Zeroville (13 page)

In another movie, the most famous and romantic of L.A. private eyes finds himself at the beach, amid the lazy decadence of the seventies. Vikar almost can recognize the beach house where he was seduced by Margie Ruth. When the gangster’s girlfriend is smashed in the face with a Coke bottle and people in the theater cry out, Vikar is only surprised that she’s not Soledad Palladin; Vikar finally recognizes Soledad among the naked nymphs dancing along the ramparts of Hollywood faux-castles. “It’s all right with me,” the private eye shrugs, not seeming to care about anything until it becomes clear he’s the only one who does care. Three years later Marlowe will move to New York, change his name to Bickle and drive cabs for a living.

Variety
, September 24, 1974: “LOS ANGELES—Dorothy Langer, veteran motion-picture editor who worked on the Academy Award-winning
A Place in the Sun
and the Oscar-nominated
Giant
under chief editor William Hornbeck—as well as
The Heiress
,
The Barefoot Contessa
,
Suddenly Last Summer
,
The Diary of Anne Frank
,
The Americanization of Emily
and
The Greatest Story Ever Told
—has been named by Paramount Pictures vice president of cultural affairs effective immediately, it was announced today.

“In a joint statement Gulf + Western CEO Charles G. Bludhorn, Paramount chairman Barry Diller and head of studio production Robert Evans said: ‘Dotty Langer is a legend in the business with a deep understanding of both a proud tradition that dates back to Cecil B. De Mille’s
The Squaw Man
in 1914—the first Hollywood feature—and the recent winds of change that have produced such modern Paramount classics as
The Godfather
,
The Godfather Part II
,
Chinatown
,
Rosemary’s Baby
,
Paper Moon
,
Serpico
,
Lady Sings the Blues
,
Murder on the Orient Express
, and
Love Story
, on which she worked as editor. Paramount Pictures is excited by Ms. Langer’s new position and the possibilities it presents for both her and the company, and expects in the coming years to continue a fruitful relationship that already has lasted more than two decades.’”

Vikar stands in Dot’s new office. It’s less grand than he expected. “She’s vice president,” he tells the blank-looking receptionist at the front desk, but when he’s shown into the office Dotty gently explains, “Vikar, there are about three thousand vice presidents at this studio.”

“Three thousand?”

“Maybe not three thousand,” she says, “but it’s like ‘associate producer.’ In this town, if you don’t have a job or you’re not the least bit important, you’re an associate producer. At a studio, you’re a vice president.”

The office is filled with unpacked boxes and Dotty’s desk is in disarray, with no sign of the Jack Daniels bottle, although Vikar feels certain he detects bourbon. The office is small and Dotty appears smaller in a big black chair behind a big black desk. “Well,” Vikar says, “congratulations.”

“God love you,” Dotty laughs, “as our viking friend would say, you’re probably the only one in Hollywood naïve enough to believe it and sincere enough to mean it. I’ve been Hornbecked, Vikar. Like what they did to Billy over at Universal, which is one level of purgatory away from retirement. ‘Vice president of cultural affairs’? It sounds like I’m having a tryst with Chairman Mao. One morning I’ll come into the studio and my furniture will be out on the lawn. The funny thing is I was doing better when the studio was tanking four years ago. Now it’s the hottest studio in the business and I’m on the way out.” She sees the look on Vikar’s face. “Forget it. I hear you’re editing the Max Schell picture.”

“Another as well, with Rod Steiger as W. C. Fields.”

“Jesus,” Dotty rolls her eyes.

“There’s a very attractive actress in it.” Vikar can’t think of her name. “The one from
Lenny
.”

“Our viking friend is in Spain making a big picture,” Dotty says.

“He called me.”

“It’s MGM but maybe we can fix things so you can work on it in post. You probably could learn some things on a big picture like that.”

“Viking Man said perhaps a John Huston movie as well.”

She says, “You’re still vexing them, from what I hear.”

“Perhaps I’ll always be vexing.”

“It’s good for the town to get vexed now and then. Don’t worry about me, Vikar. It’s pretty civilized, really, this vice-president thing. Not that many studios would take the time to ease me out rather than just pull the lever on the trap door underneath, and the writing is on the wall anyway—all the higher-ups are devouring each other, which is what they do when they get successful. Evans is entertaining enough and I’ll make the best of it, as long as I don’t have to score his coke or deal with the crazy Germans at the top of the food chain.”

For several moments, neither of them says anything. Finally Vikar asks, “Are there any movies I should see?”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“Not a comedy,” he says.

Because Dotty doesn’t hear the “not,” she recommends
The Lady Eve
at the Vista. “Positively the same dame!” Vikar remembers from the burglar in his apartment, and is enthralled by Barbara Stanwyck and Henry Fonda’s love story of labyrinthine treachery and desire. This is a very good movie, he concludes, disconcerted only by the laughter around him.

He reads a nineteenth-century French novel called
Là-Bas
about a writer living in a bell tower in Paris. The writer becomes obsessed with an historical figure named De Rais, who at the behest of the king of France became Joan of Arc’s right-hand man. It’s not clear, even to history, whether De Rais betrayed Joan or defended her, but after she was burned at the stake he went on to become the greatest child murderer in history, leading a cult of homicidal priests. Investigating De Rais, the writer receives strange letters from an unknown woman called Hyacinthe. God I hate this book, Vikar thinks to himself as he reads
Là-Bas
in a single night; the next night he reads it again, and the night after that, each time telling himself, God I hate this book, until finally, halfway through the eighth consecutive reading, he whispers to himself, God I love this book.

When Michael has Fredo killed, it isn’t just Cain slaying Abel. It’s Abraham sacrificing Isaac, because Michael has assumed the role of father to his older brother, who has assumed the role of son. Michael sacrifices the child to the god called Family; he destroys the family in its corruptible human form to preserve the idea of Family that’s more divine, and to preserve Michael’s love for Family that the older brother has betrayed. God has love only for purity, and everything is washed pure by blood, burned pure by fire, rendered pure by gunshot.

Vikar is in an editing room on the Paramount lot one morning when he gets the phone call. The line has a lot of static and the voice on it sounds as though from the other side of the world, which it is. “… making my
Lawrence of Arabia
, vicar,” he finally hears. “Barbary pirates, bedouin armies, desert battles, Moroccan castles—well, they’re really Moorish castles …”

“You sound far away,” Vikar says. There’s a delay in the voices back and forth.

“Of course I sound far away,” Viking Man says, “I’m in the fucking depths of Spain, not far from Gibraltar. Some grand surfing, though.”

“How’s the movie?”

“I’m going to be David Lean while I’m waiting to become the next John Ford.”

“What about the other David Lean?”

“There you go getting wry on me, vicar.”

“They made Dotty vice president.”

Sometimes the lag in transatlantic response is longer. “I just talked to her,” Viking Man finally says. “Listen, vicar, this call’s expensive and I don’t know how long the connection will last, so here’s the thing. While you’re busy getting wry on me, I need you in Spain for a couple of months.”

“What?”

“Dot’s going to get you out of that W. C. Fields nonsense and I’ve set it up with the MGM front office, they’re making the arrangements. Someone will pick you up—probably day after tomorrow at the soonest—put you on an Iberia jet out of LAX, and someone will be waiting for you on the other end in Madrid.”

“I’ve been reading this book.”

“While we’re still shooting, we need to sync and assemble as much of a rough as we can if we’re going to stay on schedule. We’ll do the fine cut back in L.A. Seville is the nearest city but they don’t have the facilities so we’ll set you up in Madrid and get dailies to you there, fly them in or send them by truck over five hundred kilometers of bad Spanish roads if need be.”

“God I love this book.”

“We’ve found a cutting room we can use in the Chueca section of town. We’ll put you up in a hotel somewhere around the Gran Villa.”

“I can’t come …”

“We’re losing this connection, vicar.”

“… I’ve read this book five times and need to read it again …”

There’s a particularly long pause and Vikar wonders if the connection has broken. “What are you talking about, vicar,” Viking Man’s voice finally comes through, “is this book of yours chained to the Hollywood Sign? You’re going to be on an airplane thirteen fucking hours, you’ll be able to read it another five times.”

“I want to stay in Hollywood.”

“God love you, vicar, but you’re being a pussy. Don’t you understand?
This
is Hollywood.”

“What do you mean?”

“This godforsaken stretch of Gibraltar. The cutting room in Madrid. Paris, Bombay, Tokyo, fucking Norway, wherever—it’s all Hollywood, everywhere is Hollywood, the only place on the planet that’s
not
Hollywood anymore is Hollywood. You got a passport?”

“No.”

“Of course you don’t. Well, that’s just going to add another day or two. I’ll get Stacey or Kate or one of the girls in the Culver City office to expedite things but of course you’ll need to apply yourself, can’t do that for you. They’ll also get you a copy of the script so you can be looking at that. I wish there was a way to get you shooting boards but that will have to wait until you get to Spain. Now there’s one more thing. You still there, vicar?”

“Yes,” Vikar says.

“The Generalissimo over here,” Viking Man says, “is dying and taking his sweet time about it. There are more troops than usual in the streets and things are a bit tense and may get more so. So I’m having the girls in the front office pick you up one of those woolen ski caps nobody wears in L.A., and before you get off that plane and go through customs, I want you to pull that cap down over your head. Do you understand?”

“The General who?”

“Pull that cap down over your head, because one look at you and the officials might get irritable. The Generalissimo may not be a George Stevens man.”

Four days later, a limo is parked outside the Paramount Gate with the back door open. Sitting on the black leather backseat is a plane ticket, passport and shooting script, the MGM lion roaring in the upper left hand corner of the envelope. From the radio comes a song—
What are they doing in the Hyacinth House?
—by an old Los Angeles band whose singer died in Paris; perhaps he lived in a bell tower, in pursuit of the world’s greatest satanist, the right-hand man of Joan of Arc. Between the limo and the gate, Soledad Palladin sits on the edge of the fountain, arms folded, as though Vikar conjured her.

Four years have passed since she left him on Sunset Boulevard, but she looks at him as if they’ve seen each other every day since.

Her auburn hair is sun-bleached and she wears a simple black dress, slightly low cut, that seems more like a slip. Perhaps she’s more beautiful than when he last saw her, the small cleft in her chin more perfect and irresistible. She nods hello to him more than she says it; across the street, not far from where it was that day in the rain when he last saw Zazi, is the black Mustang. Vikar leans into the limo and says to the driver, “Just a minute.”

“This is for you?” Soledad says. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Spain.”

She looks at the car. “Right now?”

“Viking Man is making a movie there.”

“Oh yes,” she smiles, “pirates or something. A boy’s adventure.”

“They’re shooting outside Seville.”

“My hometown.”

“I’ll be in Madrid. I’m cutting a rough from dailies. Do you still see the people at the beach?”

“Everyone is busy now,” she says. “I get a small role now and then.”

“I saw you in
The Long Goodbye
,” Vikar says. He looks across Melrose at the Mustang and the girl in the backseat. “She’s gotten big,” he says.

“They do that.” Soledad says, “I have been wanting to talk to you for a while, but …” She’s lost a bit more of her accent. “About that night.”

“It’s all right.”

“What?”

“I vex people.”

Her eyes look away and she tilts her head slightly. She takes hold of her hair and wraps it around her fist distractedly. “I wonder if I know what you mean.”

“But I would never hurt her.”

“Who?”

“Your little girl. Or … do anything bad.”

She looks back at him. “I wonder if I know what you mean,” she says again, except this time she sounds like she really does.

“That night.”

“Which night?”

“In the car. When you drove me home from the beach house.” She stares at him blankly; he believes she may be most beautiful when she’s blank. “When she was in the front and I said you should put her in the back.” He adds, “You left me on Sunset.”

“Oh,” she says. “I had forgotten that. I know you wouldn’t hurt her. It had more …” She stops. “It had more to do with … other things … experiences of my own … than with you. I was not speaking of that night. I was speaking of the
other
night.”

“The other night?”

“The night,” she says, “in the cemetery.”

The limo driver says, “Mr. Jerome?”

Stunned, Vikar nods at the driver and turns back to the woman. “Did they hurt you?” he says finally.