The Hollywood Trilogy (65 page)

But he had to do it. Out of self-defense.

Jose Gonzala did not read any of this stuff. He spent his days searching for an original property among his friends. He was determined to find a project dealing with El Barrio in a reasonably commercial manner, and for this to happen, the writer, he felt, should live in El Barrio or at least have been raised there, as Jose had.

But a year had slipped away somehow, and Rick's telephone log got shorter. Not that he wasn't plagued with telephone calls, it's just that the calls were now coming in from people he had never heard of, or from agents who did not, frankly, represent the major talents in the business. Top agents and studio heads, first-run independent producers and heavy talent were not calling these days. One day Rick realized that he had called everybody back who had called him, and that he was even with the log. There had been a time when he left the office around six in the evening, with two hundred calls unanswered.

And the overhead rolled on. Jose alone was costing him a fortune, when you added up his deal, plus his secretary, who spent most of her days sitting out there making artificial bouquets of flowers out of tiny glass beads, plus
the office rent, the rental on the hot-and-cold machine for coffee and water, and the refrigerator for the Dos Equis, telephone bill, etc. It had been a joyful moment when, a year ago, Rick had called Jose and coolly drawled out his offer, which Jose had leaped at. Rick had fancied that after a few weeks to settle down, Jose would begin his project, but alas, every script, every treatment, was somehow wrong. Fortunately, they were only paying the writers a little bit, flattering them with office space and daily conferences, but never signing a contract or paying Guild wages. Time enough for that when Jose and Rick approved the property. Then the sky would be the limit, the young novice writer would join the Guild, get an agent (if he didn't already have one) and start collecting the big dollar bills.

But somehow these underpaid young beginners did not seem to be able to come up with anything. Rick tilted back in his desk and looked up at a poster for
Gun Crazy.
John Dall with a gun. That was Hollywood at its best, the illusion beyond illusion.

Abruptly, Rick got to his feet. He did not knock on Jose's door, since it was open a crack. Jose was behind his desk in his totally Mexican office, his feet on his desk, a bottle of Dos Equis in one hand and an open book in the other.

“You're fired,” Rick said.

“
No habla Englis,
“ Jose said. He put down his beer and closed the book. His eyes betrayed no emotion. He folded his hands in front of him, his feet now carefully placed under the desk.

“It's not your fault, Jose,” Rick said, his own hands in his hip pockets. “I been running this place on the wrong basis. The lawyers can work it out.”

“Okay, fuck it,” Jose said. He grinned and held out his hand. “I've been waiting for the axe to fall for months.”

“You'll make your picture,” Rick said.

“Yeah, but I'm not hungry enough, pal.”

The two friends were delighted to discover that they were still friends, after the worst had happened. A little more conversation and Rick went back to his own office. He looked at his list of potential projects, the ones he had not yet given up hope on. To be an executive, you have to know how to make up your mind. Rick studied the list for a few minutes, and then picked one. He shuffled among the papers on his desk until he found the favored project—now in three-page treatment form. This he held in his hand. He pressed the intercom.

“Joyce, could you come in for a minute?”

His secretary came in, a wary look in her eyes. Word must have already leaked out. He smiled reassuringly.

“I want every project cleaned out of this office by the time I get back from lunch.”

She stared at him.

“We're going into high fucking gear around here,” he said.

When he got back from The Port, where he had feasted on chicken in wine sauce, all the projects were gone. He waited for Joyce to get back from lunch, reading and rereading his three-pager. Then he heard her come in.

“Joyce, see if you can get Alexander Hellstrom.”

It would be an interesting test. Rick felt excited about his afternoon for the first time in a while. Would Hellstrom call him? He would have to sit there and wait. The odds were terrific that Hellstrom, if he called at all, would do so tomorrow or the next day. But he had to wait.

How important am I?

It is not often you can find out the answer to such a vital question.

“Joyce, see if you can reach Elektra . . .”

“Mr. Hellstrom on two,” she said. “Do you still want me to try to reach Elektra?”

“Hell yes, and tell her to hold!”

Rick laughed wildly, and then had a sip of ice water to clear his throat. He pressed extension 2.

“Hello there,” he said in his deep charming voice.

“Mr. Hellstrom will be with you in a moment,” said a dry female voice. But before Rick could feel anything, the voice of Alexander Hellstrom boomed over the phone:

“What can I do for you, young man?”

“I thought we should make a picture together,” Rick said charmingly.

“You don't need our help, from the way I hear it.”

“I have to confess,” Rick said, “this one is too big for me. I'd at least like a chance to talk to you about it, give you the property to read, and then maybe we could make a deal.”

Sweat was pouring down Rick's body. Why? He did not know. There was a long silence at the other end. Finally:

“I looked at my schedule. How about lunch Friday?”

“Terrific.” Rick started to say something else, but the telephone clicked. Busy man, no time for goodbyes.

Joyce: “Elektra Soong on three.”

“I'll take it.”

“Hi, baby,” came Elektra's sleepy voice.

“Guess who just called me on the telephone!”

“JOYCE, SEE if you can reach David Novotny, please,” said Rick into the intercom. David Novotny was his agent. He wondered how long it would take David to answer his call. Probably all afternoon, but that was all right. Things were starting to roll. He would have David exercise his option on the property, called so far
Witherspoon,
a love story about a daffy young man and the daffy ways he tries to attract the girl. Needed work, but it was something any young person would be attracted to, so long as they didn't soup it up too much, or treacle it down too much.

The screen treatment had been written by a college professor of English Literature at Florida University in Gainesville, a man who poured out a constant stream of low-grade short stories, movie treatments, screenplays, teleplays, series ideas, novels and articles. His success percentage was low but his output was high, so he must have been making pretty good money. He was also represented by David Novotny, and went under a number of aliases: H. J. Cromwell was the one attached to
Witherspoon.

According to David, Cromwell (or whoever) had come to Hollywood once years ago, fresh-faced and eager, brought out by the producers of
Bonanza,
where he had sold several scripts.
Bonanza
wanted to try him out as a story editor, and set him down in a room at the Beverly-Wilshire Hotel with a failed script and instructions to “make it work” by Monday morning, when they had to start shooting. Cromwell came into the office at Paramount early Monday morning with a fine shooting script and a vicious hangover, and left Hollywood that night, forever.

Anyway, he was an old pro and would understand when they exercised their option, paid him his bucks and kissed him off the picture.

“Yes, Joyce?”

“David's office says he'll be in meetings all afternoon.”

“That was nice of them.”

“Uh, I told Elena about you and Alexander Hellstrom, was that all right?” Elena was David's secretary and a good friend of Joyce's.

“I think that was a very good thing to do,” Rick said. “I'm out for the rest of the afternoon—no, I'm in a
meeting,
” he laughed.

“In a meeting, yes, Rick.”

The office was silent again. Rick went to the ornate and expensive equipment along one wall, turned on the FM radio. There was a black station that played good stuff. He fiddled around until he got it, and then went back to his desk and began rolling a joint from the crisp sensimilla he kept in a cherrywood box in his top desk drawer. Rick was good with his fingers and took pleasure in rolling cigarettes. He looked at his handiwork, a smooth medium-sized joint, admired it for a moment while Joe Williams sang the blues, and then lit up. A thin cloud of smoke drifted into the bars of sunlight that cut through the middle of the room.

“Ah,” he said. The afternoon was his.

Joyce. Hm, Joyce. Thirty, blonde, good-looking, a little broad in the hips and slightly underbuilt in the breast department, but attractive. A damned good secretary, one of those cool efficient Hollywood secretaries who knew everybody in the business, could find anything, from a print of
Greed
to a reservation at Amelio's, in fifteen minutes, knew where all the bodies were buried, knew whom to put through and whom to put off. But of course she wanted to be a producer. Most of them, the good ones, wanted to be something else.

Joyce was married to a key grip who worked regularly over at CBS on a television series. Rick had met him once, a nice man, stocky, hairy and bland. He wondered if the guy thought Rick was fucking his wife.

Probably not, Rick thought.

There was a tapping at the door. Rick said, “Come in,” and Joyce came in and closed the door behind her, leaning on it and looking at Rick through the smoke with a tentative smile.

“I just wanted to say congratulations,” she said.

“What for?” Rick had smoked dope in front of her before, but up to now she had always refused him. He waved the joint at her in a vague gesture that could have meant anything. She smiled again and crossed the room, sitting on Rick's couch. Rick came over and sat beside her, offering her the joint. She took an expert pull at it, a double hit, and held it in. Slowly she exhaled, looking fondly at Rick.

“They want you,” she said. “Every lot in town wants you. Did you see how fast he answered your call?”

They smoked marijuana quietly for a few minutes while Charlie Parker played for them.

Joyce said, “I'm just so happy for you.”

Rick said, “Thank you. I'm so happy I could just fuck you.” He hadn't meant to say that, it was just a joke. Why had he said that?

Joyce looked down and said, “Um, okay, I guess that would be all right.”

Rick stood up, amazed, and watched as Joyce, ever the efficient secretary, opened the sliding panel without catching the corner of
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre,
checked to see that the little bed was made, gave Rick an encouraging smile and started to get out of her clothes. Rick had been wrong about her figure. In nothing but her underpants she had a wonderful body.

“Oh, just a sec,” she said, and while Rick undressed she got on the telephone and had one of the other girls cover for her. “We're in a meeting,” she said. She giggled and came into Rick's arms, soft and sweet and utterly relaxed.

“Boy, that's sure good marijuana,” she purred as they fondled each other.

Rick had to suppress the desire to say, “
I'll send you a pound!
” He did not know where to find a pound of this stuff, and besides, this was not the time to play grandee.

“Wait a minute,” Joyce said, sliding down his body, kissing his belly button lightly, “I've been wanting to do this for a
year!
” She began giving him a blow job.

That was fine with Rick. He lay back and watched her, amazed at what had been right there in the office all the time. She was good, my God, she was good, and she liked her work, letting her hair tickle him, looking up into his eyes from time to time, making little murmurs of delight. Rick responded to this kind of treatment enthusiastically, and when she seemed to have had her fill of straight cocksucking, he grabbed her and crammed himself into her with a savage grunt.

It was a terrific fuck, they both agreed afterward, and to seal the bargain they fucked again, and then later, drinking beer, very stoned and just a little zizzed, Joyce gave him the full-length slow-going thorough blow job he knew she had in her, making him come, even for the third time, with a fullness that made him cry out.

“God, I love to do that,” she said. “I love men's cocks, they're so beautiful, even when they're little and soft.”

“I can't get over how long we waited,” Rick said.

“Oh, don't worry about me, I won't make trouble. We have a good thing going here, we have to protect ourselves. This is just my way of saying congratulations.”

Later she dressed and kissed him and said she had to get back out there, ever the good secretary, sensing that he wanted to be alone.

Whew, thought Rick. What a day!