The Bones (2 page)

Book One

Good-Bye, Babylon

Chapter 1

Four years later.

Frank sits on a buttery brown leather sofa in the Beverly Hills waiting room of Nada Entertainment paging through that day's
edition of the
Hollywood Reporter.
Nada is one of a new breed of companies that represent actors and comedians
and
produce their movies and television shows, thereby bleeding the clients coming and going. They have names like Acme, Nameless,
Intrinsic, names designed to blend, be discreet, self-abnegate to the point of invisibility.

It's ten in the morning, early for Frank given he's been up most of the night fighting with his girlfriend. He didn't have
much use for sleep lately, caffeine and blow doing most of the heavy lifting.

Nada isn't really a new company. Under its original name of De Meo Entertainment, it was the private fiefdom of one Jolly
De Meo, legendary Hollywood producer-slash-manager who had parlayed the success of a single client's awful but wildly popular
mid-1970s sitcom into an entertainment empire comprising movies, TV shows, and personal management that brought in enough
money to get Argentina out of hock to the World Bank. Jolly, unpretentious, overweight, bearded, from Brooklyn, was an avuncular
figure, beloved by his clients, whom he fawned over with a solicitousness befitting a liver en route to a transplant. But,
recently and on the sly, having experienced certain prostate-related tribulations ("I got fucked in the ass one too many times,"
he joked to the few intimates with whom he shared this dangerous information, even the
potential
for cancer viewed as a character flaw in Hollywood), Jolly had been having intimations of his own mortality, God whispering
in his ear, "Even a big swinging dick like you can't bestride Wilshire Boulevard like a Roman colossus forever."

This revelation had led Jolly into a partnership with the much younger Robert Hyler, who had answered to
Bobby
growing up in Cedarhurst on the South Shore of Long Island. Bobby-soon-to-be-Robert had come to Hollywood right out of Adelphi
University in 1982, all Sassoon jeans and Members Only jackets, a look he sustained past the years it was culturally relevant.
He had a couple of clients, one of which, a young comic who could actually act, played a doctor on a prime-time hospital show.
The show became a hit and Robert found himself on the set one day standing at the craft services table being served penne
arrabiata by an illegal alien when he heard a gravelly voice asking if the green beans could be sauteed in olive oil, not
butter. He looked up and gazed upon the biblical visage of Jolly De Meo, manager of choice to those in the comedy stratosphere.
Robert contrived to get next to him at lunch, and a year and sundry meals later they were cylinders in the same show business
engine.

A male client who had done some modeling prior to becoming an action movie star casually suggested to Bobby he might want
to consider bringing his wardrobe out of the mirrored-ball era, and Bobby, realizing the impact a more sophisticated sartorial
approach could have on his cash flow, dropped twenty thousand at Barneys one Saturday afternoon trading in the disco look
for Hugo Boss. So from the tips of his Brioni shoes to the knot of his Hermes tie, Bobby became Robert, who became the modern
Hollywood package—sleek, tasteful, a human Lexus. Jolly, seeing the future, anointed the erstwhile Bobby his partner. It was
Robert's idea to change the name of their company from De Meo Entertainment to Nada, and Jolly, whose ego, unlike others of
his ilk, was not his largest body part, signed on to the adjustment after listening to Robert explain the self-abnegation
concept.

Now Robert was more than a flesh peddler. He was a strategic thinker, a big-picture guy, a guy who read the
Wall Street fournal
and
Barron's
over his yogurt and fruit every morning before picking up
Variety
and perusing the journalistic coverage of his latest triumph. But he still handled a few clients, guys with whom he'd started
out, guys whose whiny, needy, chemically fueled calls he'd take at two in the morning to the consternation of his wife, Daryl,
who would turn her back to him and grumble (but not audibly object because, after all, what was paying the mortgage on their
5.7-million-dollar Bel Air house with ocean and city views, not to mention the preschool tuition for the twins?) as he whispered
comforting words into the receiver.

Frank has remained one of Robert's guys. They've known each other since the early eighties when Robert was a young agent hanging
around with the comics, getting high in the parking lot of the Comedy Shop, Robert always lipping the joint, too Machiavellian
to actually inhale. If most of those guys were to try to get him on the phone now, their calls would go unreturned, Robert
playing exclusively in the big leagues these days. But for the chosen few, those whose talent had led to accomplishment, cultural
approbation, and successful network shows, Robert was unswervingly loyal: cards at Christmas, congratulatory phone calls and
big hugs sincerely bestowed. Frank, however, was not a traditional success story. How then to explain Robert's continued devotion?

To those with refined taste in comedy, a group in which Robert accurately claims membership, Frank is among the most talented
of all the comics. That he has never been able to harness his ability in a way that translated into mainstream American success
did not mitigate this gift. Yet, despite the failure
{2nd failure
is a relative term since Frank has been making a good living as a comic for most of his adult life; he's just never been a
beloved star, a starry star, a star who gets his own series), Robert continues to believe in him. And when, after nearly twenty
years of working together it has become apparent Frank might never achieve the level of stardom comedy savants believe he
is worthy of, Robert stays with him out of a sense of mission, a core belief that Frank deserves the highest level of comedy
prominence. A colleague with a fancier education once told him that van Gogh had never sold a painting in his lifetime and
Herman Melville died in obscurity. Robert holds to this knowledge in his dealings with Frank because, although it is about
the money with virtually all of his other clients, he truly believes Frank Bones is an artist in the true sense of the word
and it is a privilege to represent him.

The receptionist, a stylish black woman whose wardrobe suggests an income separate from the pittance Nada is paying her, looks
up from a picture of some It Girl she's been studying in
US
magazine and says, "Robert's ready for you," everyone in show business on a first-name basis.

Frank rises, a little quickly, and feels light-headed for a moment. He steadies himself in his black Capezio jazz shoes and
walks through the double doors leading into Nada's inner sanctum; he strides down the center aisle of the Nada office past
the assistants' desks that line either side. These youthful strivers are accustomed to celebrities and only one or two of
the younger females even look up and smile as he passes by. Frank chooses not to read the indifference of the others to mean
this-guy's-barely- B-list-why-should-I-bother since no one is B-list in his own mind.

So with the purposefulness of a Golden Globe nominee on the red carpet in front of a phalanx of rabid international paparazzi,
Frank struts past the human widgets tending their phones and faxes and resentments.

At the end of the corridor is Jolly's corner office, which he has held on to as one of the perks due him, given his role as
founding father. The door is open, and as Frank glides past, he sees the old schmingler and bingler leaning back in his chair,
belly bursting through the top of his sweat suit and cantilevered over his lap, rictus grin bisecting his graying beard, an
Italian rabbi drawing on a long cigar, crooning smoky blandishments into the phone.

Jolly sees Frank and gives a distracted half wave before returning to his conversation. Frank interprets Jolly's irrimobility,
his failure to hoist himself out of his seat and embark on the pilgrimage across the office for the ceremonial hug, to mean
he must be talking to an entertainment figure of celestial status and can't possibly interrupt their conversation. The reality
is Jolly tolerates Frank mainly because Robert likes him, but lately the comic is not enough of an earner to get Jolly to
press the hold button.

Making a right at Jolly's, Frank heads down another hall, glancing in other offices as he does. Men and women, fashionable,
polished;
how corporate this world has become,
he's thinking. Then at the end of the hall, the end of the line, the place where the real power lies, Jolly's corner office
notwithstanding, the lair of Robert Hyler.

Frank walks past the assistant's desk, temporarily abandoned, and steps into Robert's doorway. His eyes do a quick pan of
the office: muted tones of off-white and taupe, large handcrafted maple desk sitting atop a capacious Oriental rug, matching
credenza and bookshelf, a wall lined with framed posters of the myriad movies produced by Nada, among them
Dad's a Dog, fohnny Casino,
and
Peer Gynt,
a property Robert got the studio to pony up for as a reward for his client, who wanted to direct it, reprising his starring
role in the sequel to the action blockbuster
Lethally Dangerous.
Robert sits behind the desk, his small body swallowed in the vastness of his baggy linen suit, running manicured fingers through
tightly curled hair as he barks into the phone.

"That he was the best man at my wedding is not relevant. If the guy is suing me for a hundred million, I have no choice but
to countersue." Robert puts up a finger indicating it'll just be a minute.

Tessa, Robert's willowy English assistant, who appears to have wafted in from a Laura Ashley catalog, is at the door, smiling
at Frank.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"I'll have a mai tai." She laughs reflexively. Frank pleased, the laughter of a beautiful woman so lovely, so exquisite, so
often a prelude to acts illegal in the state of Kentucky. As her features relax, Frank says, "Black coffee, please."

She disappears, trailing the barely discernible scent of Pear's soap.

"I dunno," Robert is saying. "The same amount, right? A hundred million?"

Frank looks up at the framed photograph of Robert with Bill Clinton on the wall behind his desk; remembers Robert stayed in
the Lincoln Bedroom when that was news; wonders how many rooms in the Clinton Library Robert financed.

"File the papers then," Robert says, and hangs up. He turns to Frank.

"Bobby," Frank greets him, never having bought into the Robert concept. "What was that about?"

"Barry Bitterman, can you believe it, is suing me for a hundred million dollars."

Barry Bitterman is a comedian whose immense wealth, accumulated in a series of deals orchestrated by the fulminating Robert,
has recently landed him on the cover of
Fortune.

"Why?"

What Frank really wants to ask is how a bowl of oatmeal like Barry Bitterman managed to get his own television show, much
less ride it for five years into the Valhalla of syndication and a nuclear bank account, but "Why?" is all that comes out.

"Because he is suffering from the delusion he helped . . . no . . . strike that . . . that he was instrumental . . . his word
. . .
instrumental
in building Nada Entertainment into a powerhouse, never mind that Jolly was doing pretty well before this place became Nada.
Okay, he fattened the coffers, but he's claiming he was the magnet that drew other talent here as if Jolly's forty years in
the business and my own small contributions had nothing to do with it. Anyway, fuck the guy. We're going to bleed him so badly
when this is over, he'll be three inches tall and living under a toadstool."

Robert takes a breath and switches from dark wizard to good fairy as Tessa floats in, places a cup of black coffee in front
of Frank, and wordlessly departs. "How're you doing?"

"I'm good."

"How's Honey?" Robert asks, bracing himself for the ritual.

"The only thing worse than living with an actress who's working is living with one who's not working." A line Frank's used
enough times to retire but it's too early in the day for him to be generating reliable new material.

"It's tough out there."

"All she booked last year was some direct-to-video thing." The direct-to-video thing is a movie called
Hot Ninja Bounty Hunters
and it features Frank's girlfriend in several full frontal nude scenes that found their way to the Internet, where they have
been among the most downloaded images of the previous several years. As a result she has catapulted to cult-figure status
within a certain segment of the home-entertainment- consuming public.

Frank has been living with Honey for nearly five years. A sloe-eyed bottle blonde with legs from here to San Bernardino, she
has been trying to make the leap from the cheapie action market to more legitimate fare, with discouraging results. That she
is turning thirty soon does not contribute to sanguinity regarding her career path, and the tensions recently arising on the
domestic front, when not caused by Frank's perceived infidelities, are often traceable to time's brutal march.

"I would think she could build on
Hot Ninja,
but what do I know?" Robert disingenuously offers, knowing plenty. He and Frank have an understanding. Frank doesn't ask Robert
to help Honey, and Robert doesn't point out that, from what he's heard, Lassie was a better actress. "She's lucky she hooked
up with you."

"She's got a lot of talent. The town doesn't appreciate her."

"But they do appreciate Frank Bones."

This artful segue moves Frank out of banter mode and into the mode where he is riveted to Robert's words as if by a soldering
iron, all without changing expression.

"Oh, yeah?"

"I talked to Harvey Gornish at the Lynx Network this morning. The boss, okay? He wants to give you a show." Robert watches
for Frank's reaction, expects to see his entire life played out in the subtle shifting of facial planes; the striving, the
sure things that became near misses, the struggles, the envy wrought by the ascent of those, like Barry Bitterman, perceived
to be less talented, the thoughts of quitting but to do what? And now . . . cool water on hot skin, pie and coffee in the
stomach of a hungry man, sweet, sweet fulfillment. But Frank remains impassive. He's been there. Expectation management.