Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (2 page)

“It's not real.” Obviously Lapham's opening greeting to everyone.

“Yes, I know. The rather inattentive brushwork points that out clearly. Nor is the Mark Rothko behind your assistant's desk real. Both props, I believe, from your art world comedy,
Abstractions
, wherein Chevy Chase manages to destroy the treasures of 20th Century art in one four minute slapstick bit.”

“You know my films?”

“I have a VCR,” I said in a noncommittal way.

“Well....” He lost his words here. He had to grope. “Listen, I don't really know why you are here.”

“I assume you asked for me.”

“Well, no, not really. Look, I just took on Norton Macbeth as my business manager. The last one I had was getting me into these weird investments and—”

“Norton is very conservative.”

“Well, yeah, that's what I thought, but then—well—you—uh.... Look I was just blowing off steam to Norton, and maybe I said too much, but he started to tell me about you and he pressed me to have this meeting and.... Look, I don't want any rough stuff.”

“Rough stuff?” I said with as incredulous an air as I could manage.

“Well—you know....”

“Tell me your problem, Larry.” I said it like an old friend. A transparent technique, but often effective.

“Let's, uh, let's go sit down.”

He led me to the conversation pit and sat in what was obviously his chair, the big one perpendicular to the two couches facing each other. I sat on the couch to his right on the end farthest from him to be able to observe from a distance. Already I had perceived that Larry Lapham was a geek grown successful. The Spielbergian beard he sported did not really hide a buck tooth, horsy face that could have comfortably housed the vocal tones of Disney's Goofy going, “Gorsh!” When he walked to the couch, his mid-section led the way, almost as if some invisible hand was pulling him by his belt, but when he sat, he sat with the style of a man grown use to power and control. Nonetheless, you couldn't mistake the unsatisfied air about him. Some “little” thing was pissing him off.

“You know who Robert Jordan is?”

“This country's top film critic. The only one whose opinion can sell tickets, thus make a film.”

“Or stop the sale of tickets.”

“Thus break a film. Yes, unusual. The power the
New York Times
used to have over Broadway, he seems to have over film. Why do you think that is?”

“He's damn good. Really knows film, but he also knows how to play to a crowd. Without being too slick about it. He's never given up his credentials for glamour, and he's got that damn TV show, and his regular appearances on
This Day
, and his books. Gives him a hell of a lot of power, and that fucking ‘royal rating system' of his: We are very not pleased; We are not pleased; We are indifferent—that's probably the most damning one—We are pleased; We are very pleased. What the hell is that?”

“I take it none of your films has gotten beyond his indifference?”

“No. None of my films have gotten beyond, ‘We are very not pleased.'”

“Nonetheless, you're still successful.”

“‘Successful' is a relative term.”

I looked around his office, making a point. “I suppose we are talking about the difference between a rich relative and a very rich relative.”

“That's part of it. I had the shock of my life when a Wall Street analyst told me that if my films had gotten raves from Jordan, the ‘winning' atmosphere that would have built around my films would have effected a positive energy not just on the potential audience, but on the studio, the marketing guys, the exhibitors in the field making the decisions on how long to book my pictures. That energy, this analyst said, could well have equated to 21.4 to 33.7 million dollars more in gross per picture.”

“Very precise figures.”

“He's a very precise man.”

“Who you were talking to because you were thinking of taking Painted Dessert Pictures public.”

He bore down a little now with his eyes. He was wondering how I knew that. I didn't. It was a logical guess, but it impressed nonetheless. “Yes, that's right, and I didn't because I and my work were valued less than what I felt was appropriate. A value derived from the numbers, a mis-value derived from the perception.”

“And now you need...”

“I have a new picture coming out in a few weeks. I need Robert Jordan to give me a sterling review.”

Lapham said it as if he was reporting that he needed a can of beans off a supermarket shelf. I was pretty sure that Jordan was no can of beans. “Well, outside of bribing him...”

“No. He can't be bribed.”

“If we could find a dark secret, blackmail is usually effective.”

“I wouldn't condone that.”

“And, you said no rough stuff.”

“No rough stuff.”

“Then I guess you just have to hope that he likes your picture.”

“Why? That doesn't seem to have affected his reviews of my work in the past.”

“There's obviously a story behind that statement.”

Lapham nodded—and looked inward. This is where he was deciding whether to commit to a relationship of information with the Fixxer. Norton always does his job well. He had told Lapham that I would keep his confidence—keep it to use as I saw fit anytime in the future. That that was part of the deal. What he could get in return, though...

Lapham finally spoke. “A couple weeks ago a guy I went to college with was in town visiting. We were roommates in the dorm my freshman and sophomore years at Penn State. I left after two years to get closer to home and study film at USC. I hadn't heard from him since. He called up the office, assuming I wouldn't talk to him. People's warped sense of what Hollywood success does to you. I was delighted to hear from him. I immediately invited him and his wife up to the house. We had a great time reminiscing. Then he mentioned how on a business trip to New York he had run into the other famous person from our dorms connected to film. I was completely stumped. I had no idea who he was talking about. ‘Robert Jordan,' he said.”

The way of human nature is clear enough. “So what did you do to Robert Jordan when you were an 18 or 19 year old college kid to make him hate you all these years?”

“I snubbed him, I guess. That's all. Look, my friend really had to put him into context for me to even remember him, but then I got it. He was Bobby, this little, fat nerd on the floor above ours. He had really tried to force his way into our circle, but, you know, I wasn't much more than a nerd myself—and from Arizona. I wasn't looking to make friends with people with umbilical cords, but people with tow-ropes. Do you understand?”

“You wanted to befriend rather than be friends.”

“Yeah. My sights were high. There also seems to be something that, I swear, I never perceived, but my friend says is true. I guess Bobby had homoerotic feelings towards me.”

“Unrequited love can be sad on several fronts.”

Lapham ignored that statement and continued. “It all sort of makes sense now, though. For you see, the ironic thing is, I happen to think that Robert Jordan is the finest film critic we have, the finest one in years. Yes, he's a bit of a showman, but his views are solid, well thought out, and grounded in a love of film. I have rarely disagreed with one of his reviews. Except for those of my films, of course. I was never able to understand why he didn't appreciate them. I thought I knew his tastes. Hell, I'll admit having made creative decisions based on what I thought Jordan would like. Most filmmakers won't admit to that, but, believe me, we are all playing to more than just the audiences.”

“So you believe Jordan probably really likes your films, but continues to review them poorly out of unresolved adolescent spite.”

“Yeah—and it really pisses me off. Outside of what he's doing to me, it's dishonest.”

“Dishonest?”

“I may not be the greatest filmmaker in the world, but I do love film. I have a regard for it.” Having made that clear, Lapham paused. He looked down to his expensive loafers. Then he made his decision. “I would like to have this situation fixed. I would like for Robert Jordan to be found out—in as personally and professionally an embarrassing a manner as possible. I would like him to lose something. I would like him to lose the respect he's gained. I would like him to lose his credentials and position, but not before he admits that he's always liked my films. Now that, Mr. Fixxer, is a tall order.”

“And one not so simple as bribery, blackmail or rough stuff, but far more vicious.”

“Norton didn't tell me you were a judgmental person. Nor that you had any right to be.”

“You're a fairly humorless man for a comedy filmmaker, Mr. Lapham.”

“I put it on the screen, Mr. Fixxer.”

If he wanted to be serious, I decided I would be serious. “A million dollars.”

His eyes widened just slightly. “You're kidding?”

“Plus expenses.”

“I don't believe you can help me.” He started to get up.

“Sit down!” The sharpness of my tone was enough to stop him. He sat. “Don't ever walk away from a meeting with me. What you want I can give you. It will not be easy, the details will be elaborate, the planning will be precise, and I must have your full cooperation. I can do it for one million dollars plus expenses, a mere fraction, I would guess, from what you will personally realize if you can take Painted Dessert Pictures public at the value you put on it.”

“I might make fifty-million.”

“Two percent then.”

“A bargain, you're telling me. What guarantee do I have?”

“You pay nothing until the job is done.”

“Then what guarantee do you have that I'll pay once the job is done.”

“Mr. Larry Lapham, you may have some moral objections to rough stuff. Know that I do not.”

Lapham agreed. It was too good of a deal to pass up. I explained to him that I already had the bare bones of an idea, but it would take some “feasibility study.” That seemed like a term he would appreciate. From his end I needed the release date of his new film, and when and where Jordan would be screening it for his review. He said he would call the studio publicity people and get the information and pass it on through Norton. I also told him to be prepared to appear on the
This Day
show to promote the film, and to not bother the studio about it, I would take care of everything.

“Forget it. We've never been able to get a booking on that show. Each time they make up some lame excuse to hand the publicist. Now, of course, it's understandable. Jordan got me blackballed there.”

“Really? Maybe I have a way to make the blackball a little less black.”

~ * ~

When I got down to the Porsche 911 in the garage I got in and sat for a while thinking. Not much in a parking garage to divert your thoughts. There was a large contingent of people I would need for this commission. Not to mention the cooperation of the weather, assuming...

I started the car and left the garage turning right onto Washington Boulevard then a quick right onto Motor. I decided to drive through Cheviot Hills, a prettier drive than taking Overland. I picked up the phone and called Roee.

“Talk.” Roee's standard greeting when he answered The Phone.

“What's the weather like in New York right now?”

“Well, it's the dead of winter.”

“Yes...?”

“Lots of snowstorms—pretty miserable.”

“Likely to keep up for a couple of weeks?”

“What are you doing? Running a numbers game based on the weather?”

“Roee...?”

“Should I get a
Farmer's Almanac
?”

“How accurate is that?”

“I don't know. I'm not a farmer.”

“I need something I can rely on.”

“Fixxer, surely you've heard that the weather is something people can talk about but not do much about.”

“Yeah, I've heard, but I'll bet you Petey hasn't.”

“Oh, yes. I'll patch you in to him on the scrambler.”

Petey still worked for the old place near the nation's capital, and although The Phone is very secure, I could never guarantee that their phones were. Suddenly he was on, speaking in his customary near shout.

“Fixxer, you old ladykiller!”

“I thought you said you'd never bring that up again. Besides, I paid the death benefits.”

“Sure, sure! How are you?!”

“I'm okay for a man in my condition.”

“And what condition is that?!”

“The human condition, Petey, the human condition.”