Hollywood (14 page)

Jon Pinchot had escaped from the ghetto. In his contract it stated that he would be supplied with an apartment to be paid for by Firepower. Jon found an apartment near the Firepower building. Each night, from his bed, Jon could see the lit sign at the top of the building, Firepower, and it shone through his window and upon his face as he slept.

François Racine remained in the ghetto. He began a garden, growing vegetables. He spun his roulette wheel, tended his garden and fed the chickens. He was one of the strangest men I had ever met.

“I cannot leave my chickens,” he told me. “I will die in this strange land here with my chickens, here among the blacks.”

I went to the track on the days that the horses were running and the movie continued shooting.

The phone rang every day. People wanted to interview the writer. I never realized that there were so many movie magazines or magazines interested in the movies. It was a sickness: this great interest in a medium that relentlessly and consistently failed, time after time after time, to produce anything at all. People became so used to seeing shit on film that they no longer realized it was shit.

The racetrack was another waste of human life and effort. The people marched up to the windows with their money which they exchanged for pieces of numbered paper. Almost all of the numbers weren’t good. In addition the track and the state took 18% off the top of each dollar, which they roughly divided. The biggest damn fools went to the movies and the racetracks. I was a damn fool who went to the racetrack. But I did better than most because after decades of race-going I had learned a minor trick or two. With me, it was a hobby and I never went wild with my money. Once you have been poor a long time you gain a certain respect for money. You never again want to be without any of it at all. That’s for saints and fools. One of my successes in life was that in spite of all the crazy things I had done, I was perfectly normal: I chose to do those things, they didn’t choose me.

Anyhow, one night the phone rang. It was Jon Pinchot.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said.

“Did Friedman cancel the movie again?”

“No, it’s not that...I don’t know how this guy got my phone number...”

“What guy?”

“He just phoned me...”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘YOU MOTHERFUCKER, YOU KILLED MY BROTHER! YOU KILLED MY BROTHER! NOW I AM COMING TO KILL YOU! I AM COMING TO KILL YOU TONIGHT!’”

“God...”

“He was sobbing, he seemed out of his mind, it seemed very real. Maybe it is. In this town, you never know...”

“Did you phone the police?”

“Yes.”

“What did they say?”

“They said, ‘Call us when he gets there.’”

“You can stay over here...”

“No, thanks, it’s all right...but I’m sure I won’t sleep well tonight...”

“Do you have a gun?”

“No, tomorrow I will get one, but then it may be too late.”

“Go to a motel...”

“No, he may be watching...”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to let you know and to thank you for writing the screenplay.”

“It’s all right.”

“Goodnight, Hank...”

“Goodnight, Jon...”

He hung up.

I knew how he felt. A guy phoned me once and told me he was going to kill me because I had fucked his wife. He called me by my last name and told me he was on the way over. He didn’t make it. He must have been killed in a traffic accident.

I decided to phone François Racine to see how he was doing.

I got his answering machine:

“DO NOT SPEAK TO ME, SPEAK TO THIS MACHINE. I DO NOT WISH TO SPEAK. SPEAK TO THIS MACHINE. I AM NOWHERE AND YOU ARE ALSO NOWHERE. DEATH COMES WITH HIS LITTLE HANDS TO GRIP US. I DO NOT WISH TO SPEAK. SPEAK TO THE MACHINE.”

The beep sounded.

“François, you fuck-head...”

“Oh, it’s you, Hank...”

“Yeah, babe...”

“There has been a fire...a fire...FIRE...”

“What?”

“Yes, I buy this cheap black and white TV...I leave it on while I am going somewhere...I want to fool them...Make them think there is somebody inside...I guess while I was gone the TV caught on fire or exploded...When I drive up I see all the smoke...The fire department does not come down here...This whole block could be in flames, they would not come...I walk through the smoke...There are flames...The blacks are in there...The killers and the thieves...They have buckets of water and they are running back and forth putting out the fire...I sit and watch...I find a bottle of wine, open it, drink...The blacks are running about. . . Soon the fire is out...There are embers and much smoke. We cough. ‘Sorry, man,’ one of the blacks says. ‘We got here late. We were having a gang meeting...somebody smelled smoke...’ ‘Thank you,’ I told them. One of them had a pint of gin, we passed it around, then they left...”

“I’m sorry, François...Christ, I don’t know what to say...Is it still liveable there?”

“I sit in the smoke, I sit in the smoke...It is like a fog, a fog...Now my hair is white, I am an old man, I sit in the fog...There is fog everywhere and my hair is white...I am an old man, I sit in the fog...Now I am a young boy, I sit in the fog...I hear my mother’s voice...Oh no! She is moaning! She is getting FUCKED! She is getting FUCKED by somebody terrible! I must go back to France, I must help my mother, I must help France!”

“François, you can stay here…or I’m sure Jon has room...It’s not as bad as you think...Every dark cloud passes...”

“No, no, sometimes there is a dark cloud that never passes. It stays forever!”

“Well, that’s death.”

“Each day in life is death! I go back to France! I act again!”

“François, how about the chickens? You love the chickens, remember?”

“Fuck the chickens! Let the blacks have the chickens! Let the black meat and the white meat meet!”

“Meat meet?” I asked.

“I am in the fog. There has been a fire. A fire. I am an old man, my hair is white. I sit in the fog...I go now...”

François hung up.

I tried him again. All I got was: “DO NOT SPEAK TO ME, SPEAK TO THIS MACHINE...”

I hoped he had a bottle or two of good red wine to get him through the night because it appeared if ever a man needed that it was my friend, François. Unless it was my friend, Jon. Unless it was me. I opened one.

“Care for a glass or two?” I asked Sarah.

“Certainly,” she answered. “What’s new?”

I told her.

The man didn’t come to kill Jon the first night. On the second night Jon had a gun and waited. The man didn’t come. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.

Meanwhile, Francine Bowers had recovered from her operation.

“$50 per diem, plus room and board, that’s all I can give her,” Friedman told Jon.

There was also some argument about paying for her flight to California but Firepower finally agreed to do it.

I was to receive a payment upon the first day of shooting and so was Jon but nothing had occurred. Firepower was to pay Jon and then Jon was to pay me. There had been nothing. I had no idea if the other people in the crew were being paid.

Maybe that’s why I decided to go to the Distributor’s Party. I could ask Friedman where my money was.

The party was on a Friday night at the Lemon Duck, a large dark place with a big bar and many tables. When Sarah and I arrived, most of the tables were filled. These people were the distributors from all over the world. They looked calm and almost bored. They were eating or ordering their meals, not saying much, not drinking much. We found a table off to the corner.

Jon Pinchot walked in and spotted us right away. He came to the table, smiling. “Surprised to find you here. Distributor’s parties are horrible...By the way, I have something...”

He had the screenplay there in its blue cover and he opened it.

“Now, this scene here, we need to cut a minute and a half. Can you do it?”

“Sure. But listen, could you get Sarah and me a drink?”

“Of course. . .”

“Jon is right,” said Sarah, “this party doesn’t seem to have much life.”

“Maybe we can add something to it,” I said.

“Hank, we don’t have to always be the last ones to leave a party.”

“But somehow, we are...”

I began crossing out lines. My people talked too much. Everybody talked too much.

Jon was back with the drinks.

“How’s it going?”

“My people talk too much...”

“They drink too much...”

“No, they can’t drink too much. There is never enough...”

Then there was applause.

“It’s Friedman,” said Sarah.

Here he came in an old suit, no necktie, top button missing from his shirt and the shirt was wrinkled. Friedman had his mind on other things besides dress. But he had a fascinating smile and his eyes looked right at people as if he were x-raying them. He had come from hell and he was still in hell and he’d put you in hell too if you gave him the slightest chance. He went from table to table, dropping small and precise sentences.

Then he came to our table. He made some remark on how nice Sarah looked.

“Look,” I pointed to the screenplay on the table, “this son of a bitch Pinchot has me WORKING during this party!”

“GOOD!” said Friedman, then turned and walked off toward another table.

I finished the cuts and handed the screenplay to Jon. He read it.

“It’s fine,” he said, “nothing important is left out and I think it reads just as well.”

“Maybe better.”

Then there was more applause. Francine Bowers was making her entrance. She wasn’t that old but she was from the old school. She stood very straight (straight as in regal) turning her head slowly to the right and then to the left, smiling, then not smiling, then smiling again. She hesitated and stood there. She stood like a statue for ten seconds, then moved forward gracefully into the room. This earned her more applause. A few flashbulbs popped. Then she relaxed. She stopped at some of the tables for a word or two, then moved on.

God, I thought, what about the writer? The writer was the blood and bones and brains (or lack of same) in these creatures. The writer made their hearts beat, gave them words to speak, made them live or die, anything he wanted. And where was the writer? Who ever photographed the writer? Who applauded? But just as well and damn sure just as well: the writer was where he belonged: in some dark corner, watching.

Then, behold! Francine Bowers approached our table. She smiled at Sarah and Jon, then spoke to me, “Did you write in that leg scene for me yet?”

“Francine, it’s in there. You get to flash them.”

“You’ll see. I have great legs!”

“I certainly hope so.”

She leaned over the table toward me, smiled her beautiful smile, her eyes shone above those famous high cheek bones. “Don’t worry.”

Then she straightened and was gone, off to another table.

“I have to see Friedman about something,” said Jon.

“Yes,” I said, “ask him about pay day.”

Sarah and I continued to sit and study the crowd. Sarah was good at parties. She pointed people out to me, told me about them. I saw things that I never would have noticed. I had most of humanity pegged on a very low scale and preferred not even to take notice of them. So Sarah made them a bit more interesting, which I appreciated.

The night wore on, and as usual Sarah and I didn’t order any food. Eating was hard work and, after 2 or 3 drinks, the food was tasteless. Strangely as the wine got warmer it seemed to taste better. Then, out of nowhere, appeared Jon Pinchot.

“Look,” he pointed to a table, “over there is one of Friedman’s lawyers.”

“Good,” I said, “I’m going over there. Please join me, Sarah...”

We walked over and sat down. The lawyer was well into his cups. Next to him was a very tall, blond lady. She sat tall and rigid, as if frozen. She had a long long neck and the neck stretched and stretched, rigid. It was painful to look at her. She looked frozen.

The lawyer knew us.

“Ah, Chinaski,” he said, “and Sarah...”

“Hello,” said Sarah.

“Hello,” I said.

“This is my wife, Helga...”

We said hello to Helga. She didn’t answer. She was frozen, sitting tall in her chair.

The lawyer waved in some drinks. Two bottles appeared. Things looked good. The lawyer, Tommy Henderson, poured.

“Betcha you don’t like lawyers,” he said to me.

“Not as a group, no.”

“Well, I’m an all-right lawyer, I’m not a crook. You think because I’m working for Friedman that I’m out to screw everybody?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m not...”

Tommy drained his wine glass, poured another. I drained mine.

“Take it easy, Hank,” said Sarah, “we have to drive back.”

“If it gets too bad we’ll take a cab back. The lawyer will pay.”

“That’s right, I’ll pay...”

“Well, in that case...” Sarah drained her glass right off.

The tall frozen woman was still frozen. Mostly it was painful to look at her. Her neck was so long and stretched that the veins protruded—long hard aching veins. It was truly awful.

“My wife,” said the lawyer, “has given up drinking.”

“Oh, I see...” I said.

“Good for you,” said Sarah, “that takes courage, especially with people drinking all around you.”

“I couldn’t do it,” I said, “worst thing in the world is being sober around a bunch of damn fool drunks.”

“I woke up alone and naked one morning at 5 a.m. on the sands of Malibu. That did it for me.”

“Good for you,” I said, “it takes guts to cut it out.”

“Don’t let anybody talk you out of it,” said Sarah.

The lawyer, Tommy Henderson, poured fresh drinks for himself, Sarah and me.

“Chinaski doesn’t like me,” he said to his wife, Helga. “He thinks I’m a crook.”

“I don’t blame him,” said Helga.

“Oh yeah? Oh yeah?” said the lawyer. He drained most of his drink, then looked at me. He stared deeply. “You think I’m a crook?”

“Well,” I said, “probably...”

“You think we’re not going to pay you?”

“That’s the feeling that I have ...”

“Well, listen, I’ve read most of your books, what do you think of that? I think you’re a great writer. I think you’re almost as good as Updike.”

“Thanks.”

“And, listen to this, this morning I mailed out all the checks. You people are going to get paid. You’ll have your money in the next mail.”

“It’s true,” said Helga, “I saw him put the checks in the mail.”

“Great,” I said, “you know, it’s only fair...”

“Sure, it’s fair. We want to be fair. We had a cash flow problem. Now it’s solved.”

“It’s going to be a good movie,” I said.

“I know it. I’ve read the script,” said Tommy. “Now, do you feel better about everything?”

“Hell yes.”

“Do you still think I’m a crook?”

“Well, no, I can’t.”

“Let’s drink to it!” said Tommy.

He filled the glasses. We raised them in a toast. That is, Tommy, Sarah and I did.

“To an honest world,” I said.

We clicked the glasses and drank them down.

I noticed that the veins in Helga’s neck were protruding further than ever. Nevertheless, we drank on.

We made small talk. A lot of it was about how brave Helga was.

We were the last to leave. That is, Helga, Tommy, Sarah and myself. The remaining two waiters gave us very dirty looks as we left. But Sarah and I were used to that. And Tommy most probably was too. Helga walked with us toward the exit, still rigid and suffering. Well, she wouldn’t have a hangover in the morning. Then, it would be our turn.