The Boy Who Never Grew Up (30 page)

“What the
fuck
is this?!” Schlom erupted. “Hold it! Stop! Cut it!” The lights came up. “What the fuck you doing to me?” he demanded of the director. “Is this some kind of joke?”

The director, a thin kid with a see-through mustache, cleared his throat nervously. “I—I don’t think so, Norbert. What’s the problem?”

“What’s the
problem
?!” he raged, turning purple. “You got two Japs chattering away like monkeys and then getting thrown out a window like a couple sacks of
shit
! How do you think that’s gonna make ’em feel?!”

“Who, Norbert?”

“Who the fuck do you think?” he bellowed.

“But you approved the script.”

“Get rid of it, putz! Cut it! Jesus, this is all I need right now!” He spotted me standing there by the door, hat in hand. “Okay, all of you get outta here. Scram. Beat it. I got another meeting.” Angrily, he stuffed a piece of note paper in his mouth and began chomping on it.

They quickly filed out, pale and tight-lipped. The director was muttering under his breath, though not too loud. Lulu watched them go. I don’t think she was regretting her decision to stay out of the business.

“Hiya, Norb,” I said pleasantly, as I strolled down the aisle toward him. “Eat any good books lately?”

“Shit for brains, all of ’em,” he grunted sourly. “Idiots. Punks. Not like Kid. Kid was smart.”

“Still is, I believe.”

“Take a seat, Hoag,” he said, turning genial. He wore a white shirt, red tie, and navy blue tropical suit. His white hair was beautifully coiffed. His manicure gleamed. His eyes were still yellow.

I sat. The armchair swung back on me, like a recliner. I yanked it upright, my balmorals set firmly on the floor.

He checked the Philippe Patek on his thick, hairy wrist. “I can only give you a few minutes, and wouldn’t even do that if it weren’t for Kid. I don’t want no ill will between him and me. But I’m telling you straight off if you changed your mind about that stock offer you’re too late. Your deal was with Abel, not me. Me, I’d just as soon crap on you. I remember you from before, see. Harmon Wright told me all about you. He said you were a total rucking pain.”

“That’s me, all right. And the stock isn’t why I called.”

“I’m running this show now,” he declared, stabbing his chest with his thumb. “And I got a different agenda than Abel. The Murakami people, they’ve had it with nudie pictures and killings. Enough already. From now on everything is strictly dignity and class. I’ve hired Pennyroyal a new lawyer, Kinsley Usher.”

“The former senator?”

“Dignity and class,” he growled with pride. “Top-notch Beverly Hills firm. Excellent contacts in Washington and Sacramento. The man’s high road, all the way.”

“Aside from his indictment for accepting illegal company contributions,” I mentioned.

Schlom scowled at me. “That was all a misunderstanding. He was fully cleared. Look, we want this thing off the front page, Hoag. We want a nice, civilized, low-key settlement. Strictly business. Abel just didn’t understand that.”

“You didn’t approve of his methods?”

“Abel Zorch, God rest his soul, was a schmuck,” he replied, inspecting his manicure. “I mean that in the kindest sense.”

“I wasn’t aware it had one.”

“So today you learned something,” he retorted. “Abel played by his own rules, and he played for keeps. Guys like that rub most people the wrong way. Me, I admire ’em. It’s easy to go along with the flow. It’s hard to go against it. You gotta be tough and you gotta be a little crazy.” He looked me over with his rat’s eyes. “I see a little of him in you.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” he observed, sticking out his thick, liverish lower lip. “You don’t give a fuck. You make it very clear.”

“And all along I thought I was being subtle.”

“Toy and me are throwing a big memorial thing for him up at the house Saturday night. Chance for everybody in the film community to pay their respects. Also to meet the president of Murakami, Mr. Hiroshi Nakamura, who’s flying in from Tokyo. Usher’s making sure the better elements are on hand—Jack Valenti, Chuck Heston, Greg Peck, the Reagans …”

“Dignity and class?” I observed.

“East meets West,” he said, helping himself to another piece of crisp white notepaper. “In fact, it’s gonna be a Wild West theme. Couple of tons of ribs on the barbeque, everybody dressing like cowboys. Toy’s very creative that way. She wants you to come.”

“I’ll be happy to.”

“Good,” he grunted. “Everybody’ll be there.”

“Even Trace Washburn?”

He stopped chewing.

“How come you won’t let him work here?” I asked.

He shifted in his armchair, swiped at the lint on his trousers with one of his thick, blunt hands. “Trace is used up,” he said gruffly. “He’s too old, he drinks too much, and his price is too high. Kid was the only director in town who’d still hire him, and just to show you how smart Trace is he goes out and shtups the man’s wife.”

“There’s no other reason why he can’t work here?”

“Like what?” he wondered, narrowing his eyes at me.

“Something personal, perhaps.”

“I don’t believe in personal,” he said shortly. “Strictly business.” He glanced at his watch.

“Just a few more questions—what made you decide to hire a nineteen-year-old kid to direct for you?”

“What did he tell you?” he shot back.

“That you smelled money on him.”

“I did,” he affirmed, a rare smile crossing his pitted, ugly face. “Some people reek of it. You, for instance …”

“What about me?”

“You don’t.”

“Thanks. That’s something I’ve always wondered.”

“I seen a million of them film school bright boys,” he said. “They all come strutting into my office spouting John Ford and Preston fucking Sturges. They know
Citizen Kane
shot for shot,
Casablanca
line for line. They know it all. If they’re lucky, they end up directing commercials for toilet bowl cleaners. Kid, he had his
own
ideas. That’s why I gave him a job, and that’s why he made millions for this studio and himself.”

“Shelley Selden claims you stole many of those millions from him. They still haven’t seen a penny from the net proceeds of
Yeti
, for example.”

“Aw, you’re not falling for that old ploy, are you?” he blustered.

“Which old ploy is that?”

“All of ’em pull that shit on us—claim we cheated ’em. Then they hold a gun to our head and demand gross points, or else. They’re ruining the business. The talent is ruining this business. We’re the ones who make the movies, not them. We take the financial risk, not them. A movie flops, we’re the ones who have to eat it, not them. They never offer to give us any of their salary back. Hell no, a movie flops, that’s
our
problem. But when it’s a hit, suddenly we’re stealing from them. You wanna talk about
Yeti
? I gave Kid an unlimited budget. I never said no to him. He had to shoot in fucking Katmandu, fine. He had to have cheeseburgers and tapes of the fucking Dodgers flown in daily, fine. I gave him whatever he asked for.
And
I gave him a million dollars in salary. Now don’t you think that’s enough?”

“That’s not the issue.”

“What is?”

“Whether or not you cheated him out of his share of the profits.”

“I treated him like a son,” he insisted. “Invited him into my home. He never came, but I invited him. He was my ace. Why would I want to cheat him, huh? Why would I?”

“For money.”

He stared at me a second with his rat’s eyes. “Our books are always open. I told them. I’m telling you. You wanna run an audit, go ahead. You won’t find a fucking nickel.”

“Of course not. Your accountants could hide a herd of elephants in a Porta Potti. About
The Three Stooges
—”

“What about it?” he demanded, tensing.

“Matthew says he never wanted to direct it.”

Schlom laughed harshly. “They always say that about their flops.”

“Did you force him into it by planting cocaine in his bungalow?”

“That’s bullshit, pal. Put it in his book and I’ll sue your fucking asses.”

“I’ll rephrase it: Did you have someone plant cocaine in his bungalow?”

He reached for another sheet of notepaper. Carefully, he worked it into a small ball. “I’m gonna tell you the God’s honest truth,” he reflected, popping the paper in his mouth. “So you’ll know the real story. And why I blew the other night at Spago when you brought it up. See, I heard he was having problems. There were rumors before the picture even went before the cameras. That he was using heavy.”

“Matthew?”

“Kid,” he affirmed sadly. “Why do you think the movie sucked? He was stoned on coke the whole time. I was told he even had drugs on the set. I don’t go in for that. I run a clean studio. This is a family environment. So I said something to him. I said it to him as a friend, as a mentor, whatever I was to him. I cared about him. I wanted him to get help. I wasn’t worried about the movie—fuck the movie. I was worried about
him.
This was his life we’re talking about.” Schlom shook his head. “He got pissed at me. I guess he was in what they call the denial stage. That’s why he left Panorama—because I was hassling him to clean up his act. I hear he has. I hope so. I do. For his sake, and his family’s. But I’m angry and I’m hurt that he’d try to blame me for what happened. I’ve heard that story before, that I planted stuff on him. He made it up. The truth is, it was all his own fault.”

I could only stare. I was in the presence of greatness. Norbert Schlom was the most brilliant liar I’d ever come across, capable of sounding caring, benevolent and even a tiny bit bruised while in the midst of dishing out slander of the most malicious sort. They can’t teach you how to lie like that. It’s a gift you’re born with, a gift that had taken him all the way to the pinnacle of Hollywood success, and kept him there.

“Does the name Shambazza mean anything to you?” I asked.

He mulled it over. “Character in
Star Wars
, wasn’t he? Furry fellow who tried to shtup the princess?”

“He was a drug dealer and pimp.”

“I don’t know from pimps and drug dealers,” he growled.

“Toy knew him quite well. She lived with him. Before somebody shot him in the head, that is.”

He grinned at me crookedly. “Trying to piss me off, aren’t ya?”

“I am not.”

“Toy and me made a pact when we got together,” Schlom said easily. “No past. I don’t ask her about hers. She don’t ask me about mine. That way nobody gets upset.”

“I see. What about her and Abel Zorch?”

“What about them?”

“Were they close?”

“Ask her,” he suggested. “Nicely.”

“I always ask nicely.”

“Toy is a fine, lovely woman. I care about her more than anyone in the world. You hassle her about her background, you make her feel crummy and you’ll go back to New York pissing blood, Hoag. Is there anything else? I got people waiting.”

“One more thing. Now that Pennyroyal has herself a kinder, gentler lawyer, will she be changing her settlement demands? Or does she still want half of Bedford Falls?”

“She wants it and she’ll get it.”

“It bothers you that Matthew got away from you, doesn’t it? You want him back, firmly planted under your thumb. You won’t be happy until he is.”

“I told you, I don’t believe in personal,” he said impatiently. “This ain’t a vendetta. It’s business. She wants to produce her own pictures. Be a player. I’m willing to give her the shot.”

“In exchange for her half-interest in Bedford Falls,” I pointed out.

“What’s wrong with that? It’s a straightforward arrangement. Good for her, good for me.”

“What about what’s good for Bedford Falls?”

“I gotta have Bedford Falls,” he insisted. “I need it.”

“Matthew won’t ever sell you his half, Norb.”

“He’ll sell,” he said with utter certainty. “He’ll see he has no choice but to sell.”

“How?”

“I’ll make him see,” he responded darkly.

“Can you be a little more specific?”

Norbert Schlom gazed up at the blank screen in front of us, savoring his reply. “Let’s just say, it’ll be like a guy getting his dick lopped off with an ax—he’ll know it when it happens.”

I got out to Trancas around sunset. I took Topanga Canyon, which was brown and dry as chalk in the late season heat. The sun was dropping bright orange into the ocean when I hit Malibu. Trancas is another half hour or so up the coast from there. There’s not much to it. Just some houses crowded shoulder-to-shoulder on the narrow ribbon of sand between the pounding surf and Pacific Coast Highway. Many were extravagant Bauhaus sand castles of glass and bleached wood. Trace Washburn’s wasn’t one of those. The fourth house from the left was a rickety beachcomber’s shack on stilts, tar roof patched, clapboard siding warped and peeling, redwood deck rotted out. His neighbors probably wanted to nuke it. I rather liked it.

I left the Vette in the narrow alley out back. Wood steps led up to the deck. A clothesline was stretched between two of the deck posts. T-shirts, jeans and beach towels were drying on it. A surfboard was propped against the side of the house. I made my way around to the front, the entire house shuddering with each step I took. Lulu followed me, stepping gingerly around the gaps in the deck where planks were missing. Sliding glass doors faced the water. A few sailboats were out. The tide was receding. Lulu excused herself and headed down to the water’s edge to sniff at shells. I tapped on one of the doors, and went inside.

The living room, dining room, and kitchen were one large room. The decor was early dude ranch, but of an uncommonly high order—log furniture made in the 1940’s by the Shoshone Furniture Company of Cody, Wyoming, under the guiding hand of Thomas Molesworth, the Stickley of the Wild West. Two massive Molesworth wing chairs, their leather arms topped with moose antlers, were parked around a Franklin stove along with a pair of his fringed leather armchairs. The dining table, upon which Cassandra Dee had first been formally introduced to Big Steve, was a massive slab of honey-colored fir. Six matching Molesworth dining chairs were set around it, their backs ornamented with the silhouette of a bow-legged gunfighter. Trace was not a tidy housekeeper. Empty beer bottles were everywhere. Sand crunched underfoot on the whitewashed wooden floor. Dirty dishes were piled high in the kitchen, where a chubby, sunburned teenaged girl in a T-shirt and nothing else stood aimlessly stirring a pot of chili on the stove, a look of bovine torpor on her face. It was a plain face. Her hair was stringy, her ankles thick and not particularly clean. It took her a while to notice me standing there.