Selling Out (30 page)

Somebody up there in Valhalla, the brass heaven of power and decision, had taken a fancy to the concept. Or maybe someone's wife liked it, or teenage daughter, or girlfriend. God only knew. Whichever God it was. Maybe Max Bloorman himself. Maybe the head man above him.

“Don't worry,” Archer said suddenly, winking at Perry, “I think you'll get renewed.”

Then he was gone.

Perry and Ned looked at each other, trying to ascertain what
that
meant. Was the young executive simply trying to perk up their flagging spirits? Did he know something he wasn't telling? Did the fact he looked at Perry directly and not at Ned when he said it have any significance?

“Let's go back to work,” Ned said finally, “before we go crazy.”

Perry tried to work on one of the newly commissioned scripts in which Jack has a recurrence of an old herpes infection and Laurie suspects him of having picked it up from some recent extramarital sexual encounter, but he couldn't concentrate. As well as worrying about the fate of the show, he was distracted by thoughts of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday.

Even out here in Southern California some traditional ambience, a hint of roasting turkey and cranberries, seemed to leave a trace in the air, maybe only a vestigial memory, but still it was there, causing a twinge, a restlessness, a distraction. Perry got up and dropped down to Ned's for a break after an hour or so, but he was not in his office.

His secretary said he'd been summoned by Archer.

Maybe this was it.

Perry decided to wait and find out. He sat down in the little waiting room outside Ned's office and leafed through the day's copy of
Variety
, not really seeing the words, just for something to do. The moment Ned walked in he could read the disaster in his face.

Perry stood up, feeling dizzy.

“They dumped us, huh?” he asked, wanting to know the worst at once.

“No,” Ned told him. “You got renewed. I'm the only one who was dumped.”

Perry followed Ned into his office as the former executive producer began to empty his drawers, stacking papers on top of his desk, sorting and throwing some things in the waste-basket.

“This is crazy,” Perry said. “There can't be any show without you.”

“The network thinks otherwise. They think I'm not cut out to produce hard stuff.”

“Bullshit! You're the only one who can do it and keep some quality, too. If you go, I go.”

“Don't do anything rash. After all, it's your show.”

“Not anymore, it's not. It belongs to Archer Mellis and the network as far as I'm concerned. And I'm going to tell him so right now!”

He told him so.

Archer told Perry to sit down.

“You can't leave the show,” Archer said calmly. “You're the new producer.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Who else knows the show as well as you? Who else could step in and take over?”

“But I'm a writer.”

“Now you'll be a writer-producer. What the Guild calls a ‘hyphenate.'”

Yes, Perry had heard about multitalented men who rose from the ranks of mere writers to become writer-producers or writer-directors. It was like being a double threat. And of course it meant more money. More power.

“I guess I'm shocked,” Perry said. “I wasn't expecting this.”

“Think it over.”

“Yes, I'd like to do that. Can I have a little time?”

“You can let me know first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Perry said.

Perry stuck one hand casually in the pocket of his silk-lined safari jacket, turned slightly to his left and lifted his chin.

Snap
.

What a picture.

It was only his image in the full-length mirror in his bedroom, yet it seemed so perfect, so
apropos
, that he heard in his mind the quick snap of a shutter, imagined the photo, black and white and grainy on the printed page of a newspaper—the Entertainment section, say, of the L.A.
Times
, with identifying caption:
THE PRODUCER
.

He turned again, full profile now, and sucked in his gut. There was still a bit of a bulge, a reminder of his past, undisciplined life as a civilian. He would have to work on that. He was a leader now. He had to set an example. He smiled, wryly, not at all displeased, seeing himself now in full color on a slick magazine page—
People
, perhaps?

He was, after all, quite a story.

“The Transformation of Perry Moss.”

From wimpy academic to powerful producer. In less than a year. Perry pictured a comic strip showing shy Professor Grimsby surreptitiously ducking into a telephone booth, quickly changing out of his ragged tweeds and rep tie into a silk-lined combat suit with a gold chain and emerging tan and trim as Darryl diLorenzo, movie producer.

Perry turned back full face to the mirror and crossed his arms over his chest, cocking his head and admiring who he was, what he had become.

A Hollywood Producer.

“
Betrayer, you mean
.”

It was Jane's voice, clear as a bell. It was so real that Perry went out and looked around the living room, just to make sure she hadn't flown in to surprise him as some kind of joke, or maybe to express her anger about his replacing the man he once so esteemed. That's how she'd feel, of course, simply because she refused to understand how things worked out here. Perry went back and looked in the mirror again. He took a deep breath and stood up tall, taller, staring in his steely blue eyes, direct and unashamed.

Of course he felt badly about taking Ned Gurney's place, but if he didn't somebody else would. They could still be friends. It was nothing personal, it was business. Show business. It was dog-eat-dog and you better watch out for yourself. Perry gave himself a knowing wink in the mirror, then said aloud the simple slogan that was all he needed or wanted to live by in his powerful new incarnation as a hyphenate, a Hollywood writer-producer: “Go for it.”

Off and running.

Archer announced over coffee in his office that he and Perry were due at the network later that morning to view the last episode of “First Year” with none other than Max Bloorman and the East Coast brass! They were out here making heavy decisions and thought so much of this show's potential they were willing to take an hour out of their valuable time to give the producers their own notes and comments
while they watched
. It was a unique opportunity. Archer suggested they take along Hal Hagedorn, whom he'd promoted to the post of story editor, now that Perry would not have time for his work with writers in his old role of story consultant. Perry agreed that Hal was the ideal choice, though he kind of wished Archer had asked his opinion first. No use nit-picking, though, things were rolling now. The East Coast brass would be waiting.

Perry assumed that the New York executives probably enjoyed their sorties to the Coast, and perhaps had worked this one in as part of their Thanksgiving holiday. He figured they would be in that kind of mood, shedding some of their Eastern burdens along with their three-piece suits for a week or so to relax and refresh themselves in this brighter and lighter landscape.

He was wrong.

It may have been the day before Thanksgiving, but Max Bloorman and his men were not on any kind of holiday. They wore dark suits with plain, dull ties, and reeked of cigar smoke, cologne, and power. Jowly and glowering, they spoke in growls, reminding Perry not so much of New York businessmen as members of the Soviet Politburo.

Bloorman himself, with his shiny bald head looming above his black suit, his bushy steel-gray brows hooding blank eyes underlined with deep purplish folds of flesh, might surely have been cast as a senior official of the KGB. His principal sidekick, Otis Runcible, was a small, immaculate man with black hair slicked straight back from his brow and an expression of grim deliberation reminiscent of the late Lavrenti P. Beria.

Perry was relieved when the grumbled introductions were over and the lights went out in the network's executive screening room. He figured if this episode on Jack and Laurie battling acid rain could get a human sigh out of these guys it could be subtitled “The Miracle Worker.” He was not surprised when the only sound that came from the executives during the show was sporadic outbursts of coughing brought on by the inhalation of their heavy cigars.

When the lights went on, Max Bloorman and his men, who were seated at the front of the screening room, did not even bother to look back at the film's producers when they delivered their devastating notes. Hal, Perry, and even Archer had to lean forward to hear the snide and cutting comments that came from the powerful men down front, aimed at the ceiling like some of the smoke they blew. The show seemed to them “too soft,” too “candy ass,” there were scenes that were “chickenshit” and lines of dialogue as well as performances and direction that were “half-assed” and “pissy-ant.”

“Too many eggheads,” said Bloorman. “Especially that faggy professor.”

“You mean Laurie's father?” Perry asked.

Lon Ridings, the actor who played that role, was a former Broadway cohort of Ned Gurney's, and probably the finest, most brilliant actor on the show.

“Her husband's one prof too many as it is,” said Bloorman. “You should make her pop a cop. Get some guts in this show.”

“Well, he can't give up his tenure now and join the town police force,” Perry said.

“Why not?” asked Bloorman. “It would give him some balls.”

“Max, I think the cop is a great idea,” said Archer Mellis. “What if Jack's father is a cop?”

“Jack's father is a lawyer,” Perry said.

Archer gave him a dirty look.

“We haven't seen him yet. He could be a cop, and move into town—maybe even move in with his son and his daughter-in-law and her family.”

“Go for it,” said Bloorman.

He stood up, got out a handkerchief, and blew his nose. He looked at the handkerchief, stuffed it back in his pocket, and walked toward the door without a word, his henchmen following.

“Thank you so much—this was invaluable,” Archer called after them.

Perry, in despair as well as anger, called to the powerful executive.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bloorman, but is there anything you like about our show?”

Bloorman turned and stared at Perry, looking him up and down as if he were a street bum who had just begged for a dime.

“We renewed it,” he said, spitting out the words like the annoying bits of cigar tobacco that flecked his big, fleshy lips. Then he pushed on out the door, his troops following.

Perry was happy to accept Ned Gurney's gracious invitation for Thanksgiving dinner. He felt he could use a little of Ned's style of “civilization” after that session with Max Bloorman and the East Coast brass. Jesus. They sounded like a rock group. Heavy Metal. Perry wished Ned had been there, had got red in the face and given those guys a piece of his mind. Perry had the producer's outfit but he didn't yet seem to know how to wield what should be his power. He was already feeling lonely without Ned out there in front of him.

It was a bright, warm day in the seventies, so Kim served the buffet of turkey with cranberries and all the trimmings right out on the patio. They had decided at the last minute to put on this spread and have people over instead of going into hiding after Ned's shocking dismissal.

Mostly there were actor and actress friends. Evidently Ned felt now that he was not doing the show he could socialize with them, including Lon Ridings from the “First Year” cast. Lon needed the company, and some good holiday cheer, having already been informed by Archer that he wouldn't be renewed for the next block of shows since the role he played was being written out. Perry was also pleasantly surprised to see Ronnie Banks, the talented young actor whom they all had wanted to get the role of Jack but was vetoed by the network. They had had him back for a one-shot role as a grad student friend of Jack and Laurie, and he did beautifully with the small part. Evidently Ned wanted him for a role in
Spoons
if that fantasy movie ever became a reality.

Perry felt a sudden wrench, like a blow in the side, thinking of Jane. Their last Thanksgiving was the best he'd ever had. All his adult life he'd complained about the programmed nature of the turkey-with-all-the-trimmings traditional meal, lamenting that he couldn't give thanks by having his own favorite fare of steak and baked potato, and last year Jane had surprised him by serving a fabulous porterhouse with baked potato, sour cream and chives, a Waldorf salad, chocolate mousse, and a bottle of Valpolicella, his favorite red wine (that was a year ago of course, in his pre—Napa Valley era). Having this hoary wish come true had of course put Perry in a wonderful mood, and they spent a lovely day and night, eating and looking into the fire, and making long, slow, affectionate love. He wondered where Jane was now, today. Probably at the Cohens'. Would they have any guests? Any spare men, perhaps? A visiting lecturer of some sort, one of those fey, lonely chaps from the British Isles?

Perry finished off his first glass of wine and got another. He was just as glad Liz Caddigan was in New York for the holiday with her bicoastal lover. He had the feeling that being with a woman today would simply make him sad.

Ronnie Banks and Lon Ridings got into a funny, improvisational dialogue of an Indian and a pilgrim that had everyone in stitches, and then Lon started joking about being replaced by a cop. At first it was funny but as he drank more it got a bit maudlin. Kim went over and talked with him and he quieted down.

Perry confided to Ned his fears about doing what he was doing, and how he missed his influence already. Ned was very supportive and mellow about the whole thing.

“What the hell, it's television,” he said. “Those guys are all up against the gun. It's like Russian roulette with the damn ratings. No wonder they make wacky decisions. Their own jobs are on the line.”