Hollywood (10 page)

3 or 4 weeks went by.

The phone rang one night. It was Jon.

“How are you? How is Sarah?”

“We’re all right. Are you alive?”

“Yes. And so is
The Dance of Jim Beam
. Francine Bowers read the script and loved it. She even took a cut from her usual salary to do it. Jack did too, but don’t tell anybody.”

“No, but why these cuts?”

“We’re dealing with Firepower Productions, Harry Friedman and Nate Fischman. They cut a hard deal but everything’s signed. There was a snag because Jack’s agent demanded a ‘Play or pay’ clause in the contract.”

“What’s that?”

“That means Jack must get paid whether the film is made or not. Most big stars have ‘Play or pay’ in their contracts.”

“It’s hard to believe there’s going to be a movie.”

“Tom Pell had a lot to do with it when he offered to do the thing for a dollar. It gave the project some credibility.”

“I wish we had Tom...”

“Well, he helped. When Jack heard Tom wanted to do it for a dollar, then he got interested. Firepower got interested. We got lucky.”

“You know what Lippy Leo Durocher said?”

“Who’s that?”

“An old-time baseball player. He said, Td rather be lucky than good.’ “

“I think we’re lucky
and
good.”

“Maybe. But who are those Firepower guys?”

“They’re new in Hollywood. They’re outcasts. Nobody knows what to make of them. They used to make exploitation films in Europe. They arrived overnight and began making movies by the score, one after the other. They are hated by everyone. But they deal, although they deal hard.”

“At least they took
Jim Beam
.”

“Yes, when nobody else would. They have this big building in North Hollywood. I walked into the office and there was Harry Friedman sitting there. ‘You got Bledsoe and Bowers?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘We’ve got a movie.’ ‘But don’t you want to read the script?’ I asked him. ‘No,’ he said.”

“Interesting man.”

“Hollywood hates him.”

“Too bad...”

“You should see him. A very heavy man. By the way, he’s having a birthday party at this place Thursday night. You and Sarah should come. His partner Nate Fischman will be there too.”

“We’ll be there. Give me the directions...”

Within ten minutes the phone rang again.

“Hank, this is Tim Ruddy, I’m one of the producers of
Jim Beam
.”

“You work for Firepower?”

“No, I work with Jon. We are co-producers. Me and Lance Edwards.”

“Oh...”

“Anyhow, do you know Victor Norman?”

“I’ve read his books.”

“Well, he’s read you too. He’s writing and directing a film for Firepower. And he’s going to the party. Wants to know if you’ll drop off at the Chateau Marmont to meet him, then you can go together.”

“What’s his suite number...?”

That Thursday we drove up to the Chateau Marmont. The valet took our car and we moved toward the entrance. A smiling, partly bald man was waiting. It was Tim Ruddy. Introductions went around and then we followed him in. Victor Norman answered our knock. I liked his eyes. He looked calm and knowing.

Introductions. Sarah was looking fine. Norman beamed at her.

I shook hands with him, said, “The barfly meets the champ.”

He liked that.

Victor Norman was perhaps the best known novelist in America. He appeared on TV constantly. He was glib and deft with the word. What I liked best about him was that he had no fear of the Feminists. He was one of the last defenders of maleness and balls in the U.S. That took guts. I wasn’t always pleased with his literary output but I wasn’t always pleased with mine either.

“They gave me the largest suite in the place at a cut-rate. Good advertising, they said. But anyhow Firepower’s picking up the tab.”

We followed him out on the balcony. A hell of a view of a hell of a town.

It was chilly out there.

“Listen, man,” I asked, “don’t you have anything to drink around here?”

We followed Victor back into the vast connecting rooms. In there you felt protected from everything. A fortress of security. Nice, nice.

Victor came out holding a bottle of wine.

“I’ve got some wine but not an opener around...”

“Ah, god,” I sighed. An amateur drunk.

Victor Norman was on the phone: “We need an opener. A corkscrew...Some more wine...A few bottles of...”

He looked at us.

It took the wine some time to arrive.

“I’m making two movies for Firepower. I’m writing and directing one. I’m
acting
in the other. Jon-Luc Modard is directing. I hope I can get along with him.”

“Good luck,” I said.

There was some minor conversation. Then Victor told us how he met Charlie Chaplin. It was a good, wild and funny story.

The wine arrived and we sat down. Sarah and Tim Ruddy got to talking. Sarah sensed that Tim Ruddy was feeling left out and was trying to cheer him up. Sarah was good at that. I wasn’t so good at that.

Victor looked at me. “You doing anything now?”

“Fucking with the poem.”

Victor looked a touch sad.

“They gave me a million dollars to write my next novel. That was a year ago. I haven’t written a page and the money’s gone.”

“Jesus.”

“Jesus won’t help.”

“I’ve heard about your alimony, all those x-wives...”

“Yeah.”

I moved my glass toward him. It was empty. He refilled it.

“I’ve heard about your drinking...”

“Yeah.”

“What’s those things you’re smoking?”

“Beedi’s. From India. The lepers roll them.”

“Really?”

The wine poured and time passed.

“Well, I guess we better head for the party,” said Victor Norman.

“We can take my car,” I said to Victor.

“O.K.”

We went downstairs. Tim Ruddy wanted to take his own car.

The valet brought my car around. I tipped him and Victor and Sarah got in. I pulled out and around and headed for Harry Friedman’s birthday party.

“I’ve got a black BMW too,” said Victor Norman.

“Tough guys drive black BMW’s,” I said.

We were a little late for the party but there still weren’t very many people there. Victor Norman was seated a few tables away from ours. After Sarah and I were seated the waiter came with our wine. White wine. Well, it was free.

I drained my glass and nodded the waiter over for a refill.

I noticed Victor peering at me.

People were gradually arriving. I saw the famous actor with the perpetual tan. I’d heard that he went to almost every Hollywood party, everywhere.

Then Sarah gave me the elbow. It was Jim Serry, the old drug guru of the 60’s. He too went to many of the parties. He looked tired, sad, drained. I felt sorry for him. He went from table to table. Then he was at ours. Sarah gave a delighted laugh. She was a child of the 60’s. I shook hands with him.

“Hi, baby,” I said.

Quickly it began to get crowded. I didn’t know most of the people. I kept waving the waiter in for more wine. He then brought a full bottle, plopped it down.

“When you finish that, I’ll bring another.”

“Thank you, buster...”

Sarah had wrapped a little present for Harry Friedman. I had it in my lap.

Jon arrived and sat at our table.

“I’m glad you and Sarah could make it,” he said. “Look, it’s filling up, this place is full of gangsters and killers, the worst!”

Jon loved it. He had some imagination. It helped get him through the days and the nights.

Then a very important looking man walked in. I heard some applause.

I leaped up with the birthday gift. I moved toward him.

“Mr. Friedman, happy...”

Jon rushed up and grabbed me from behind. He pulled me back to the table.

“No! No! That isn’t Friedman! That’s Fischman!”

“Oh...”

I sat back down.

I noticed Victor Norman staring at me. I figured he would let up in a while. When I looked again, Victor was still staring. He was looking at me as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“All right, Victor,” I said loudly, “so I shit my pants! Want to make a World War out of it?”

He glanced away.

I got up and looked for the men’s room.

Coming out I got lost and went into the kitchen. There was a busboy there smoking a cigarette. I reached into my wallet and got a ten. I gave him the ten. I put it in his shirt pocket.

“I can’t take this, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“Everybody else gets tipped. Why not the busboy? I always wanted to be a busboy.”

I walked off, found the main room again and the table.

When I sat down Sarah leaned over and whispered, “Victor Norman came over while you were gone. He says that it’s very nice of you that you haven’t said anything about his writing.”

“I’ve been good, haven’t I, Sarah?”

“Yes.”

“Haven’t I been a good boy?”

“Yes.”

I looked over at Victor Norman, got his attention. I gave a little nod, winked.

Just then the real Harry Friedman walked in. Some rose to their feet and applauded. Others looked bored.

Friedman sat down at his table and the food was served. Pasta. The pasta came around. Harry Friedman got his and went right in. He looked like an eater. He was wide, yes. He was in an old suit, his shoes were scuffed. He had a large head, big cheeks. He shoved that pasta into those cheeks. He had large round eyes and the eyes were sad and full of suspicion. Alas, to live in the world! There was a button missing from his wrinkled white shirt, near his belly, and the belly pushed out. He looked like a big baby who had somehow gotten loose, grown real fast, and almost turned into a man. There was charm there but it could be dangerous to believe in it—it would be used against you. No necktie. Happy birthday, Harry Friedman!

A young lady came in dressed as a cop. She walked right up to Friedman’s table.

“YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!” she screamed.

Harry Friedman stopped eating and smiled. His lips were wet from the pasta.

Then the lady cop took off her coat and then her blouse. She had huge breasts. She shook her breasts under Harry Friedman’s nose.

“YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!” she screamed.

Everybody applauded. I don’t know why they applauded.

Then Friedman motioned the lady cop to bend over. She bent close and he whispered something into her ear. Nobody knew what it was.

You take me to your place. We’ll see what happens?

You forgot your club. I’ll take care of that?

You come see me. I’ll get you in the movies?

The lady cop put her blouse back on, her coat back on, and then she was gone.

People came up to Friedman’s table and said little things to him. He looked at them as if he didn’t know who they were. Soon he was finished eating and was drinking wine. He did well with the wine. I liked that.

He really went for the wine. After a while he went around from table to table, bending over, talking to people.

“Christ,” I said to Sarah, “look at that!”

“What?”

“He’s got a little piece of pasta hanging out of one side of his mouth and nobody is telling him about it. It’s just
hanging
there!”

“I see it! I see it!” said Jon.

Harry Friedman kept walking from table to table, bending over, talking. Nobody told him.

Finally, he got closer. He was a table or so away from ours when I stood up and walked over to him.

“Mr. Friedman,” I said.

He looked at me from that big monster baby face.

“Yes?”

“Hold still!”

I reached out, got hold of the end of the pasta and yanked. It came away.

“You been walkin’ around with that danglin’. I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

“Thank you,” he said.

I went back to our table.

“Well, well,” asked Jon, “what do you think of him?”

“I think he’s delightful.”

“I told you. I haven’t met anybody like him since Lido Mamin.”

“Anyhow,” said Sarah, “it was nice of you to clean that pasta off his face since nobody else had the nerve to. It was very nice of you.”

“Thank you, I am a very nice guy, really.”

“Oh yes? What else have you done that is nice lately?”

Our wine bottle was empty. I got the attention of the waiter. He scowled at me and moved forward with another bottle.

And I couldn’t think of anything nice that I had done. Lately.

Pre-production had begun.

Things seemed to go well.

Then the phone rang. It was Jon.

“We’re in trouble...”

“What is it?”

“Friedman and Fischman...”

“Yes?”

“They want to get rid of my co-producers, Tim Ruddy and Lance Edwards...”

“I met Ruddy, not Edwards...What goes?”

“These guys have been working with me a long time on this film. They’ve put in time and money. Now Friedman and Fischman want to dump them. I’m being pressured from all directions. Everybody has taken a pay cut. And Firepower is in real trouble. The SEC is investigating them. Their stock was up to 40, now it’s selling at 4...”

“Uh huh.”

“ ‘Get rid of those guys,’ they tell me. ‘We don’t need them!’ ‘But,’ I tell them, ‘I need them...’ ‘Why do you need them?’ they ask me, ‘Aren’t we as good as they are?’ ‘But they are in the contract,’ I tell them. ‘You signed the contract.’ ‘You know what a contract is?’ they ask me and then they tell me, ‘A contract only is something to be
renegotiated
!’”

“Jesus...”

“These guys are squeezing and pressuring, squeezing and pressuring .. . And they are going to squeeze until there’s nothing left to squeeze...Already I’ve agreed to shoot the movie in 32 days instead of 34. The budget has been cut again and again...They don’t like my sound man...They don’t like my cameraman...They want somebody cheaper. ‘And you must get rid of these producers,’ they tell me, ‘we don’t need them…’”

“What are you going to do?”

“Well, I can’t abandon Tim and Lance...We have a plan. Tomorrow Tim and I are having lunch with this lawyer. This lawyer is known all over Hollywood. Just the mention of his name puts fear in the hearts of everybody. He is real, total power. And he owes Tim a favor. So, after lunch we are going to drop in on Friedman and Fischman and we are going to have the lawyer with us. Now it would be good if you were there too. Can you?”

“Sure...What’s the time and place?”

Lunch was at Musso’s. We had the big table in the corner. We had drinks and lunch. A number of people stopped by to say a few words to the big lawyer. It was true, they were all in awe of him. The big lawyer was very genteel and he wore a very expensive suit.

The lawyer, Lance and Jon planned their strategy regarding Friedman and Fischman. I didn’t pay much attention. The lawyer laid it out: you say this, I’ll say that. Don’t you say that. Leave it to me.

Lawyers, doctors, plumbers, they made all the money. Writers? Writers starved. Writers suicided. Writers went mad.

Lunch did end and we went to our respective cars and made our way to the big green building where Friedman and Fischman were waiting. We were to meet at the entrance.

The secretary escorted us into Harry Friedman’s office and as we walked in Friedman stood up behind his desk and began right away: “I am sorry but this company has no money and there is nothing that can be done. These other producers must go. We cannot pay them. We have no money!”

We found chairs about the room and sat down.

Jon said, “Mr. Friedman, I need these men, they are essential to the production.”

Friedman remained standing. He put his knuckles down on top of his desk.

“NOBODY IS NEEDED! LEAST OF ALL, THESE MEN. WHAT DO WE NEED THEM FOR? TELL ME, FOR WHAT DO WE NEED THEM?”

“They are my co-producers, Mr. Friedman...”

“I AM A PRODUCER! I AM BETTER THAN THEY ARE! I DO NOT NEED THESE MEN! THESE MEN ARE BLOODSUCKERS! BLOODSUCKERS!”

A door opened behind Friedman’s desk and out came Fischman. Fischman was not as heavy as Friedman. He ran in a little circle around Friedman’s desk. Fischman moved well. As he ran in his little circle he yelled:

“BLOODSUCKERS! BLOODSUCKERS! BLOODSUCKERS!”

Then he ran back through the door, which evidently led to his office.

Friedman sat down behind his desk. It was evident that he knew who the big lawyer was.

He sat behind his desk and said quietly, “We need nobody.”

The big lawyer coughed, then spoke: “Please pardon me, but there is...a contract...”

Friedman leaped up from behind his desk:

“YOU SHUT UP, YOU WISE-ASS!”

“I will be in touch with you,” said the big lawyer.

“YES! YOU BE IN TOUCH! YOU GO AHEAD, BE IN TOUCH, YOU WISE-ASS! YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME!”

We got up and huddled near the door. Some words were whispered back and forth, then Tim and the big lawyer left. Jon said he wanted to talk further with Friedman. I remained.

We sat back down.

“I cannot pay these men,” said Friedman.

Jon leaned forward, gestured with a hand. “But, Harry, you just can’t ask those men to work for you for...
nothing
!”

“I LOVE it when men work for NOTHING! I LOVE IT!”

“But. . . this is not
right
. . . those men have worked for
months
! You must give them
something
!”

“All right, I’ll give them 15 thousand...”

“Only 30 thousand, for all those months of work?”

“No, the 15 thousand is for
both
of them...”

“But this is impossible...”

“Nothing is impossible...”He looked at me: “Who’s this guy?”

“He’s the writer.”

“He’s an old guy. He won’t live long. I cut him 10 thousand...”

“No, he’s paid through me...”

“Then I cut you ten and you cut him ten.”

“Harry, stop it, please...”

Friedman got up from his chair and walked over to a leather sofa against the wall. He threw himself fall length upon the sofa. He looked ceilingward. He remained silent. Then there seemed to be a slight sobbing. Liquid was forming in Harry Friedman’s eyes.

“We have no money. We have no money. I don’t know what to do. Help me, help me!”

He was silent a good two minutes. Jon lit a cigarette and waited.

Then Friedman spoke, still looking up at the ceiling.

“This could be called an Art Film, couldn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” said Jon.

Harry Friedman leaped up from his couch, ran over to Jon:

“AN ART FILM! AN ART FILM! THEN
YOU
WILL WORK FOR NOTHING!”

Jon stood up. “Mr. Friedman, we have to go...”

We moved toward the door.

“Jon,” Friedman said, “
those bloodsuckers
will have to go.”

“Bloodsuckers,” we heard Fischman’s voice again from behind the door.

We headed toward the boulevard.