The Hollywood Trilogy (89 page)

At first the wreck on Sunset had generated a lot of unfavorable publicity for the picture, and there were items in the trades and then in the Los Angeles
Times
when it was discovered that Kerry would be retained as director, and daily they all waited for the axe from New York to fall. But it never did, and they went on with preproduction.

Reporters, stringers and magazine writers kept snooping around, hoping to pry loose some interesting gossip, and Alexander decided to give them some. Jody McKeegan was in town, not working, just waiting for her part in the picture to come up on the production board, and so Alexander arranged for her to be photographed at lunch with himself and Eric Tennyson. When the photographs appeared, Alexander was not in them. It looked as if Eric and Jody were tête-a-tête and having a fine time of it. Both performers had been warned, and so there was no fuss. Eric's marriage was not up for grabs, and Jody had a boyfriend somewhere. Alexander did not inquire of her further, and she volunteered no information about her private life. Both performers were, in fact, glad the pictures were printed and the rumors circulated, because it would help the picture make an event of itself (not the easiest thing in the world) and because it took some of the heat off Kerry. Reporters would rather have a live romance—especially one that promised to do a little home-wrecking—than follow out a story that was basically already dead and gone.

When the timing was right, Alexander had the publicity department set up an interview with Eric in which he talked about his reviving career and denied the Jody McKeegan rumors. “Sure, we spend a lot of time together,” he said, “but it's all work.”

Soon a photo found its way into
People
magazine of Jody and Eric kissing and laughing at the same time. “All work?” was the caption.

It was not harmless stuff, but it was necessary, and ninety percent of the attempted publicity of this type is seen right through and ignored, so they were lucky it was being printed, and they kept it up. Alexander was very careful to be especially nice to Kathryn when she came on the set to watch her husband work, but she did not seem worried. This was, after all, not her first picture, nor were these the first deliberate lies printed about members of her family.

Alexander's next gimmick was to have a famous mystery writer, Dick
Landy, come down from San Francisco, all expenses paid, and hang around the set for a while. His article “The Return of the Hard-Boiled Hero” was printed in the Sunday
New York Times
and was a damned good piece of writing, as far as Alexander was concerned.

Week after week, the shooting went on, they carefully created an image for the picture as a major film, a work of art under the artistic direction of Kerry Dardenelle and yet a movie you would have to see just to take part in the romance between Eric and Jody, and the equally interesting romance of Eric's revived career.

Ballantine Books put out a paperback edition of
The Lady in the Lake
with Eric and Jody in costume on the cover, and so there they were, in every drugstore in America, sinking into the American consciousness well before the picture was released. Alexander felt they had a chance.

As for Kerry, he worked twenty hours a day, imparting that special importance to every scene that was his trademark, patiently shooting everything from several angles and keeping five takes, so that there were miles and miles of film to edit—a dangerous process in the hands of an egomaniac or a worrywart, but safe with a thorough and confident worker like Kerry. He also worked patiently with the performers and had a capacity for understanding and sympathy that was beyond most directors. Jody McKeegan, a notorious troublemaker, made no trouble for Kerry, and Eric was of course a master performer. Yet under Kerry's direction he found himself giving the best performance of his life. It was not the kind of flashy performance that has the crew applauding after every take, but in the screening rooms where the dailies were shown every night, the reactions were heartwarming.

Sometimes Alexander wondered why he put so much effort into a picture he had taken a pass on. There was, of course, his sense of craftsmanship. He just hated to see anything done half-assed. And, rationally, if the picture did turn out to be a disaster, it certainly would not be because Alexander Hellstrom had dragged his feet. And there was the question of loyalty. He was taking the company's money, great gobs of it, and his pride would not let him give less than one hundred percent.

And one last sneaking reason, which he didn't like to pull out and look at for fear it was true—was it possible that he had nixed
The Lady in the Lake
for personal reasons? If so, he was beneath his own contempt. No, he did not like to think about that, particularly since the emotions that might have interfered with
his judgment had subsided considerably. He still loved her, yes, but it didn't burn anymore. In a way, he regretted it, regretted that he did not have the passions of a boy, to stand in the snow outside
her
window, and die of pneumonia. Indeed, sometimes he felt sadder about his lost emotions than his lost love.

And as for Rick, well, Alexander had his standards, and Rick met and exceeded them so energetically, took his buffets with such good cheer and bounced back so stubbornly to keep the work rolling that Alexander, in his secret heart, forgave him for going over his head, and even admired him a little for being able to get to Donald Marrow, to get Teresa to form the syndicate (something Alexander simply would not have thought of), although he surely would not let these feelings become apparent to Rick. Rick was cocky enough as it was, and clearly thirsted after Alexander's job.

Alexander chuckled at the thought. Let him have the job! That would be a good lesson for him! As for Alexander, he could walk off the lot tomorrow and have a good-paying manual labor job by Monday, if it became necessary. Which it wouldn't because Alexander had plenty of the hard stuff stored away, but it was part of his pride to be mentally prepared to go back to living alone in a room and working all day with his legs, back and hands.

Alexander squirmed pleasurably in his seat, remembering the terrible pain of overworked and cramping muscles, of lying in bed in furnished rooms with the light off, feeling the throbbing of his body. He could go back to that? You're damn right!

HIS PLEASURE deepened as the audience settled down and began to pay attention to the picture. The attentiveness was a good sign. Alexander waited for the first big joke:

KINGSLEY

I don't like your attitude, Marlowe . . .

MARLOWE

That's all right. I'm not selling it.

              
KINSLEY IS STUNNED.

The audience loved it. They always love to see pomposity punctured. And the timing was good—the laughter lasted about as long as Kerry held on
Kingsley's take, and then things flowed on. Alexander slumped down in the seat as he had when he was a kid and knew the movie was going to be good.

Well, what are you?
his mind asked him. Never mind the picture in front of him—he had seen every frame half a dozen times, and the audience was completely in Kerry's hands. What about
you?
Fat-rumped, lazy, rolling over the hill, sex drive gone, bored with the perks and privileges . . . here was the perfect time of life to join ranks with the Hollywood Old Guard, those happy, smiling, cardboard millionaires who have nothing to do every day but go down to their offices and make life tough for their yes-men. “I'm writing a book, developing a property, eliminating hog pellagra, making the desert bloom; I'm having lunch, seeing my doctor, playing pinochle, getting to bed early, deflowering virgins and lying awake until five a.m., in the vast mistiness of my silk sheets, waiting for hell to define itself . . . I'm flashy at the benefit and the whole world knows my friends, I've got six cars. I'm hot stuff, with a Presidential Citation and a basement full of Krugerrands. When I walk in the front door of a restaurant the headwaiter commits suicide in my honor . . . I'm the guy who . . .
Who what?

He thought about Teresa, not here tonight, busy in New York. He knew what she and Kerry were doing when they came around that blind curve, he knew his Teresa pretty well, grabbing Kerry by his dick and whispering hot nonsense in his ear, Kerry so hot his eyes about to come out of his head. And then coming around that curve, seeing those faces . . .

Teresa, brave bitch. He wished . . . well, he did not want to wish. He wanted his life back. But that wasn't going to happen. It was going to go on
this way,
and he would dry up and everybody would start telling him how
good
he looked. Which never seemed to come up in the conversation unless you looked half-dead . . .

MILLIONAIRE SUICIDE

Unbearable Ennui Cited

Well, no, he would not throw it away. They were going to have to pry it from his fingers.

The audience was roaring with laughter, and Alexander joined them. What the hell, we probably have a hit on our hands, let's enjoy it!

Little did he know how soon he would begin the enjoyment, little did he
know. After the picture ended, everyone in the house half exhausted from the fun of it all, fools who did not know any better were crowding around him with their red-faced congratulations. Elektra made her way to him, and he bent down to hear what she had to say, putting his big paw on her tiny shoulder:

“Uh, can I stay at your place tonight?”

He looked his question and she said, “I was just hanging around long enough to see if he'd be all right. He'll be all right. You gotta hit here for sure.”

Good old Elektra, hermit crab, darting from shell to shell. “Of course, my dear,” he said fondly.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JERRY REXFORD watched Boss Hellstrom hold the door open for the exquisitely beautiful Elektra Soong, and felt a pang of jealousy. He wondered where they were going. Probably to a party Jerry hadn't been invited to, even though he was currently working on a project for Hellstrom. He knew Hollywood better now, although it continued to mystify him and always would. He just wondered why he was so terribly depressed. There was no reason for it, except perhaps the butchered movie he had just seen.

But he should have felt wonderfully elated, because the audience had loved it and the commercial prospects were rosy. Jerry was working again, had money in the bank, a reasonably active sex life, why the long face? He looked around the lobby. Here were the Harrises, Richard and his wife, Barbara, even Toby, and Helen from the donut shop, all here to see Jerry triumph, to see him hobnobbing with the likes of Eric Tennyson and Joanne Clay. And it had all worked out the way Jerry dreamed it, with Eric sweeping him up after the picture was over and carrying him into the mob surrounding the Tennysons, and introducing him to Joanne Clay, who kissed him on the cheek and said, brightly, “You're a fine writer!”

Jerry could not help sneaking a look at Barbara, across the lobby. Yes, she had seen the kiss.

Barbara was with a man in a cheap business suit that looked about fifty-five inches around the waist. Probably her new boyfriend. Jerry had to grin to himself at the image of this tub of lard huffing down Ventura Boulevard in a gigantic grey sweatsuit, trying to catch up to the woman of his dreams.

The gang from the U-court where Jerry lived had left in a body the minute the picture was done. They were not hanging around like a bunch of civilians who had never seen a movie star. They were all over at the Hamburger Hamlet having hot apple pie and ice cream. Jerry was expected to join them but he doubted if he could swallow even one mouthful.

While Jerry was bent over the drinking fountain he heard Toby's voice behind him saying, “This is the guy I was tellin' you about.” He turned, wiping the water from his chin, and saw Toby with a slim young oriental-looking kid with a hairline mustache and a bored expression in his flat black eyes. Jerry barely heard the name and forgot it immediately. The kid's handshake was limp and moist and unpleasant.

“How ya doin'?” Toby wanted to know.

“Well, you know,” Jerry said.

“The picture was swell,” Toby said without much conviction.

“Thanks,” Jerry said.

“Look, there's Helen from the donut shop,” Toby said. “You really spread them comps around.”

Jerry saw Helen by the door to the men's room with a tall, mean-looking boy with greasy long hair and a black leather jacket. The boyfriend, she called him.

Rick Heidelberg came out of the men's room, looked around, saw Jerry and headed their way. Jerry was relieved that Toby and his friend moved off before Rick got there.

“Hello, my friend,” Rick said to him. “How'd you like the picture?”

“Great, just great, Rick,” he said, looking Rick right in the eye. Rick was not his friend, and had never been his friend. “Have you seen my old lady?”

“No,” Jerry said, looking him right in the eye.

“Maybe she went out to the car,” he said. The limos were all pulled up in a row outside, and a crowd of civilians, including Barbara and her boyfriend, were watching.

Rick grinned at Jerry and punched him lightly on the arm. “You feel like shit, right?”

Jerry nodded.

“You'll get over it. Just think, in a year or so, you can sue the studio for your points.” Rick was being so charming Jerry could not help laughing. And then Rick was gone, and he turned to see Helen coming up to him, alone.