Show Business Is Murder (26 page)

Why couldn't it have been
Pale Moon
? She'd really loved that script, not because it would make such a good movie, but because the part she'd have had was just a great part. Melanie Lyons had lots of screen time and a great arc—from docile wife to heroic rescuer of her family to drained and
bitter widow after her plans went all to hell. She'd have gotten to play opposite Michael Keaton, who may not have had much of a career lately but had always struck Lisa as a generous actor, judging by his films. But now it was Michelle Glassberg playing the wife (Michelle
Glassberg?
What was she,
fifteen?
) and Lisa was struggling to learn page after page of pseudo-scientific gibberish.

Why did they even bother with dialogue? No one would come to the theater curious about the combination of tachyons and muons and pi-mesons it took to make a man invisible, they just wanted to see the results. They might as well hang a sign around her neck labeled “exposition” and let her keep her mouth shut. She'd get to carry a syringe, wear a lab coat over surgical greens, restrain the hero on a gurney, and explain breathlessly to Jon Farrell what had gone wrong. She couldn't imagine a more generic part. Even the character's name was generic: Carol Brown.
Doctor
Carol Brown, but so what? You want to talk invisible, you don't need to mess with tachyons and muons, just name someone Carol Brown, stick her in a lab coat, give her a clipboard and a stethoscope, put her in a hospital hallway, and you've just made an invisible woman right there.

Checking in at the hotel was mercifully quick. Lisa dropped her suitcase heavily on one of the room's twin beds and stretched out diagonally across the other. She couldn't read, the words were swimming before her eyes as it was. The radio was on, playing classical music that was obviously supposed to relax her, but she turned it off as soon as she was able to locate the switch. Rest. That's what she needed. Tomorrow she'd be a trooper: show up on time, know her lines, hit her marks, demonstrate that she was a pro. A job was a job, and she was glad to have it. God willing, there would be other jobs after this one. Sharon Stone got started in that horrible Wes Craven movie, after all, and Jamie Lee Curtis screamed her way through
Halloween.
Careers survived.
Although it probably helped if you got your screaming roles out of the way while you were in your twenties.

Lisa had one foot in the shower when the phone rang. Who knew she was here? The studio, she supposed, since they were footing the bill for the room. The director, presumably—he had to know where his cast was. The entire production staff. But who would call at midnight?

She picked up on the third ring.

“Hey, Lee. It's Bill. Get in okay?”

“I got in fine.” She belted her robe. “I've got a bit of a headache, but it's nothing that won't go away with a little sleep.” Then, belatedly: “I want to thank you again. I appreciate your getting me the part.”

“Look, we both know it's not the one you wanted. But this is just the beginning. I want you to remember that.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, mind if I stop by?”

“Stop by? Where are you?”

“Right outside the hotel. I just parked.”

“Bill, it's late, I need to sleep.” Lisa stepped to the window and looked out, but the room faced the rear courtyard. She let the curtain fall. “I figured we'd have dinner tomorrow, after the shoot.”

“You think you're tired today,” Bill said, “just wait till tomorrow after the shoot. It really takes it out of you. You wouldn't think so, all that sitting around, but when you're done, you just want to hit the sack.”

“Bill, I've been on a movie set before.”

“Yeah, but you've never had to shoulder this many scenes. Trust me.”

“It's midnight, Bill—no, it's one
A.M
I'm tired, I need a shower, I need sleep. I don't mean to snap at you, but really, I need—”

“Come on,” Bill said. “I'm already here. I'm getting out
of the elevator. Let's just sit down for ten minutes, then you can go to sleep.”

“It's one in the morning!”

“Ten minutes.” She heard his steps outside the door, then his knock: shave-and-a-haircut. Jesus. Did he think he was being cute?

Lisa opened the door, wedged it against her shoulder, and looked out at Bill through the opening. He still had his cell phone at his ear. He shut it. “It's great to see you,” he said.

“It's good to see you, too, Bill. It's nice that you came by. But I really do need to sleep.”

“Don't tell me I come all the way here and you're going to turn me away at the door. At least let me use your bathroom, for Christ's sake.”

Lisa couldn't think of a way to refuse that. She stood back and waved him inside, then shut the door after him and belted her robe tighter while he stepped into the bathroom and pissed noisily. He came out wiping his hands on a washcloth.

“The bathrooms here are unbelievable. Bet you never had anything like this back in New York. Bet you could fit your whole apartment in there.”

She gave him the smile he was fishing for but couldn't keep it aloft for long. “What do you want, Bill?”

“I want to talk about you.” Bill was bigger than Arthur French, but had something of the same quality about him: the forced boyishness, as though by dressing young and putting gel in your hair you could convince the world you hadn't hit fifty yet, or maybe convince yourself. She'd only met him in person twice before this, but both times he'd impressed her as someone with more energy than was good for him, as though he were running too hard, pushing too hard, straining too much. It showed around his eyes, it showed in his hands. Also, the man couldn't sit still.

“When I say this is the beginning, I'm talking about a fast ride to the top. This picture, forget it. It's just a way to get your face in front of the audience. What I'm thinking is, what's going to be Lisa Brennan's star vehicle? What's the picture that will put you front and center? And this morning I got it.” He paced back and forth in front of the window. “I want to plant the idea in your head, get your subconscious working on it, see what you think.”

“What is it?”

He spread his hands, palms toward her. “
Corner of State and Main
. Celia. The younger daughter, the one who got married at sixteen and comes back when her husband goes into the army. You've read the book, right?”

She had. Who hadn't? Once every few years a book hits on all cylinders—
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, Bridges of Madison County, The Da Vinci Code
—and suddenly everyone you know has read it, or at least bought a copy. Then there's a film version, and sometimes it's a hit, sometimes it isn't. Mostly it isn't, but still, these are prestige projects and appearing in a leading role in a movie like that . . . it was miles away from the sort of thing she'd be doing tomorrow. (Today, she corrected herself with a glance at the clock.)

“Sure,” she said. “I'd love to be in that movie. So would Helen Hunt. What makes you think I can get the part?”

“They picked a director. It's Michael Haber. We went to school together.”

“School?”

“We go way back,” Bill said. “He owes me plenty.”

Was it really possible, Lisa wondered, that Bill believed his old school ties would trump studio demands on a picture this big? Or that he thought she would believe it? Or was it just possible that he was right, that he had an in she could use and this could be her break? No: that wasn't possible. It just wasn't. And even if it was, why the hell did he have to lay this on her at one in the morning?

“Bill, I am really grateful for everything you've done for me, you know that, and if you think you can pull this off, well, God bless you and I hope you're right. But right now I've got seven hours before I have to be on the set of
Transparent
and I don't think they want Dr. Brown to have big bags under her eyes. So I'm going to say good night to you and go to sleep, and not get my hopes up, and go to work tomorrow, and do a good job because that's what I'm being paid to do—and if you can get me a better part next time, that's great, but tonight what I need is sleep.”

“Oh, you're good,” Bill said, gripping her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Such honesty. Such openness. Just show some of that when you're in front of the camera, and I'll get you any part you want.” He leaned in and kissed her—briefly, but it startled her, and she pulled the lapels of her robe together when he leaned back. She wanted to ask him what he thought he was doing or tell him not to do it again, but by then he was already halfway to the door, and hell, this was no time to start a fight. She closed the door behind him.

Honesty. Openness. These weren't what her experience told her made for success in Hollywood. But they'd gotten her agent out of her bedroom, so maybe they were good for something after all.

WHEN SHOOTING WRAPPED,
she sat by the catering table nursing her third cup of coffee. Grips were busy dollying cameras and lights back to the storage pen. In the operating theater set, the stunt coordinator was pointing at a balcony that had been fitted out with a breakaway section while his chief construction engineer was trying to explain why it hadn't broken properly on the first take. Lisa felt her eyelids drop in spite of the caffeine. Bill was right, of course: even if she'd had enough sleep the night before she'd be tired now, and as it was she just wanted to crash.

But she'd promised Bill a dinner, and there was no reason to think she'd be less tired tomorrow. Besides, she'd hustled him out of her room a little brusquely last night and though he'd deserved it, this was still someone she didn't want to piss off needlessly. She owed him this job, and while today's shooting had been roughly as bad as she'd expected, it was better than ushering Off-Broadway for thirty-five dollars a night or waitressing at the Union Square Coffee Shop, both of which she'd done not too long ago.

There was a phone in a cabinet under the stairs, next to the water fountain and the door to the men's room. She called Bill's office number, but judging by the background noise reached him in his car.

“You're done already? It's not even nine o'clock.”

“They still have work to do, but they told me I'm not needed again till tomorrow. Just position shooting for the computer animation.”

“Who's doing the effects, ILM? Digital Domain?”

“I don't know, Bill. They probably told me, but I've forgotten.”

“I bet it's Digital. Listen, are we still on for tonight?”

“Sure. As long as it's some place quiet, and not too far away.”

“Why don't I pick you up where you are, I'm just a few miles away, and I'll take you some place nice.”

“Not too nice.”

“You got it.”

She stepped into the women's wardrobe room and changed back into her street clothes. No dressing room with a star on the door for her. Not yet.

Bill was waiting for her when she made her way out to the street. He reached across the passenger seat and opened the door for her. When she slid in, he gave the back of her neck a quick massage.

She tensed. Was everyone in Hollywood this
touchy-feely? As a born-and-bred New Yorker, Lisa was suspicious of people who kissed and patted and touched too freely. On the other hand, when in Rome.

“So, where are we going?”

Bill pulled off onto the road. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

“Oh, not tonight, Bill, I won't make a good impression—”

“Not tonight, not tonight—then when? Don't worry. You look great.”

“I can't keep my eyes open.”

“You'll keep them open.”

“Who is it?”

He turned to her, and waited till she said, “Well?”

“My old friend, Michael Haber.”

“Jesus, that's too important, I can't see him tonight—”

“That's where you're wrong. You can't not see him tonight. Now is when he's thinking about who he wants in
State and Main,
and you want to meet him before he starts thinking about someone else for your part.”

“I—” Lisa put her forehead in her hands and rubbed her temples. “Okay.”

“Damn right, okay.” He flipped open his cell phone and dialed one-handed. “Mike, you there? Goddamn, I can't hear a thing. Hold on.” He rolled up the car's windows. “Let's meet at Santiago's. Yes, she's right here. She's dying to meet you. You want to say hello? Hang on.” He handed her the phone. “Say hello.”

“Hi, this is Lisa.” He said something, but she didn't catch it. “What's that? Yes, it'll be nice to meet you, too.”

Bill took the phone back. “We'll be there in ten minutes. Meet us in the cigar room.”

Michael Haber met them, hand extended, as they came in. She didn't recognize him at first—he'd shaved the beard he'd had the last time she'd seen him on “Access Hollywood” and he wasn't wearing the baseball cap he seemed to have on
in every photograph ever taken of him. What the cap would have covered was a high forehead and very little in the way of hair. He looked a little like Ron Howard, Lisa thought.