Heartland (15 page)
Martin Allerby smoldered his way across the hall to Milo Keplar's office.
The place had the plasticized look of a condo display unit. Testimony to how much time Centurion's sales director spent at the studio.
Keplar demanded, “So?”
“We're in.”
“And?”
Allerby shut the door. “It cost us.”
“You're telling me you couldn't handle the runt?”
“The kid is not human.” Allerby slumped into the chair across from Keplar's desk. “I got in real tight. Under his tongue there's an imprint that reads âAuthentic Dell Parts.' ”
Milo did not laugh. “How much damage are we talking?”
“One fifteen per.”
Milo might have squeaked out a
what
.
“Plus escalation.”
Milo's mouth did the goldfish thing, all action and no sound.
“Another fifty for every two points we rise in the ratings.”
Milo grabbed his heart.
“And not from when we were at the top. Where we are now.”
Milo gasped. “You didn't sign.”
“Our mini-Dell borrowed Gloria's laptop and wrote out a deal memo. Invited me to do it then or wait until he's back in school and can get his professor's input. Wait to
film
, Milo. As in, I sign or we don't do the special.” Allerby fished out a cigarette and lit up. Milo did not even protest. He was that upset. “Two ten for the special. Half up front. Claimed his man needed the funds to set himself up. His
man
. The mini-Dell left with the check.”
Allerby lifted his cigarillo. As in, what to do with the ash. Milo did not even bother to respond. Allerby walked to the window. The rain had ceased, but the sky remained gray and brooding. He opened the window and flicked. “But I got him. Oh yeah. John Junior is ours for as long as we want him.”
“That's something,” Milo muttered.
“Not enough.” Allerby's cigarillo only added to the moment's acidity. He flicked it out the window. Slammed it shut. Said to the glass, “I'm going to find a way to stake that kid out somewhere his screams won't be heard.”
They drove to what passed for downtown Riverside in Kelly's battered Yukon. The bank was where Ahn's parents did their trading. He knew they kept late hours because he handled the family's deposits. The drive was punctuated by Ahn making Kelly tell the story nine times, and laughing so hard he couldn't give directions.
When they pulled up in front of the bank, JayJay said, “Y'all have got to come in with me. I can't carry all that money by myself.”
“It's a check, JayJay.”
“Ho, ho, ho, Ahn.”
“Them zeros are heavy suckers.” He tried to give her the envelope. “Here. See for yourself.”
“It's your money, JayJay.”
“What if they discover it ain't mine. And they call the cops and SWAT takes me down. I don't want to go through that alone.”
“Hee, hee, hee.”
They were barely through the bank entrance when a voice shouted, “Hold it right there!” An elderly security guard approached with his hand on his revolver. “You can't bring that in here!”
“I told you,” JayJay said. “Even he knows this is bogus.”
“He means your knife, JayJay.”
“Ho, ho, ho.”
“Hang on a second.” The guard loosened in segments. First his hand dropped from his holster. Then his neck rose, drawing the rest of his scrawny form with it. “You're him. Ain't you. That guy.”
“Here.” JayJay handed the guard his knife. “Better take it before I do something to old funny bones here.”
“What's wrong with the kid?”
Kelly answered, “He's studying to become an agent. Agents are all crazy. It's in their contract. Come on, JayJay.”
The teller was a narrow lady with skin of polished ebony. Her face was a repository for circles. Round eyes. Big “O” of a mouth. Before she could speak, her supervisor emerged from the side office and said, “Can I help you?”
JayJay lifted his hat. “Afternoon, ma'am. I'd like . . . What do I want again?”
“Open an account and make a deposit.”
“What she said.”
The teller breathed, “You
are
him. Aren't you. The hero.”
“Helen,” the supervisor admonished. She was a large woman in rust-colored tweed who held herself impossibly erect. She asked JayJay, “Do you have some form of ID?”
“But it's
him
!” The teller did a two-step in place behind the counter. “My daughter wants to grow up and have your babies. Oh, I can hardly stand it.” She scrambled for pen and paper. “You got to sign this. Say to Larissa. With love. Sign it JayJay Parsons. She will
die
.”
“Helen, please.” The supervisor gave a proper banker's smile. “Perhaps I should help you, sir. If you'll justâ”
“No, no, Ms. Bell, please. Let me.” The teller did her best to straighten up and fly right. “You just get yourself right over here please, Mr. JayJay.”
“That's not his name,” the supervisor said.
“Actually, it is,” Kelly replied.
“Oooh, I've gone all cold. Look. My skin looks like a plucked chicken.” A glare from the supervisor sobered her. “What name should I make it out for?”
“John Junior, ma'am.”
“My goodness, you sound just like him.”
“Of course he does,” the supervisor said.
“Address?”
JayJay glanced at Ahn, who replied, “One fifteen Andeles.”
The circles grew bigger. “You don't mean . . . You are living here in
Riverside
?” Another glare. The teller bent over the form. “River-side. There. I can't hardly write the words. What amount did you want to deposit?”
JayJay slipped the envelope from his pocket, and the check from the envelope. But he couldn't bring himself to pass it over.
“Sign the back,” Kelly said.
“It's like putting my name on a lie.”
She patted his arm. “I know, honey. But it will pass. That's the problem with money. What looks like too much today won't be nearly enough tomorrow.”
“I doubt that.” JayJay signed it John Junior because it just seemed better than getting into explaining what he hadn't worked out. “Here you go.”
The teller slid the check over to where the supervisor could have a look. The supervisor said, “Well. I see. Naturally we would normally want to have this clear before we could credit your account. But in this case, since Centurion is a client, I can call their accounting department while you wait.”
“Thank you, ma'am, but that won't be necessary.”
“Yes it will,” Kelly interjected. “He's new to the area.”
“His house got burned in the fire,” Ahn added.
“Oh, you poor, poor man.” The teller patted his hand. Then realized what she was doing. And shivered. “Where are you living, honey?”
“With my family,” Ahn replied.
The supervisor said, “You're the Nguyens' son. Of course, I would have recognized you except . . . If you'll excuse me, I'll just go make the call.”
When they were alone, JayJay took the slip of paper and said, “What is your daughter's name again?”
“Larissa. Oh, Mr. JayJay, can I call you that?”
“It's my name, ma'am.”
“My daughter is going to just fall over and never get up.” She folded the paper and slipped it into her purse. “She thinks the whole world would be right if they'd just make you president for a day.”
Kelly said, “He's going to need some temporary checks.”
“No problem.” She studied Kelly. “Are you somebody famous too?”
“Not yet,” JayJay said. “But soon.”
“Oh, will you give me your autograph too?”
“Sure thing.” Kelly signed another sheet. “First time for everything.”
“Tell me about it.” JayJay waited until the teller had stowed it away to ask, “Can I make a transfer?”
“The transfer's gotta wait until the money clears. But you can write it up now.” She leaned in closer. “You look sooo much better now you've lost all that weight.”
“Do you know,” Kelly said, “I've been thinking the very same thing.”
“Even my daughter, and she's your number one fan, well, she started calling you the Goodyear Man. You know. Like the blimp?” She gave JayJay's form an appreciative hum. “But not anymore. I told her when we saw you fighting them fires, that man has done some serious work on his bootie.”
“Okay.” He turned to Kelly. “How much does one of them agent things make?”
“Agent things. I like that. Ten percent is the norm.”
Ahn slid up out of nowhere. “No way.”
JayJay pointed at the transfer sheet the teller held. “Make it out to Ahn Nguyen.”
Ahn protested, “JayJay, you can'tâ”
“You just hush up.” To the teller, “Write me out a transfer for, what's ten percent of this?”
“Ten thousand, five hundred dollars.”
“Sounds about right.” He turned to where Ahn was suddenly struggling for breath and said, “Ho, ho, ho.”
T
he Thirty Seconds that Shook Derek's World.
Even as a working title, it wasn't much. But Peter was tired. At least he was there for the moment. He was waiting to give his best buddy a ride home. Derek's car was in the shop. Again. Probably an overdose of smoke.
Eleven hours as stand-in chief cameraman had left Derek gray with fatigue. He did not even make a pretense of pulling back when Peter took the box of lenses from him. Derek just stumbled along beside him, muttering words that didn't connect. Still running through shots in his head, and not even aware he was speaking the fragments out loud.
“Derek, good. I was afraid I'd missed you.”
Britt Turner was two men. On the surface he was affable and calm and quick. Underneath, however, there was what Peter thought of as the Hollywood edge. As in, scalpel-sharp. There to slice and dice at a moment's notice. No wonder his buddy turned scared.
Britt wore the day's efforts as well. His khaki shirt was stained and his hair was matted from the headphones and sweat. “I just had a word with Larry's agent.” As in,
Heartland
's chief cameraman and Derek's boss on the set. “Larry is filming some safari in Costa Rica. When he gets back he's booked for two weeks on a shoot in Calgary. Plus, between you and me, Larry never was totally in sync with our move to high-def.”
Like a majority of senior cameramen, Larry looked down his nose at video. Film was richer, film was standard op for cinema, film gave greater depth of focus. Yada, yada. The truth was, high-definition digital required relearning an entire trade. But Derek had always felt that hi-def was tomorrow. He had learned film and he loved it. But he also devoured everything available on hi-def.
Britt said, “I liked the work you did today and so does Martin. So we've decided not to bring in a new face. Think you can handle being DP on location?”
DP, as in Director of Photography. The official title for chief cinematographer.
Derek was either numb enough or tired enough to respond calmly.
“Sure thing.”
“I think so too.” Britt nodded, the deal settled. “Have your agent contact Accounting.”
Derek watched Britt walk off. The new chief cameraman's shoulders remained bowed by an overdose of fatigue and sudden shock. He swiveled his whole body toward Peter and asked, “Did that really happen?”
“Congratulations, man. This is fantastic.”
“I didn't even thank him.”
“There's always tomorrow, right?” Peter thumped his shoulder. But not too hard. Derek might have keeled over. “Your bus has finally arrived.”
Derek fumbled for his pocket. He needed three tries to snag his phone, then had even more trouble getting it open.
“Allow me.” Peter pretended not to see his friend's eyes welling up. He took the phone and punched in Derek's home number. “Here you go.”
Peter hefted the lens case and headed for the camera warehouse. Giving his friend the gift of privacy. Smiling when he heard Derek's voice go all shaky over those first words. “Honey? Hi. No, I'm fine. Listen, I've got something to tell you.”
M
artin Allerby's house was in one of the culs-de-sac off Mulholland Drive's peak. On good days, the view was stupendous. On bad, he was often above the worst of the LA air. From the road, Allerby's house was nothing much, a single-story ranch. Five windows with wrought-iron barriers fronted the road. Garage. Tiled roof. The postage-stamp lawn and blooming hedges were as pristine as a weekly Japanese gardener could keep them. The only feature of note was a peaked Gothic-style door, banded by iron and plugged with fist-size nails.
Inside, however, the house exploded. That was the image that came to mind. An explosion of light and space. The house perched on a very steep ridge. From behind, Allerby's residence was four stories, all glass and steel and redwood. The floors were patterns of hand-cast Mexican tile and Carrera marble. The carpets were Isfahan and all larger than his front lawn. The lighting indirect. The paintings real. Allerby had bought the place the year he had taken over Centurion. He could sell it now and retire to Santa Fe. But Allerby wasn't after retirement. He was after the most elusive of Hollywood titles.
A name.
Allerby wanted to be known. Pointed out wherever he went. A man sought by the top people. A man the stars fought to work for and the critics fawned over. A man able to green-light a feature. A man the investors like Harry Solish waited nineteen weeks to see.
And one thing was for certain. Martin Allerby was not going to get where he wanted to go with projects like
Heartland
.
“I hate that show,” Martin muttered. “Every sanctimonious episode.”
Milo Keplar did not need to ask which one. He leaned against the balcony railing watching a pair of hawks ride the updrafts. “At least you're able to set other people in motion, then hole up in your office and pretend it isn't happening. I've got to go out and sell the thing.”