle at one of Hollywood’s trade papers. As assistant obituary editor, he was responsible for keeping an up-to-date credit résumé on the town’s leading personal ties so as to be ready to go immediately to press when someone kicked. As soon as he got the word that some industry-related person had bought the ranch, he had to assemble pertinent biographical information to run in the next day’s edition.
What had been puzzling Brian recently was a list of credits that had arrived at the paper for a producer who, as far as anyone could ascertain, had not died. Not yet, at least. In addition to information off the AP and UP wires, Brian’s boss, Sara Donleavy, had contacts at local hospitals and police precincts to keep her informed of any newsworthy DOAs. And Charles F. Berns, producer of Killer on the Lam, Bulletproof Battalion, Vengeance Is Mine and Suburban Hussies, among others, was not listed anywhere as officially dead.
He wasn’t listed anywhere as officially alive either. Nobody at the paper had heard anything about him in years. None of the three talent guilds had a listing for him. His agent of record was dead, and the few people Brian could unearth who had worked with the man within the last ten years disclaimed any knowledge of his fortunes or whereabouts.
Brian couldn’t understand who had sent him the updated list of credits that had resurfaced from the pile of memos, phone messages and clippings on his desk. Brian’s boss had told him to forget it. Better not to publish an obit for a guy whose death was not confirmed than to run one for a guy who was still alive, she said. And this guy was not a hot ticket anyway. He was definitely in the walking-dead category.
The walking-dead category described people who were unfortunate enough not to realize they were no longer alive. In spite of the death sentence that had been pronounced upon them in absentia and universally recognized, they persisted in walking around, going shopping, driving their cars and generally acting as if they were not dead. They did all these things, in a sense, posthumously, stubbornly flaunting their continued existence in the face of generally accepted rumor and reliable innuendo.
It was Alan who would inform Brian over lunch at Chez Takasushi, a new Franco-Japanese hybrid in Century City, that Charles F. Berns was not only not dead but the producer of the next Bobby Mason movie.
“You’re kidding,” Brian intoned.
Alan shook his head as he speared a small slice of raw abalone with his chopsticks.
“Somebody sent me an updated list of credits. They usually don’t do that unless they’re about to croak or just did.”
“Well this guy hasn’t croaked as of last Monday.”
“Really?”
“He waltzes into Deidre’s office without an appointment and manages to get fifteen minutes with her. Tête-à-tête. And guess who’s doing Bobby Mason’s next movie?”
“Lucky him.”
“Lucky us. We haven’t had a hit in a year and a half.”
“How does a man who hasn’t produced anything in years get to do a hot box-office star’s next movie? He’s not sleeping with Deidre, is he?”
“Oh please…give me a break,” Alan moaned.
“Well, how else do you explain it?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“I wouldn’t discount the possibility that he’s having sex with her.”
“Deidre’s not having sex with anyone, believe me. I mean, do you know how she dresses? Butch leather skirts up to her belly button and these flimsy tops that look like they’re right out of the wardrobe trailer for Irma la Douce…and she prances around in these three-inch heels that you wouldn’t put on Dolly Parton. I mean, really….”
Meanwhile, at a more desirable table, closer to the sushi chef, Norman Hudris sat with Andre Blue, a production vice president at a rival studio. They were not discussing Deidre Hearn’s wardrobe. They were discussing Norman Hudris’s future.
Andre Blue—a tall, thin, fastidious man with a nasty streak in him—had risen to a level that Norman felt was wildly beyond his competence. He oversaw production of a slate of fifteen movies every year, and, at the moment, he was on a roll, with a couple of nine-figure grossers in the past year. Purely accidents of time and place, Norman was convinced, but there was no denying that his luncheon companion was a hot ticket around town.
Norman and Andre had started out together as junior agents and had kept in touch over the years, meeting periodically to exchange information and gossip. When his career first started going south, Norman had confided in Andre Blue. He told him that he was convinced that Howard Draper was combing the woods for a replacement and that he, Norman, would like to beat his boss to the punch. He was on the lookout for something else. It didn’t even have to be a promotion. He would consider a lateral move or even, under the right circumstances, a slight demotion.
“It’s not very live out there, Norman,” Andre Blue announced with his air of imperious authority.
“Tell me about it.”
“A lot of people are sitting around waiting for the phone to ring. Consider yourself fortunate that you have a job at the moment.”
“Yeah, but for how long?”
“Aren’t you being a little paranoid?”
“Andre, the studio’s in the toilet. Someone’s going to come in and clean house. And all of Howard’s people are going to be on the street. I mean, the thing is that even though Howard has no confidence in me, I’m still his production vice president. I’m going to go down with him. I’m in a no-win situation, don’t you see? Howard wants me out, and I’m going to get blamed when they get rid of him. I’m basically fucked. One way or the other.”
“What about Universal?”
“Are you serious?” Norman looked as if his stomach had just turned.
“Why not?”
“I know people who went to work out there and haven’t been heard from since. It’s like a black hole….”
Andre deftly picked a fleck of basil off his tuna sashimi. He ate for a while in silence, demurely taking small bites of his lunch with the attitude of a fussy and highly critical man. The word around town was that Andre Blue had to wash his hands immediately after shaking hands with anyone. Agents told their clients only to shake hands upon leaving the office.
“Maybe this Bobby Mason picture’ll take off,” Andre said.
“You heard?”
“It’s all over town.”
“Yeah, well, we got to make the picture first.”
“It’s pretty hard to fuck up a Bobby Mason picture. You get a hundred million just by putting his name up on the marquee.”
Norman sighed, shook his head sadly. What difference would it make if the Bobby Mason picture went through the roof? He wouldn’t get the credit for it anyway.
“So, you’re off to Tel Aviv….”
“Huh?”
“Isn’t that where you’re shooting the picture?”
“We are?”
“Bobby Mason’s becoming a Black Zionist.”
Norman looked up from his squid. He expected to see Andre Blue’s dryly insinuating smile leaking sarcasm. Instead he looked directly back at Norman and said, “That’s what I hear.”
“Jesus…why doesn’t anybody tell me these things?”
“He’s taking lessons from a rabbi. He wants to shoot everything in Israel now. That’s where you’re going to be shooting the picture, Norman. Wherever Bobby wants to shoot, you shoot.”
“Israel?”
Andre Blue nodded, took a sip of his Chassagne-Montrachet ’73. “The food’s awful. And they’ve got Palestinians taking shots at you. If I were you, Norman, I’d tell them just to shoot it and ship the negative when they’re finished.”
Enid Schonblum had opted for a light beige with tan trim. In the absence of specific input from her boss, she selected what she considered the most neutral shade on the color chart that Office Maintenance had given her. The painters had to leave a day between coats, and so today she sat alone at her post, fighting off the mild nausea she felt from inhaling paint fumes.
Besides a number of calls from Deidre Hearn and a call from Parking to assign him a permanent spot, nobody had tried to reach Mr. Berns at his new office. Which was rather peculiar, Enid thought, for a movie producer who had just been given a large office in the producers’ building. The fact that he had been off the lot and unreachable for days was even more peculiar. She had never worked for anyone who didn’t call in for their messages every few hours when they were away from their office.
So Enid Schonblum sat guard steadfastly at her desk hour after hour waiting for a phone which didn’t ring to ring. That’s how Norman Hudris found her when he walked into the office after his lunch with Andre Blue.
“Is he still at lunch?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s off. The lot.”
“Do you expect to hear from him?”
Enid looked painfully to the off-beige rug, did not immediately reply. Norman thought she hadn’t heard, and repeated the question.
“I wouldn’t know,” she managed at last.
Norman wondered if he was speaking the same language as this reedy broad with the strange aspirated voice. The office reeked of paint.
“When is the last time you’ve heard from him?”
“I haven’t. Heard from him.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Not since the first day.”
“You haven’t spoken to him at all since last Tuesday?”
“Yes. I mean no. That is. I haven’t spoken to him. At all.”
“May I have his home phone number, please.”
“I don’t have. His home phone number.”
He did his best to keep his impatience under control. It was fairly obvious to him by now that this strange girl in Charlie Berns’s office was on drugs. The studios were full of them now, menials who took a variety of exotic pharmaceuticals on the job.
“You don’t have his home phone number?” He spoke as slowly and as distinctly as he could. It didn’t seem to do any good, however, because the druggie just looked back at him and shook her head. Then, as if he were talking to a three-year-old, he said, “No…home…phone…number?” He made large charade like gestures, the way he sometimes did to make himself understood to his Salvadoran cleaning lady.
“Yes. I mean no. No home phone number.”
Norman did an abrupt about-face and headed downstairs to Deidre’s office. Her secretary, as usual, was not at his desk. He entered her office and found Deidre lying on the couch with a script.
“You know what I just heard at Takasushi?” he said, without introduction. “Apparently, we’re making the Bobby Mason picture in Israel. I mean, don’t you think something’s wrong when the head of production, West Coast, has to find out in a sushi restaurant where his studio is shooting a picture?”
“You should read the trades. That’s where Bobby Mason wants to shoot all his pictures now.”
“I thought this picture was about protective tariffs in England.”
“It’s about Benjamin Disraeli, a famous ex-Jew and soon-to-be martial-arts expert…. Norman, how do you think this studio got to do this picture anyway?”
Norman sat down at Deidre’s desk and started mangling her paper clips.
“Where the fuck is he?”
“He?”
“Charlie Berns. The guy we just hired to make this movie.”
“Nobody knows where he is, Norman.”
“You don’t know where he is?”
Deidre put down the script, swung her legs over the couch, stood up, smoothing down her skirt. “I don’t know where he is. I swear to you I don’t know where he is. I’ve been trying to reach him for days now. I even went to his house. He’s not there, and his nephew, who lives there, doesn’t know where he is either. Even his agent doesn’t know where he is.”
“How could a producer with a development deal just vanish?”
“Maybe he just took the money and went to Rio.”
“Deidre…”
“Look, you told me to make this deal. I made the deal. You told me to read the script. I read the script. You told me to write coverage. I wrote coverage. The coverage said, don’t buy this script. You bought the script. Fine. But I’m not responsible for keeping tabs on the whereabouts of producers who don’t have a home phone and don’t go near their office.”
“What about the rewrite? What are we going to do?”
“What do I know, Norman? I just work here.”
Norman picked up Deidre’s phone, dialed an extension. “Is he in, please? It’s Norman Hudris…”
He waited for several seconds, then: “Don, have we issued any money yet on the Charlie Berns deal?”
Norman began to pace with the phone, nearly dragging it off Deidre’s coffee table. “When? Jesus…”
