Steven Bochco (19 page)

Authors: Death by Hollywood

BOOK: Steven Bochco

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CHAPTER 38

I wouldn't blame you if you've gotten the impression that I have a somewhat cynical view of the entertainment business. But you know what they say: cynicism is idealism betrayed. And while I admit my worldview has been somewhat jaundiced by experience, I want to also make it clear (for whatever it's worth) how much I love the business. At its best, it's magical, artful, and thrilling. Making a great movie or television series really
is
like catching lightning in a bottle. Even when it happens, you're not quite sure how, but you know that somehow a group of artists and craftsmen came together to create something which, at its best, is greater than the sum of its parts. And if you've ever experienced it, you know that it's the best feeling in the world. You've
created
something, or at least been a part of something, that has brought pleasure, laughs, tears, and insights to a mass audience. You've touched people's lives, and it doesn't get any better than that.

Which is why there was a time, in my early teens, when I entertained the notion of becoming a writer. I'd read somewhere that Thomas Wolfe used to write
You Can't Go Home Again
in longhand on legal tablets, standing in front of his refrigerator, using its top as a writing surface. What an image. This tall man, writing all night and into the wee hours of the morning, alone in his kitchen, penning the great American novel. It's the stuff of fantasy, and whenever I imagined myself as a writer, that was the image my brain conjured. The only problems being, I wasn't tall enough and I wasn't good enough.

Nevertheless, like every aspiring young writer, the idea of writing a novel is what it was all about for me. So it's ironic that all these years later I've written what amounts to a novel-length manuscript that reads like the stuff of fiction. Except it's not.

While I obviously made up a lot of the dialogue between the principals in the story, I did so based on extensive conversations I had over the course of the last six months with Vee, Linda, Dennis, and of course Bobby himself, before he died. And when you do the math, it all adds up as neatly as two plus two.

I'm convinced Bobby saw Linda kill Ramon. He says as much in his screenplay (the one with Dennis's name on it). I'm also convinced Bobby sneaked into Ramon's house and stole the tapes of Vee and Linda having sex with him.

I believe Bobby insinuated himself into Linda's and Dennis's lives so that he could write his screenplay with the kind of realism that only comes from firsthand knowledge of their psyches. What I don't think Bobby anticipated was the extent to which he'd become so emotionally involved with them. But that's what good writers do. They go places most of us are afraid to go.

I also believe Bobby framed Vee in a drunken, jealous rage, and I believe that when Dennis finally figured out the puzzle, he made the decision that ultimately cost Bobby his life.

There's this old joke about the unsuccessful Hollywood hack who wakes up one morning to find a mysteriously uncredited script sitting on top of his typewriter. It's a brilliant piece of work, and the writer puts his name on it without hesitation and sells it for a bunch of money. About a month later, another script materializes, and he sells that one for even more. Half a dozen scripts later, the writer is living large in Bel Air, he has gorgeous women at his beck and call, and more money than he knows what to do with.

One night he hears tapping noises coming from his office and sneaks down to take a look. There, at his typewriter, is this ugly little troll, typing away.

“
You're
the one responsible for all those scripts,” the writer says with awe, and the troll sheepishly admits as much.

“My God,” the writer says. “I owe you everything. I have success beyond measure. I have money, women, this beautiful house, and all because of you.”

The troll nods, embarrassed, and the writer says, “You've got to let me thank you properly. What do you want? I'll give you anything. Money. Women. Cars. Name it.”

The troll says he has no interest in any of these things but perhaps the writer might consider, just this once, letting the troll share screen credit on this script he's just finishing.

The writer looks at the troll, stunned. “
Screen
credit? Fuck
you,
screen credit!”

I mention this joke because it's illustrative of what happened to Bobby. First, Dennis figures out what Bobby's done and uses it to blackmail Bobby into forking over a piece of the action. And then, when Bobby finally offers Dennis shared screen credit, Dennis essentially says, Fuck
you,
shared screen credit, and kills the poor bastard so he can steal the whole ball of wax.

I never would have figured any of this out if Dennis hadn't gotten greedy and pitched that talking-dog story to Brian Grazer. Once he did, though, all the pieces fell into place. Like I told Dennis, I'll never be able to prove it, but I'm a little nervous anyway. Actually, if you want to know the
absolute truth,
I'm more than a little nervous. I'm actually pretty goddamn scared.

Think about it. Maybe I can't prove Dennis killed Bobby, but I can sure as hell burst his bubble. Gossip and innuendo being what they are in this town, I could probably put some serious stink on him. Plus, I know Veeâshe'd drop him like a hot rock.

If I were a naturally suspicious type like Dennis, I don't know how comfortable I'd be knowing there was someone in my life who could hang me out to dry, which is why I've written this manuscript. It took me four months, and I'm not even proofing it as I go, since I have no intention of ever showing it to anybody. Along with the copy of Bobby's story “First Dog,” which I dug out of my files, it's going directly into my safe deposit box at City National Bankâan insurance policy, if you willâjust in case Dennis ever tries to threaten or intimidate me. The irony is, I not only loved writing it, I also think it's pretty good. Maybe even as good as Bobby's screenplay, which Dennis got two million bucks for.

Nevertheless, the only possible way I can imagine anyone ever reading this thing is if I died. And if that were to happen anywhere in the near term, you can bet your house it'd be because Dennis actually got worried enough to kill me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to thank my dear and gifted friend David Milch for urging me to write this novel. I'd also like to thank another great friend and collaborator, Alison Cross, for seconding the motion. My heartfelt thanks as well to Bill Clark, whose life and whose friendship have informed this book.

I want to express in particular my gratitude to my friend Fred Specktor, whose constant enthusiasm, encouragement, and advice inspired me.

My thanks to Mort Janklow for representing my efforts with such talent, regard, and affection, and for warning me about the siren's call of novel writing.

“When you write novels,” Mr. Janklow told me, “your office is always in your head.” Boy, was he ever right.

I'd like to thank Jonathan Karp, whose editorial contributions were most welcome (not to mention helpful) and whose respect for writers made me feel very protected.

Finally, I'd like to thank the most Reverend Barry Hirsch, whose legal and personal wisdom, along with his friendship, have always helped me steer a true course.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

S
TEVEN
B
OCHCO
is the winner of ten Emmy Awardsâsix for
Hill Street Blues,
three for
L.A. Law,
and one for
NYPD Blue,
now in its tenth year on ABC. In 1996, he was inducted into the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences' Television Hall of Fame, and he was the first television writer/producer to receive the Writers Guild Career Achievement Award and the British Academy of Film and Television Arts Fellowship Award for his outstanding contribution to his craft.

This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all
characters with the exception of some well-known historical and
public figures, are products of the author's imagination and are not
to be construed as real. Where real-life historical and public figures
appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons
are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or
to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all
other respects, any resemblance to persons living
or dead is entirely coincidental.

Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House,

an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division

of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by

Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

R
ANDOM
H
OUSE
and colophon are registered trademarks of
Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bochco, Steven.

Death by Hollywood : a novel / Steven Bochco.

p. cm.

1. Hollywood (Los Angeles, Calif.)âFiction. 2. Motion picture industryâ

Fiction. 3. ScreenwritersâFiction. 4. WitnessesâFiction. I. Title.

PS3602.O325D43 2003 813â².6âdc21 2003046613