Hot Properties (32 page)

“What do you think that was about?”

“You mean the cover meeting?” David stalled.

Chico’s eyes shut with irritation. “Of course!” he said so forcefully that the phrase was almost an expletive.

David told the truth. “I have no idea. I couldn’t figure out what it was about.”

Chico cocked his head, interested. “I’m surprised,” he said. “I thought it was so obvious.”

David sat down, relaxed. He felt tremendously relieved by his admission. He didn’t know why he had felt obligated to have an answer, but now that he had failed to provide one, he felt sure of himself. “Not to me. Maybe I’m dense, but I don’t know what Rounder thought he was proving. I can’t believe he won’t do the Olympics as a cover.”

“If he does, he’ll be a laughingstock.” Chico shook his head no. “He won’t. It was all done to keep me in my place. He knows I should have his job. He wants me and everyone else to know that I don’t have it. He’s in charge.”

“You don’t think he’s trying to force you out?” David asked this so frankly because Chico’s words had been naked. By
Newstime’s
standards, they were an unprecedented catharsis. If David had had time to think, he would never have asked his question.

“He can’t. He wishes he could. But Mrs. Thorn wouldn’t allow it. She’s not prepared to trust him absolutely.”

“Maybe he meant it about the cover. Maybe he’s that naive.”

“He’s not that dumb.” Chico picked up a pen on his desk and threw it down hard. It bounced up and fell to the floor. “What do you think everyone else’s reaction was?”

“I’ll find out at lunch,” David said, again without thinking.

“Good. Call me after you come back and let me know.”

David nodded and rose slowly. I’ve just agreed to spy for him, he thought, appalled that he had committed himself so easily to such a role. No matter how much good it might do him with Chico. wasn’t it unseemly? Wouldn’t it lower him even in Chico’s eyes?

He left, went into the elevator, and on down to the lobby in a daze. He dreaded each step that took him closer to the Boar, the
Newstime
hangout. He had loved being in that elite circle, drinking and opening up to his peers, saying the unsayable to each other about the magazine. But now he’d have to take notes, remembering who said what, judging whether it was fit to report or not. He could alienate a rival from Chico’s affections, cast himself as Chico’s only defender. That simple promise was an endless ladder down into the depths of corruption: only his own will could keep him from the black depths of the bottom rung.

As he opened the dark glass doors and saw the gang already assembled, he almost felt like crossing himself or finding a clove of garlic to wear around his neck. Anything that could ward off the devil … and allow him to keep his soul above the slime of this opportunity.

Tony Winters waved to Lois while she turned off Sunset Boulevard. She had helped him pick the route he would take to the Valley Studios for a meeting at International Pictures, though she had laughed at his refusal to get on any freeways or to take shortcuts through the canyons. Instead, she explained he could stay on Sunset almost all the way, although a brief stint (one exit) on the Hollywood Freeway was unavoidable.

He felt a sad loneliness watching her car go. A childish, weak sensation in his belly. Maybe he was nervous about the meeting. The summons to Los Angeles had been so abrupt, and the lack of comment on his first draft of the script so puzzling and ominous. He had been sufficiently startled that he called his father—fresh from recently seeing him in New York—and asked whether the request for him to come without any comment on the script was a good or bad sign.

His father was silent for a moment or two. Then he sighed. “Neither. The odds are they neither love the script nor hate it, If they loved it. they would have said something. If they hated it, they wouldn’t want you out here for a meeting. They probably want changes, and Garth is notoriously insensitive. He probably doesn’t think you need to be stroked. After all, you’re just a writer.”

Just a writer. My God, what a universe of difference there is in the movie business between their view of writers and mine, Tony thought. He took the gentle curves of Sunset with pleasure, soothed by the silent flow of traffic and pavement, surrounded by the whoosh of his car’s air conditioning. Just a writer. To Tony, to be a writer was to be royalty. A breed of humanity that could survive time. The triumphant recorders of human life. A master psychologist, a delicate historian, a great lover, loving parent, actor, set designer, director, sound technician—to be a writer, to Tony, meant being all those things, and more, much more. Priest, comic, fool, wise man. A writer must know every line and every thought. The look of things, the sound of things, the ideas of life, and its trivialities. A writer must master everything or he is nothing. Just a writer! To him, the others were the limited ones. Temporal, insignificant. Tools to help him build his monuments.

The enormity of his task, the noble vision of its demands, cheered him as he approached the Hollywood Freeway. I have mastered these things. Maybe not as well as the great geniuses, but I have written good stuff. Shakespeare, Chekhov, Shaw, they would welcome me. I’d get a round of drinks from them. I’d get some stroking. And with determination and time, one day another Garth in another century will dream of playing the roles I write!

He negotiated a terrifying crossing of the freeway within a distance of a few hundred yards from an entrance on the extreme left to an exit on the extreme right with relative ease. Soon he was descending a hill into the pancake of the Valley. The huge billboards of International’s current movies loomed beside his car as he began to look for Gate Three. The low brown buildings of the studio seemed peaceful in the morning sun, like beach bungalows for a lower-middle-class resort. Only the parking lots filled with Mercedeses and BMW’s suggested money.

The security guard at Gate Three, who seemed to regard him suspiciously when he announced himself and whom he had come to see, became instantly servile when he found the drive-on pass that confirmed Tony Winters had a right to be there. Probably that was all in my head, he lectured himself while finding the lot where he was supposed to park. Why can’t I rid myself of this monitoring whether the world approves? I approve, dammit!

He glanced at his watch before entering the inner courtyard of the main administration building. He was on time. He found the silver-colored plaque that read
WILLIAM GARTH
and paused, listening to the faint steady hum of traffic outside the low buildings. Birds chirped. There was a small-town feeling to the place. This was and is the Valley Studios. Tony complained to himself. Bogey worked here. Faulkner typed away in one of those buildings. American fascism stalked these halls. And what does it look like? A small-town college.

Then the office itself was a shock. The furniture was tacky, fake wood desks, the usual plants, an ugly white shag rug. They might have been selling aluminum siding in Queens. Garth was on the phone when he was shown in. He acknowledged Tony’s presence with a wave, while Foxx, whom Tony had recently seen in New York, glanced up at him (he was reading
Variety)
and said casually, “Hi, Tony,” as though they were old friends accustomed to seeing each other daily.

Garth’s secretary asked if he wanted coffee. Tony said yes. Foxx put
Variety
away.” “How was the flight?”

This seemed to be a ritual. Tony had this conversation with everyone. “Fine.”

“What do you take out here?”

“TWA.”

Foxx shook his head as though Tony had answered a quiz incorrectly. “You should try Pan Am. They’re really much better.”

Meanwhile Garth was saying to the phone. “They say she fucks everybody on the set. Yeah!” He laughed. “Even the cameramen. No. I don’t know about gofers.” He laughed. “Why? Your deal is so tough you’re gofering on the side? What do you mean, ‘gofer’ isn’t a verb. Of course it’s a verb. I got a writer here. I’ll ask him.” Garth moved his mouth away from the receiver, calling out to Tony loudly, as though they were far apart, “Isn’t gofer a verb?”

“I’m not sure,” Tony answered gravely. “ ‘He gives good gofer’ might be more proper.”

Foxx smiled. Garth roared and repeated the line, laughing again, presumably at the laughter of his listener. “Who?” Garth said. “Tony Winters.” Pause.

Tony was openly eavesdropping now, but Garth didn’t mind, he was smiling at Tony.

“Yeah, he’s writing a script for you and me.
Concussion,
it’s called.
Concussion,
not
Curmudgeon.”
Garth made a face. “Ha, ha. I gotta go. I’m not hanging up angry. I got work to do. I got a writer here. Yes, the same one. Ha, ha. Good-bye.” Garth hung up and sighed, staring at the desk. “What an asshole,” he decided.

“They say he’s in trouble,” Foxx commented, not committing himself to the opinion, merely reporting.

“He’s always in trouble. But if they fire him, the fat fuck’ll be president somewhere else.” Garth said this as though he were a scientist accepting a gloomy fact of nature.

The secretary entered with Tony’s coffee. Garth looked at her blankly and then said. “Get one for me.” He looked at Tony and smiled in a weary and forced manner. “How are ya? You look good. Flight all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Where you staying?”

“Beverly Hills Hotel.”

Garth nodded seriously, his brows furrowed. “Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Has Jim”—he glanced at Foxx— “had a chance to talk to you about the script?”

“No!” Foxx said, aggrieved. “We’ve been listening to you on the phone.”

“I was on for a second! He’s only gonna be making our goddamn movie,” he complained, pointing to the phone. “If only he knew we were doing it.”

The secretary reappeared with Garth’s coffee. Tony lit a cigarette. He had no idea what to expect. Their manner was too matter-of-fact for him to assume disaster, but it wasn’t the tone of people who are delighted and ready to proceed. Garth wistfully watched Tony take a drag. “Aren’t you worried about cancer?” he asked.

“No.” Tony said with a smile.

Foxx laughed.

Garth nodded. “Well, we’ve read the script. I’ve read it twice.” He looked at Foxx expectantly.

“So have I,” Foxx said.

“I haven’t,” Tony said with a nervous giggle.

Garth ignored him. “I guess my feeling is that the character is there. But—”

Foxx broke in, “The structure isn’t.”

“It’s not suspenseful,” Garth said. “I always felt I was a step ahead of the picture.”

“Can’t have that in a thriller,” Foxx said.

Tony swallowed. He thought he had braced himself for a mixed reaction (was this merely a mixed reaction?), but the tightening presence of fear in his throat belied that assumption. He felt under pressure to respond. Foxx and Garth were both looking at him quizzically. “No, you can’t,” Tony agreed. “I thought I …” He was about to argue he
had
made the story surprising, but he realized that was foolish.

“You think it is?” Garth prompted. The famous face looked timid and kindly, unsure of itself. Foxx, however, was frowning, certain of his judgment. That surprised Tony. He had expected, from the rumors of Garth’s temperament, the reverse.

“Yeah,” Tony said timidly. “Weren’t you surprised that his brother turns out to be the FBI agent?”

Foxx shook his head no, his lips pursing with disdain. Garth glanced at his producer. “I think it’s a good choice,” he said. “You haven’t …” Garth hesitated.

“You telegraph it with all those little scenes between them. They have a tone that lets you know there’s more to that brother than just someone helping.” Foxx said all this thoughtfully, his eyes going to a small window next to the far end of the couch. It had no view. His refusal to look at Tony while criticizing suggested that the words were harsher than they sounded.

“But that isn’t a structural problem,” Tony objected. But he felt his point was pedantic. “Not that that makes any difference. I just mean—you said there were structural problems, so I thought you hadn’t liked that choice, making your brother the villain.”

“No, I like that,” Garth said eagerly, as though he were glad to have something positive to say. “There are a lot of things I like in it. I think there are terrific scenes for my character.”

“Yeah,” Foxx said. “But not for her. Not for Meryl’s character.”

“Yeah,” Garth agreed. “She’s, uh, she’s. I don’t know, kind of unpleasant, you know? You don’t like her. You don’t believe I would be in love with her.”

You, a short twerp like you? Tony thought. In life, you’d be on your hands and knees thanking god that Meryl Streep was willing to pull her panties down for you. This bitter, and, Tony knew, wrong-headed thought cheered him up. “Okay,” Tony said with an easy smile. “I’ll be happy to fix her. But again, that’s not a structural problem.”

Foxx turned his eyes to Tony. “All right, so they’re not structural. What difference does that make?” His tone was both angry and petulant. Tony felt that a whip had been cracked. Get in line, was Foxx’s message. Don’t try to act smarter than us.

“You’re right,” Tony said, looking down at the floor, a child accepting a scolding.

“This is a tough story,” Garth said.

Tony felt a rush of good feeling for Garth. He had been warned by his mother, his father, Lois, his agent, and others that Garth treated writers like breakfast cereals, stocking his cabinets with a dozen varieties and switching brands every morning. But Garth seemed to be trying to soften the blows, treating Tony with unusual deference, as if Tony were a special case, not the typical Hollywood writer whom Garth could feel free to trample on.

“It’s gotta be fun!” Foxx blurted, moving forward on the couch in his excitement. He got up when he reached the edge and paced across the small room in between Tony’s chair and Garth’s desk. “There’s no fun in your script. You’re a funny writer. I don’t know why you’ve made it so dark.”

“Well …” Tony said, again his first impulse being to argue, followed by an equally strong impulse
not
to. The result was inarticulate hesitation.