Heartland (29 page)

Miller went on, “Sacramento and the federal government are paying two-thirds of the total. The rest is coming through local volunteer work and donations. Today's the official kickoff.”

“I heard the pastor mention something about it.”

“Yeah, they're playing it up all over town. We been promised TV coverage, papers from as far away as Oakland.”

JayJay finally caught their drift. He asked Peter, “Does Britt know about this?”

“Not yet. Miller called me early this morning out of the blue.”

“Just popped up in the middle of the night,” Miller agreed. “Like a mushroom in a manure pile.”

Cynthia said, “You might want to reconsider your comparison there.”

“What I'm trying to say is, we want you to come out and cut the ribbon on this new building project. Say a few words.”

Peter said, “I've written something you might want to use.”

JayJay said, “Derek's out there right now, isn't he? Getting his stuff in everybody's way. Turning this into a regular three-ring circus.”

“Ain't no flies on this cowboy,” Miller confirmed. “What do you say, hoss?”

“The only way I'll do this thing is if I really work. I'm not gonna have people saying I showed up to use a pair of silver scissors and then disappeared.”

Miller actually laughed. “Pardner, I wouldn't have it any other way.”

Monday morning JayJay started off in a fog. He had slept poorly, chased all night by the previous afternoon's images. Cutting the ribbon and saying his few lines had gone well enough for Britt to close after just three takes. But instead of letting him work alongside the others, Britt had come up with the idea of them taking a drive through the shanty camp. Bean Town, the locals called it. Sombrero Flats. Tacoville. The names were like blisters on JayJay's brain. The road was a dusty rutted track that crawled through a stretch of pure misery. They took Miller's SUV. Britt had JayJay squint out the open window, scorched not by the sun or the grit so much as the little faces he passed. Britt preceded them in a flatbed with Derek clinging to the back, filming as they went. All night JayJay's brain replayed the trip like he was watching those kids on his own personal theater screen. A nightmare of dust and desolation.

Four cups of coffee, a plate of scrambled eggs, and a rambling prayer for the kids and their parents left JayJay feeling like he just might make it through what would no doubt be a major day. He drove Peter and Cynthia straight from the prayer meeting to the ranch. The two bearded giants and Derek and a lighting guy and a pair of set carpenters filled the truck bed. When he pulled into the parking area and found Britt there waiting for him, JayJay said, “I feel like finding me a nice spot away from this racket and sleeping until oh-dark-thirty.”

Britt just turned around and said, “All of you, inside.”

The cabin's interior was undergoing serious renovation. Britt had proclaimed he liked the atmosphere that was building on location enough to shoot the interior scenes here as well. But this morning it was tools down, and an assembly of maybe two dozen people formed a half-circle in front of a podium. JayJay halted midway through the front door and said, “Uh-uh. No way.”

“Just listen to me a second.”

“Why don't you just paint a target on my belly and give 'em all a load of darts?”

“That's an idea. Derek, make a note. JayJay, front and center.”

JayJay looked at the hold Britt had on his forearm. “What exactly did I do to get you this riled?”

Britt led him up to the podium. “Look down at your feet, JayJay. Four yellow marks. Each with a number. One, two, three, four. Same as on your talk. See where I've labeled the script? Big blue numbers. Even a cowboy like you can see numbers that big.”

“You're enjoying this.”

“Just listen to me. Tonight you're going to stand in front of as many locals as that hall can hold. How many people did we figure on, Derek?”

“Eleven hundred, maybe twelve if they stand in the loft.”

“Twelve hundred people. Coughing, hacking, kids crying. It's going to be hot and stinky. They're going to be there for a party. The cameras will play this serious. But you've never worked with extras. I have. And I'm telling you, when you hit the big climax, some joker in the second row is going to be drilling in his nose like he's looking for oil. A small-town rebel will scratch himself and yawn 'til his jaws pop. Three teenage girls on the front row will have a giggle fit and do their best to distract you. We're going to shoot maybe ten takes. They'll be squirming like worms in rayon and hiking boots.”

“I'm glad you're telling me all this,” JayJay snapped back. “Seeing as how I wasn't the tiniest bit worried about it before now.”

Britt said, “What we're going to do here is work you. These people have been ordered to get up and go have a cup of coffee and a doughnut and a stretch in the kitchen over there. And then saunter back in here and sit down. Lean against the walls. Do whatever they want, long as they don't make noise.”

“They're gonna hate me.”

“Not a chance. I'm
paying
them for this. Work has stopped on the set so you can get used to giving emotion to an audience that doesn't much care what you've got to say. Derek is going to light it. We might even film a couple of takes, in case we have to splice in a word or erase somebody's belch. Which means your little audition is costing the studio somewhere in the neighborhood of six thousand dollars an hour. Do you get my drift, JayJay? Tonight's scene is
pivotal
. Right, Peter?”

From the back wall, the scriptwriter confirmed, “You'll be declaring who you are. To the town and the audience.”

JayJay had the sense to understand Britt wasn't talking just to him. He had set this up so that the audience would hear and understand the stakes. JayJay studied the director. The weary stains beneath Britt's eyes grew deeper with every passing day. He wore an old Air Jamaica T-shirt and baggy khakis, boat shoes and no socks. A man far too busy and weighed down to care what came up first in his pile of clean clothes.

Britt said, “In theater parlance it's called the star's soliloquy, JayJay. We'll be moving into act two and hopefully taking the audience with us. All because of what you've got to say.”

Chapter 32

T
he word Martin Allerby liked best to describe the Hollywood spots was
seasonal
. Being Hollywood, he was not referring to a period measured in months. After all, when it came to weather Southern California had only two real seasons—rain and smaze. No, by “seasonal” Allerby meant that either a player was powerful enough to hit the right spot at the right time, or they joined the cattle call of wannabes.

The Polo Lounge at the rear of the Beverly Hills Hotel was a perfect case in point. Since the extensive renovations of several years back, the place had resumed its position as the premier watering hole for behind-the-camera players. Writers, producers, studio execs, directors, senior agents, they
owned
this spot.

But the allure lasted only from twelve thirty to two. Ninety minutes. Which, given the nature of the game they were all playing, held an ironic ring.

During the lunch rush, tables were allotted according to power. The darker booths along the wall leading from the bar to the main restaurant were restricted to serious power. Allerby had spotted three other greenlight guys when he arrived. But Allerby was showing up as they were leaving. Which meant his booth had remained
empty
during the entire lunch crush. The vacuum had drawn gazes from all over the hotel. To have the power to book a
booth
, and know the maître d' would hold it until whenever, that was some serious juice.

His two guests arrived fifteen minutes after he had slid into the booth, long enough for Allerby to greet those he cared to notice, order, and return a couple of calls. Milo Keplar showed up first. The studio's director of sales knew Allerby well enough not to question his timing. Then Leo Gish arrived. Before the man arrived at the booth, Martin knew his plan was playing out exactly as desired.

Gish was so taken with the scenery he got his legs wrapped around his briefcase and almost landed face-first on the marble floor. Except the maître d', who was accustomed to first-timers dropping their glasses or teeth and tripping over their tongues, was there to steer him into the booth.

And it wasn't the potted palms and matching mint-green drapes that captured the lawyer's eye.

During the lunch crush, flocks of would-be starlets chirruped inside the hotel lobby. They pretended to indulge in conversations deep as their respective cleavages. They tossed heat-seeking gazes in the direction of power players coming and going. They bribed whomever they could with whatever they had to take the first empty booth. They made their stroll behind the maître d' a version of the Gucci catwalk. They took it slow, they drew every light in the room, and they
shone
. As the power guys gradually departed for the set or the office or the next viewing, the place became packed a second time. Every emptied table instantly refilled. They toyed with coffees or mineral waters, all most of them could afford. They regaled one another with tales of other wannabes who had found their big break crossing the Polo Lounge. Soon as they were certain the last power guy was gone, they flittered away, migrating to the next watering hole.

Seasonal.

Leo Gish punched his chest like he needed to kick-start his heart. “Are you
believing
this?”

The collection of beauty was overwhelming. America's finest, youngest, fittest, most perfect specimens of feminine allure. Table after booth after bar stool. Models, beauty queens, actresses one chance away from the big time. Anywhere else, each one of them would have stopped traffic. Here, they were just background.

Hollywood.

As though on cue, a svelte brunette with a perfect patina of freckles across her cheeks waltzed over. She had eyes of cobalt blue, a spray-painted dress, and lips ready to cry with delight. Leo Gish made a choking sound when he realized she was taking aim for them. “Mr. Allerby? I'm Hannon Hartley, you won't remember me, but we were introduced when I had a part in—”

“
Doctor's Orders
. Of course. The baby nurse. How are you?”

She beamed with the delight of being remembered. “A lot better
now
, Mr. Allerby.”

“Meet my guests. Milo Keplar, our director of sales. And Leo Gish”— he hesitated a fraction for emphasis—“our newest member of the Centurion board.”

He could not believe it. The girl actually shivered. Martin would have laughed out loud, were it not for the effect she was having on Leo. “
Congratulations
, Mr. Gish. That is so
awesome
. And Mr. Keplar, I've heard about you for years. This is
such
a pleasure. I can't tell you.”

“We're in the process of planning a new series. Why don't you give Casting a call. Tell them I said to have you in for a test.”

For an instant he feared he had overplayed it, that she was going to actually crawl into the booth with them. “
Wow
, Mr. Allerby, I don't know
what
to
say
.”

“Thanks for stopping by, Hannon.”

Only when she had returned to her table did Leo return from his fantasy trance. “How can you stand this?”

Milo answered for them both. “It's like a buffet, Leo. Mildly interesting, long as you don't overindulge. Then it becomes a distraction and gives you heartburn.”

Allerby carefully refolded his napkin and set it aside. “I thought this would be a good place to let you in on our little secret, Leo. First, you have to understand this is strictly confidential. You, Milo, myself, and our secret investor. Those are the only players in the know.”

Leo forced his gaze away from the playing field. “What is it?”

“Centurion's first new series, tied from the outset to a major feature.” Allerby outlined their plan for the new reality show,
Vegas Strippers
.

Milo took over when Allerby finished. “We could cast the whole thing right here, wouldn't you say, Leo? And as an active member of the Centurion board, you'd have serious sway over any such decisions.”

Allerby let him digest that for a moment, then turned up the flame. “What we need to know is, when are we closing?”

“Carter Dawes has had the documents for five days. I've phoned the ranch every morning, as per his instructions. That desiccated manservant of his keeps telling me to call back.”

Carter Dawes lived on a ranch in the Ojai Valley, one Martin had seen only through stills taken by his PI. Dawes had never invited him out. Which rankled only mildly. Martin had no interest in Ojai except for all the viewers hooked to the small screen. Martin knew about Dawes' manservant, however. Since his wife had died five years back, Dawes had used the old rancher as driver, butler, and cook. The two old men lived out there alone. Martin had been rebuffed by the taciturn rancher so often he had stopped calling.

“Leo, look at me.” When the attorney reluctantly turned his attention back the table, Martin revealed a bit more of the flame. “Do I need to tell you how easy it is for a deal like this one to go south?”

“What do you want from me?” The guy actually whined. “I can't sign the documents myself.”

“It's taken us five years to get this far. We've finally gotten the investors lined up. But this won't keep. We have a project that could turn on us at any minute. A thousand things could go wrong.” Allerby got in close. Gave him a taste of the rage he had been banking up for the past seven days and seven sleepless nights. “We are
inches
from losing
everything
.”

Gish was sweating badly. “I'm his attorney, not his boss.”

“I don't care what you have to do. I don't care who you have to
murder
. I want you to get out there and
close this deal
.”