Sex and Violence in Hollywood (32 page)

Adam had turned to stone. Cold and hard and coarse. No organs, no soft tissue, just stone throughout. If he tried to move, he would shatter into a cloud of pebbles and dust.

“How about the father?” Michael asked. “Whattaya think of Kevin Spacey, huh? Women love that little faggot. You know, that’s who this movie’s gonna pull in, the fucking women. You make a movie about water boiling in a pot and put some tits in it, men will break down the Goddamned theater doors. Women wanna see something that’ll make ’em think, give ’em a challenge, something smart to talk about, and Spacey’s got that written all over his dick-sucking lips, he just brings it to the table with him. Jesus, thinking and talking. That’s all women ever wanna do. Wish they could do both at the same fuckin’ time.”

Adam had stopped breathing. No longer had lungs. Or a heart or stomach. Only his eyes still worked. A paralysis of stone. Rock on.

“Nah, what am I thinking, it’s too early for casting. Got anything on paper?”

Adam did not respond. Could not. The slightest movement would shatter him.

“Once we got a script, who knows who the fuck could be right. Hell, for all we know, it could end up being a Schwarzenegger picture.”

The name sounded like a deafening gong in Adam’s mind. He willed himself to move. Suddenly, he wanted to explode. Disappear. Cease to be. Schwarzenegger?

“He’s looking for meatier roles. Doesn’t matter, the fuckin’ Kraut can’t act, but he’s still a hell of a draw. I mean, if that piece of devil shit didn’t kill his career, he ain’t goin’ nowhere. But maybe he’s—” He froze. Put a hand on top of his head, as if to keep it from popping open. Turned slowly to Adam. “Oh...oh, Jesus, what if...what if we could get Tom Hanks? Tom fucking Hanks! He’s been talking about trying something new, something besides that Jimmy Stewart shtick of his. Shit, what’m I talking about, it’s too soon for that.”

Michael turned and charged toward Adam, open arms outstretched.

Adam wanted to jump onto his bed, bounce once on the mattress, dive headfirst through the window and shatter his body on the concrete below.

“We’ve gotta get this on paper,” Michael said, clutching Adam’s upper arms. “We can pound out a treatment on Money Shot, have it done by the time we get back. I’ll set up a meeting with, uh, lessee, maybe we should take it over to Harvey Weinstein at Miramax. That ugly fuck owes me one. And it’s got a Miramax kinda feel to it, don’tcha think? But we need that treatment. And, uh...well, it’s incredible, Adam, really, a fanfuckingtastic idea. But we’ll have to make a few changes, y’know? I mean, it’s perfect that you used us as a model. That’s what I was talking about, write what you know, and that’s what you fuckin’ did, you sneaky bastard, and you did it beautifully. This is one of those ideas where everything just falls into place, I’m not kidding, you just wait, this’ll slide out smooth as shit through a duck. But we’ll have to make the father, I don’t know, something else. People don’t like movies about people who work in the movies. Too inside, too inaccessible to the general public, they don’t understand. We’ll make him something hot, something current, maybe a...Bill Gates type? Lots of money and power. Jesus, this is incredible!”

Michael wrapped his arms around Adam and squeezed him tightly. Laughed a loud guffaw into Adam’s ear, pulled back and grinned. His eyes softened suddenly and filled with...something. Not tears. Nothing tangible. His grip on Adam’s shoulders became gentle as he frowned. “You don’t...really think I killed your mother...do you?” Michael whispered.

Adam had no tongue, his throat was gone. Had no idea what expression remained etched into his stone face. Somewhere inside his head, he screamed.

“I mean...you’ve said some pretty shitty things to me, but...that would hurt. We, uh...your mom and I weren’t getting along, you knew that, but...I loved her. More than life, Adam. She was more talented than me. God, she was a fucking artist. And everybody loved her because she was...just a good person. The kind of person you don’t find in this town. Somebody you just, right away, you just want to know her.” He dropped his arms and turned away slowly, heavily. “She just couldn’t shake the Goddamned booze and pills. Finally killed her. I told her not to go swimming.” He shook his head once. Turned to Adam again.

Adam’s eyes felt ready to shoot from their smooth, stone sockets. They were Adam’s only means of expression, the only way he could respond to what his dad had just said.

Michael became defensive for a moment. “Oh, come on! Don’t look at me like that. You knew about your mother. Everybody knew. Drank champagne like it was tap water. Took more pills before lunch every day than the entire cast of Valley of the Dolls did in the whole movie. But, she was...a force of nature. Sober or not.”

Michael rubbed a hand across his face. Dragged fingers through his beard and sighed. Looked at the expensive waterproof watch Joel Silver had given him last Christmas. “Fuck, I gotta go. Got a meeting with Cher in half an hour, you believe that?” He started toward the door, but slowly, looking repeatedly back at Adam. Smiling. “That goofy cunt’s optioned the rights to some fucking comic book character. A female superhero she wants to play. Wants to talk to me about doing the script. Sheena, Queen of the Plastic Surgeon’s Office, or some shit like that. Xena, Infomercial Princess, I don’t know.” He laughed. Stopped at the open door. “You bringing someone with you tomorrow?”

“I’m not coming.” Flesh and bone again, just like that. His voice sounded muddy, as if he’d just woke.

Michael’s face fell. “What? Why the hell didn’t you say so?” His voice rose as he went on. “That’s why I came in here in the first fucking place, to find out if you were—” He stopped, bent his head forward. Took a breath, spoke quietly. “Hey. You’ve gotta come now. We’ve got work to do, right? What the hell you gonna stay here for? There’s nothing to do here.”

“I met a girl,” Adam said.

“A...a girl?” He took a few steps toward Adam. “Well, why the fuck haven’t I met her? I mean...look, Adam, I know I’m not the best father in the world, but you’ve gotta hold up your end, too, you know? You could throw me a Goddamned bone once in a while. Fill me in a little, okay? How long have you been seeing her?”

“This week.”

“Is she hot?”

Adam’s numb lips spread into a smile as he nodded.

“Son of a bitch! Who are you and what the fuck have you done with my son?” Michael’s body rocked with laughter. “You gonna see her today? Is that why you showered?”

Adam nodded.

“Why the hell don’t you bring her?”

“She has to work. I’m going to stay here with her.” He smiled again, but did not feel it. It was not his mouth, but an alien creature squirming around on the bottom half of his face. “And fuck her brains out.” They were not his words and sounded wrong when spoken in his voice. It was something Michael would say. Something he would appreciate, which was why Adam said it.

Michael stepped over and punched Adam’s shoulder. “Goddamnit, you’re gonna have more fun than me!” His stiff index finger nearly touched the tip of Adam’s nose. “You better save some squirt for that treatment, you hear me? I wanna see a solid first draft by the time I get back. I’ll be making some notes, too. We can talk about it on the phone.” He put his palm to the side of Adam’s face. “That was the best fucking pitch I’ve ever heard, you know that? I’m not shittin’ you. I’m proud of you.” Patted his cheek hard a few times. “We’re gonna write a fuckin’ movie together! How about that, huh?” He hurried to the door again, turned back and said, “And remember what I said about a Bill Gates type.” He grinned. “You have fun. But you’ll be hearing from me in a couple days, so be thinking, okay?”

Still smiling, Adam nodded.

“See you later.”

As his dad pulled the bedroom door closed, Adam said, “Goodbye, Dad.” He took three slow steps toward his bed, then fell heavily onto the mattress. Pressed his face into the pillow and sobbed.

THIRTY-ONE

The next morning, 11:37.

While Adam and Alyssa lay naked in his bed, sleepily nibbling cold Pop Tarts and each other, Money Shot was sixty miles off the coast of Marina del Rey.

Loud music pounded from the yacht. Inside, Gwen and Rain stood at the bar laughing like schoolgirls. Gwen mixed a pitcher of margaritas as Rain finished one off.

Michael Julian was about to do some fishing, but wanted to get a bite to eat first. They had left the house early that morning, and he had skipped breakfast. His stomach sounded like road construction. He went to a cupboard to find some crackers or potato chips. He opened the cupboard door to a rushing wave of blue boxes. They spilled out in a heap around his feet.

Michael glared down at the orange noodles pictured on the sides of the boxes. His upper lip curled back over his teeth. He lifted his head and shouted, “Who brought all the Goddamned Kraft Macaroni and Cheese?”

Divers would never find all of him. Nor would more than a few pieces of Gwen, Rain, and the three-man crew ever be recovered. Small, tattered, fish-eaten pieces. In the beat of a heart and a gout of raging flames, they were gone. So was Money Shot.

In minutes, only a few small pieces of burning debris remained on the ocean’s surface. The flames would die quickly, until all that remained was the sound of the water, the sullen cries of the gulls, and a single piece of burnt, soggy, blue cardboard with charred edges around a picture of macaroni and cheese.

THIRTY-TWO

"I can’t believe who’s here.”
Carter whispered. He turned around in the front pew, looked over his shoulder at the crowd. “Cameron, Tarantino, Woo, Frankenheimer. Schwarzenegger, Willis, Nick Cage...Jodie—wow, Jodie Foster! David Kelley and Michelle Pfeiffer...damn, she looks hot in black. Course, she’d look hot in a duck suit.”

Adam sat between Carter and Alyssa. She held his hand, stroked his thumb with the pad of hers. He was disturbed. Not by the large turnout, but by the fact that he felt no emotion himself. He had expected something. A feeling of loss, of being alone in the world, or at least some regret, a little guilt for what he had done. But he felt nothing. He searched himself for any sign that he was moved by the loss of his dad and two women with whom he had been intimately involved, even though he had brought about that loss himself. But again...nothing.

He did not want his nothingness to show, so he kept his eyes front, sunglasses on. Stared at the three caskets lined up before the two columns of pews. At the photograph of Michael and Gwen Julian taken at their wedding. The other of Rain as a toddler playing in a pool—it was the only one that could be found—naked even then, practicing her moves. At the mountains of flowers around the caskets that filled the church with their heavy fragrance. Adam looked as if deep in thought, pummeled by grief. He was wondering what to do for lunch.

Michael Julian had not had a religious hair on his body. And he’d had a lot of hair. Adam doubted his dad had mumbled even the smallest, most insincere, throwaway prayer in his lifetime. But he had left instructions that his funeral be held in the Church of the Good Shepherd in Beverly Hills because it was considered the church of the stars. It was well-tended, the oldest church in Beverly Hills and located just around the corner from the town’s other houses of worship, the shops on Rodeo Drive. Mission style, small, it seated only six hundred, but the modest church had seen a lot of action.

Elizabeth Taylor had married Nicky Hilton there in 1950, the first of her long line of ill-fated unions. In 1926, wailing mourners, mostly women, filled the street to bid farewell to screen lover Rudolph Valentine. Another crowd had gathered there in 1998 to say farewell to Frank Sinatra. Inside the humble little church or out, it was more common to be moved by the spirit of Hollywood than the spirit of God. It was not the services that drew thousands of camera-clicking tourists to the church each year. It was the list of famous names who had been baptized, married, or eulogized in the church. Now, added to it for posterity, was the name of Michael Julian.

“Jesus Christ!” Carter said.

“Is He here?” Adam asked.

“No, Spielberg’s here! I didn’t know they were friends.”

Adam sucked his lips between his teeth and bit down on them. To keep from smiling. He remembered the night his dad had gone to the premiere of Schindler’s List.

Back in the late eighties, Michael Julian had been hired by Spielberg to do a little uncredited script-doctoring on Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Michael had been ecstatic, certain that a relationship with the blockbuster director would bring respect to his work and lift him to the top of the Hollywood ladder. He saw the uncredited job as a stepping-stone to writing the sequel to E.T. the Extra Terrestrial. Spielberg had rejected Michael’s ideas of a lesbian shower scene, as well as his mystifying introduction of spontaneous human combustion into the Indiana Jones story. Michael was never asked to work with Spielberg again. But that did not stop him from figuratively spreading the director’s buttocks and puckering his lips loudly whenever the opportunity arose. Otherwise, he spoke of Spielberg with contempt.

“What’d I do to deserve this?” he had asked the night of the Schindler’s List premiere. In and out of the bedroom, pacing the hall in various stages of dress, nervous and agitated. “That little merchandising prick had better go back to his dinosaur puppet shows and live action cartoons or he’s gonna be out of a job. Kids’re his core audience. Why do you think he has so many? They’re like the ultimate captive audience for him, they have to go to Daddy’s movies. But kids don’t like this shit. Nobody does! Jews suffering in black and white for four Goddamned hours. Who the hell needs that? That’s the kind of crap people pay money to avoid, not to see. Outside of maybe Simon Wiesenthal and Jackie Mason. That’s not entertainment, it’s career suicide. I’d rather go to my own fuckin’ funeral.”