The Hollywood Trilogy (81 page)

“Thank you,” he said, “thank you very much. Joanne, come up here, honey . . .” and the woman who had come in during the last song rose
and went past Rick, kissed her grandfather and turned toward the audience. It was Dael's cousin, who worked under the name of Joanne Clay, an old hand on the Hollywood scene. She leaned against the piano, and after a whispered conversation with Clay and some adjustment of the gooseneck lamp, swung into “You Go to My Head,” her voice torchy and deep, her tempo sexual. Rick hadn't ever heard her sing before, she had certainly never sung in a picture, and again, here it was, these terribly talented people could have made it big in lots of ways, this was no conglomeration of lucky-break artists, this was a gene pool of sheer talent.

Rick felt a wave of hopelessness pass through him like a ghost.

After the torch song and sustained applause and laughter, Dael brought up the lights from the switch by the kitchen door, and a generalized babble surrounded Joanne. When did she get in? How had the trip been? Had they rapped?

From the general tenor of it all, Rick concluded that Joanne had been away making a picture and had arrived unexpectedly. When, after a while, they were introduced, she met Rick's eye with frank curiosity.

“He's here to sell me the moon,” Dael said.

It was decided to send the children all to bed, and the brandy bottle came out. The brandy had been passed around once or twice before, and so this round was greeted with mellow enthusiasm.

“Well, Joanne,” the old man said, “sit down and enjoy yourself. Dael, give us a song, won't you?”

Dael arranged himself on a stool in front of the piano and Stooge dimmed the lights. Grandpa stayed on the piano bench, totally out of the light, and Rick marvelled. Even just among themselves they controlled that light. The gooseneck was tilted now, and showed Dael in high-key silhouette. Philip handed him the guitar, and Dael sang one of his own tunes, “Long Sweet Love.” Rick watched Joanne out of the corner of his eye. She was extraordinary close up, wrinkled and tired, over-tanned and dry-haired, eyes that could sentence ten thousand people to death or glisten with mother love, a firm amused mouth and a chin both strong and feminine.

Rick wanted to make a pass at her.

True, she was older than he was, and probably stronger. And smarter and richer. And married. Where was her husband, Dillingham the Rich Boy? Everybody in the world knew they were happily married. Was everybody wrong, as usual? It gave Rick hope to think so.

Dael sang about passionate young love, and Rick plotted hotly against his cousin, the movie project utterly gone from his mind. Nothing could be done tonight, anyway, except let her know he wanted her. Then, if she decided to take him up on it, she would find a way. That was the good thing about a confident woman, she would find the way, and you did not have to make an asshole out of yourself.

Only once did their eyes meet during Dael's song, meet, lock for an intense moment and pass on. Rick had not put anything into his expression—it would already be there—and hers was unreadable, except for its duration. It seemed long, speculatively long, and Rick's heart leaped about in his chest.

Maybe!

As a guest in the house, Rick was politely asked if he would like to perform, and just as politely refused.

“I can't sing or anything,” he said. “And even if I could I wouldn't, in front of such massive talent.”

He made no attempt to catch Joanne's eye.

“Well, then,” said Grandpa. “Shall we call it a night?”

“Grandpa,” said Joanne, “I'd like to do a scene with you. Something meat-and-potatoes.”

“How about Shakespeare?” the old man said with a sly grin.

“Yeah,” said Eric, grinning himself. “I don't want to sit through Grandpa bellowing ‘
STELLA
!
STELLA
!' again!”

The woman Rick decided he was falling in love with and the former king of the Broadway stage stood whispering together, and finally she turned to the house and said, “We'll do Macbeth and Lady Macbeth!”

Scattering of applause, and the audience sat back comfortably to watch these two performers take all the stops out of some of the most powerful scenes in the English language. Never did a brave man suffer such doubts, and never did a woman press her luck further. Rick was terrified by the thought of the bloody dead king offstage and the horrible powers this woman had over the confused warrior.

And then to break the mood, Macbeth sat at the piano and played “Over the Fence and Out.”

The lights came up. More brandy was poured. Dael came over to Rick, who was still trying to pull himself up out of the terrifying experience.

“Time for our meeting,” Dael said.

RICK FOUND himself facing six Tennysons, all sincere, all relaxed, all polite, sipping coffee or brandy and waiting for him to explain himself. Clay, Eric, Stooge, Kathryn, Joanne and Dael. Eric seemed to be in charge but everyone asked questions about the project, its financing, the intentions of the studio in regard to Dael's time during both shooting and a later promotional tour, Rick's role in the whole matter, and some particularly intense questions from Joanne about the plot of the picture and the other casting.

Up to now, Rick realized, he had been operating mostly on charm. But here in front of these people his charm was useless. These people were charm merchants. They knew all about charm. For a wild moment he thought of the great challenge: to charm these charmers on their own ground! To wrap them around his little finger and walk out of there with a commitment!

But no. He was not man enough. Or warlock enough. Or fool enough. He played it straight, and when he didn't know the answer to a question, he would say, “I don't know,” and wait for the next. Finally, it came down to two things. The ending of the picture, which seemed, in Joanne's word, “flaccid,” with the girl giving up her fling with Dael to go back to her “old man”—again, Joanne's words.

“Well,” Rick said. “I'm willing certainly to listen to a better ending.”

Old man Clay hadn't said much, but now he leaned forward with his big hands on his knees and intoned, “But the kids will want to see Dael get the girl, don't you think?”

Eric laughed. “And Peter Wellman's agent will want to see Peter get the girl.”

Everyone had a good laugh, but nothing loosened up.

“That would seem to me to be a crucial point,” Joanne said. “Naturally, Peter's people will tell him it doesn't do his image any good to lose the girl. Next you'll be asking him to play older parts.”

“How close are you to signing Peter Wellman?” Kathryn wanted to know, and Rick had to look into those deep blue eyes and say he didn't know, pretty close, he guessed, the Boss was handling that end of things . . .

Kathryn looked at Eric and Eric looked kindly at Rick.

“Maybe we better have another meeting after Wellman's signed—hell, I'll give him a ring myself, he and Dael are good contrast . . .”

“And then you could work on that ending,” Joanne said, and the meeting was over.

Tennyson, one. Heidelberg, zero.

Somewhere along the line tonight, Rick had failed some sort of test—or tests—and the Tennysons were not going to commit their leading money-earner to a project that might not serve his best interests, a project that might falter or collapse before getting on the screen, or worse, bomb in the theaters. For the first time Rick thought of his project in terms of failure and saw how it could be: investment of millions to put the thing together—both Wellman and Dael would have to be guaranteed their salaries no matter what else happened, and so would the director, whoever the hell he was going to be—and then it could all come tumbling down in squabbles over screenplay, budget, a million things.

The floor opened up and Rick stared down into the flames. “That first picture of his was great, but you know, the old story—he went commercial in a big way and flopped.”

Flop. Like a dying chicken.

Cold sweat covered his body. Everyone could see it, even though they were talking about something else and not paying much attention to him. But that was only manners, they knew they had just killed his project.

And then Rick knew it. The project was dead.

What had the Boss said? “You nail down Dael Tennyson and we're on the way.”

He had not nailed down Dael Tennyson. And they were not on the way.

He was frozen inside this thought when he noticed Dael looking at him, making a minute gesture that seemed to mean “Let's talk in the corner.”

In the corner, Dael whispered, “You got any dope on you?”

“A jay for the road, why? You want to go outside?”

Dael winked, made a sign to Joanne, and the three found themselves out in the darkness by the cars, alone.

“Oh, good,” said Joanne. “I wanted some dope pretty bad.”

Rick pulled out his marijuana cigarette, lit it, and they passed it around silently. It was good stuff, of course, only the best for Rick Heidelberg.

“I guess the project is dead,” he said. It didn't even hurt.

“Next time,” Dael said.

“What did you want to make a cornball movie like that for in the first place?” Joanne asked.

“How come we're behind the barn smoking corn silk?” Rick wanted to
say, but didn't. Joanne was standing right next to him, he could feel her warmth. Her eyes looked at his over the hot red coal as she inhaled.

“I know how it is,” Joanne said with sympathy. “You get up to your ass in something, everybody around you tells you how good it is, nobody knows what the hell makes a hit, and so you find yourself with an armload of crap.”

Crap.
Crap
?

Yes, crap. Crapcrapcrap.

Rick laughed. “You're so right. Tell me, which test did I fail? Didn't I pet the dogs enough? Did I fail to get greasy out by the cars? Didn't eat enough helpings? Failed to applaud with sufficient vigor?”

Dael's teeth glittered in the darkness. “Naw, you smell terrible, that's all.”

“Because I know fucking well you didn't have me out here just to kick my project to pieces. You would have gone for it if what?”

“You get Peter Wellman and watch our smoke,” Joanne said without conviction.

“The hell with that. You and I all know this picture just died.”

“Whoo,” said Dael. “I'm going in and get some of them strawberries, if there's any left.”

And he was gone. Rick handed the tiny roach to Joanne and she got a last puff of smoke out of it.

She was, what, five years older than Rick. He did not know, he only knew that this was his chance.

“Let's go for a walk, all right?”

“I'd like that,” she said. “Down by the stables, I like the smell of horses.”

They walked slowly under a row of pepper trees, not talking. Rick felt extraordinarily good. He felt
clean.
When they reached a gate at the end of the path under the trees, Joanne turned toward him and put her hands on his arms.

“I'm sorry, about my part in this,” she said.

Rick didn't say anything, just leaned in and kissed her gently. She returned the pressure slightly and then moved back. This put her face in the light.

“Maybe we'd better not,” she said.

“You're right,” Rick said. Inside he was afire. Now if he could get her into his car. There was no place around there for them to go. Get her into the car. Talk awhile. Then drive down the road, anything, go to the all-night store for a quart of milk, just get off the premises.

“Walk me to my car?” he asked.

She took his arm and slowly they returned. Bodies touching. Rick felt like laughing wildly, but he kept his elation inside himself. Slowly, slowly, one step at a time, as if leading a lovely wild animal who can be spooked by sudden movement. He guided her to his car, and then said, “Let's talk, okay?”

He held the door open for her. Shyly she got in, and delicately he closed the door.

Rick walked around the car barely able to control himself. He wanted to jump and yell. The project was out of his mind now. All he could think about was Joanne.

He got in the driver's side, and with his door still open, kissed her. She responded shyly, wanting to be passionate but holding something back, some last trusting portion of her soul. He closed the door quietly and turned back to her. Her eyes glowed with a wondering and this kiss was deep and long, her lips wet and tender, her breathing growing deeper, her hands touching him, her smell in his nostrils.

“We better stop this,” she said throatily.

“Let's drive down to the beach,” Rick said, his own voice thickening.

“No,” she said. They kissed again. Rick felt an urgency. She
must
know what she's doing!

“Please,” he said.

“Maybe another time,” she said, barely able to keep the passion out of her voice. She opened the car door. Rick almost grabbed it out of her hand and slammed it again, but didn't.