The Cutting Room (10 page)

Misreading the listings completely, I had entered in the middle. So I stayed for the start of
Singin’ in the Rain
again, loath to return to my hotel suite and the accusations of failure that flowed into it from my laptop, filling it up as if from a tub left running.

Then I sat up in my seat.

Commercials ran before the feature, as they do in many European cities and in (too many, I think) American ones. This one was a crude but sprightly vignette for a cola called Fizz.

A beautiful woman, wearing a helmet, roared by a cop on her motorbike. Flying from her backpack, a cola bottle hit the street and splattered. On his own bike, the cop started after her, in hot pursuit. At last, she pulled over to the side of the road. Taking off her helmet, she revealed a beautiful mane of black hair and a stunning, full-lipped face. But the cop, of course, only wanted to know if she had more Fizz.

The woman, I was sure of it, was Erendira.

No wonder men had been amused that I was looking for the Fizz girl. Who wouldn’t be? As the sounds of “Fit as a Fiddle” started from Gene and Donald, I stumbled, shocked, into the lobby.

From there, I rushed to the nearest bodega. Speaking in Spanish, I tried to communicate what I wished to drink. The proprietor, who was playing with me, shrugged his shoulders. He just spoke Catalan.

So, “Fizz,” I said. “Fizz.”

He made several crude gestures toward his lap and shook his head
no
. They had no bathroom.

Finally, I pantomimed chugging from a bottle, then wiping off my mouth, an insane tourist who would not leave without this one beverage. Tired of jerking me around, he directed me to a refrigerated case.

The stuff itself was sweet and slightly sickening. But Fizz was not what I was after. I peeled off the label with a key, careful not to tear the company name and its address: Cheruba, Inc., 76 Pasaje de Gracia.

I had someone to thank for this. Seeing from the street that his light was still on, I started back to Ron’s office above the theater. I took his stairs two at a time, propelled by an urgency I did not quite understand.

When I entered, the place seemed empty. All I heard was a faint, creaking sound coming from within.

“Ron?”

I saw the empty chair first, placed in the center of the floor. Above it, Ron swung, attached by his own belt to a steel fan on the ceiling, which was not turned on. Each tiny swivel of his body turned the blades a bit, which was where the squeak had come from.

His feet were still twitching. All of my senses keen, I stood on the rickety chair beside him. It took several endless seconds to rest Ron’s left hip and butt on my shoulder, and ease the pull on his neck.

Then I reached up and, just quickly enough, began to gently unloop the belt.

Right then, I figured that
Singin’ in the Rain
was just about done.

On Barcelona’s ritzy shopping drag, Cheruba, Inc., was in a Gaudi-designed building, which dripped in the architect’s trademark Dr. Seuss–like style.

The head of public relations for Cheruba was a polite, middle-aged man named Mr. Fuenta. He made an appointment with me right away. My occupation had piqued his interest.

“What kind of movies do you produce in America?” he asked.

Behind his desk, he was holding one of the fake business cards Ben had supplied me with. I smiled, with a sly, producer-ish air.

“I’m preparing a project with Ben Williams now, actually,” I said. “It’s in the early stages, but Ben is wonderful to work with.”

Fuenta was highly impressed. His English was impeccable, better than his grasp of Hollywood specifics.

“Well, he’s a very good actor,” he said, “as is Rosie Burnett.”

“Yes. Rosie
Bryant
, actually, is interested in our piece as well.”

Fuenta nodded, and muttered abashedly, “Bryant.” He took out a little pad and started to make notes.

“And what is the story?” he asked.

“Well, it’s a”—and here I was totally vamping—“a love story. A very powerful love story. And there are, you know, space elements.”

“Space?”

“Outer space, yes.”

“I see.” He scribbled. “And how do you see Fizz being involved? Would they drink it in space or . . . here on Earth?”

I paused. “Fizz?”

“Yes. I’m assuming this is about product placement.”

I hadn’t even thought of that, but obviously I should have.

It had been several days since Ron Gaylord’s attempted suicide, and I was just getting back to business. Despite the fact that he had seen Erendira’s picture moments before, his motive did not seem to be suspicious. Maybe that was the saddest part about it.

I looked at Mr. Fuenta, regaining my concentration. His assumption of a business tie-in was going to be hard to backtrack from, but I had to try.

“Well,” I said, “that’s something we’re looking at. We’d love to be in business with Fizz.”

Fuenta was quietly thrilled. “International exposure is exactly what we’re looking for. Penetration into the American market is, of course, one of our goals.”

Fuenta began to pass me spread sheets detailing the amazing growth of Fizz from a mere mite on the Spanish scene to a giant. Or, at least, that was what they were projecting for the future.

I had to get out before I got in too deep.

“That’s down the road, though,” I said, his charts piled in my lap. “What’s really piqued our interest, and the reason I’m here, is . . . the Fizz girl.”

Fuenta paused. A certain steeliness now crept into his mild manner. “The girl?”

“Yes. Your model. We’re very interested in seeing her for a part in . . . the film.”

“I see. Erendira.”

I flushed, happy to hear him speak the name. But Fuenta was staring at me coldly now. He reached out a hand and gestured for his sheets back. I returned them, uneasily.

“Well, that’s something you should talk to her about, isn’t it?”

“That’s . . . well, that’s why I’m here. Would you have a contact number for her? Or even—a last name?”

I had meant the last remark as a joke, but Fuenta wasn’t laughing. Before tearing off and crumpling up his piece of paper, he gave a small snort of disgust. Either he was repelled by my lack of interest in Fizz, or he thought I was just a pimp for Ben Williams. That was a position I was sure someone else already filled in L.A.

“All right, I’ll give you a number,” he said.

He flipped through a Rolodex. Then he wrote a number on another piece of paper, tore it off, harshly, and nearly tossed it across to me.

“Tell
him
what you want.”

Fuenta’s amiability had completely—well, fizzed. He had said it as a threat, and that made me worry.

The voice on the other end of the line was Spanish. It was also deep, male, and very unfriendly. The man received my message—Ben Williams, a movie offer, etc.—grunted in response, took my number, and hung up. But within minutes, he had called back.

I was to go to an even fancier hotel, the Castilla, the next day at three. Someone would meet me in the lobby. When I inquired how I would know this person, I was told, “Just mention Erendira.”

I began to e-mail Ben a cryptic but hopeful letter
(Got info—will pursue)
, then realized I was really communicating with Beth, and sent no word at all.

Before I left, feeling nervous and a bit foolish, I slipped the gun into my pocket.

I could hardly get within a mile of the Castilla. There was no way to reach the front door, let alone the lobby.

A massive throng stood outside the building, making even approach—forget entrance—impossible. The crowd ringed the entire front of the hotel, jutted out into the street, and snaked across it, where I now stood. Almost everyone in it was female and below the age of consent.

“Jorge!” they screamed. “Jorge!”

Flash cameras held above their heads went off. Festive Spanish rock and roll blared from their boom boxes. Police rode by on horseback or passed by on foot, made cursory attempts at control, then confessed defeat, and fled.

“Jorge! Jorge!”

Jorge was obviously the biggest movie heartthrob in Spain. Amazed at my own provincialism, I had no idea who he was. But why did he have to be staying at the Castilla? I checked my watch: five of three.

With a deep breath, I stepped off the curb and waded into the jumping and squealing mob. It was worse than a thousand New York City subway rush hours.

“Excuse me, excuse me.”

Elbows were stuck into my ribs and belly. High-heeled shoes stabbed my shins and stomped my feet. Screams like car alarms drilled into my ears.

“Excuse me, excuse me.”

“Jorge!”

As if inventing a new dance step, I wiggled free of one crush, then was flung forward, crushed again, and wiggled free. Finally, I saw the great golden letters of
CASTILLA
loom before me like the gates of heaven.

“Excuse me.”

“Jorge!”

At the door, hotel security had somehow kept the horde behind a single red rope. Only one huge bouncer stood there, bulging from his three-piece suit, a walkie-talkie pressed upon his ear. Spain was a simpler place than America, I thought. I flew free of the crowd’s last grip.

“Erendira!” I screamed.

“Qúe?”
the big man asked.

“Erendira! I’m here to see Erendira!”

This was not a name that anyone else was screaming. Recognition flashed in his small, squinty eyes. He unclicked the rope where I stood. Then, practically grabbing me by my shirtfront, he pulled me quickly through before anyone else could follow.

I was passed from this big bouncer to a wiry, weasly one. Holding my arm at the muscle, he traveled with me through a revolving door into the lobby.

There, it was strangely but wonderfully silent.

“Come with me,” he said seriously, in English.

We rode up in an empty elevator, tinny rock and roll playing, as if from far away.

“Movie star?” I asked knowingly.

He looked at me with pitying disbelief.

“Soccer,” he said.

“Soccer?”

Shocked, I just shrugged. Europe certainly had a different standard for celebrity. At a top floor, he led me down a long vermilion hallway, until we reached the last of only three suites. He knocked once, then twice, then three times.

Something about the code made me start to sweat.

Suddenly, the door was flung open. My companion moved artfully aside, and I was yanked within by a thick fist attached to my belt.

The door was closed behind me, the bouncer standing at my back. I faced a room of five muscular men, all of whom I thought I recognized from the postcards sold on the street. Where was the rest of their team?

They looked at me, then at one another, with small and unkind smiles. One spoke Spanish to his teammate, who replied. Then another spoke to me, in very fast Catalan, and I only shrugged.
“No comprende.”

This made all of them laugh. Then one nodded to the bouncer behind me. Very roughly, I was frisked. Immediately, of course, he found my gun.

The bouncer chucked it to one of the soccer players. I grabbed for it, but it flew past my fingers. Not adept with his own hands, the player bobbled it, and it fell on the dark blue carpet. I bent to retrieve it, and immediately they all stood and swarmed around the weapon.

One kicked it away from my hand. It slid to the foot of a second, who tapped it to a third. This one lifted it with the tip of his shoe. It went flying into the chest of the fourth, who butted it back down to the floor. As the game went on, they laughed and kept crying,
“No comprende! No comprende!”

With each kick, I had tried to reclaim my possession. At last, I found myself, panting, on all fours, beside it, surrounded by the team. Each eyed me, hungrily, as if I would be the next ball they bounced.

I looked for any avenue of escape. Rising, I turned right—but expertly, player number one blocked my path, crouched, and ran in place. So I spun around, toward the front door. The bouncer, weaving more imprecisely, was covering it.

I cut left, only to be stymied by another player, who—adhering to the rules—avoided using his arms. He brought his knee up forcefully into my groin. The pain propelled me backward, right into the extended foot of a third player, who, pushing in the back of my knee, sent me crashing to the floor, from whence I had come.

I lay there, reeling from my effort and agonized by my injury. Then an interior door of the suite opened. The players turned. Another man entered the room.

“Jorge,” one of them said, in greeting.

He was tall, dark, and very handsome. I definitely recognized his face from the postcards. He looked down at me with an oddly familiar kind of disdain.

“What kind of movie producer carries a gun?” he said.

He had been handed the weapon by one of his sycophant colleagues. From his cocksure and impatient manner, I figured Jorge must be the Ben Williams of Spain. I slowly found my feet in front of him. At least he spoke Spanish and not just Catalan.

“I guess you haven’t been to America very often,” I said.

This made him smirk and so allowed his teammates to smirk, as well. Butt last, Jorge placed the gun inside his belt, like a soccer player playing sheriff. I thought about how Ronald Reagan’s famous appearance as “the Gipper” in
Knute Rockne, All American
had been missing from the film’s prints for years, and had only been restored recently. Some kind of legal problem.

“Erendira’s not interested in whatever you’re proposing,” he said.

“I really would like to speak to her personally.”

The team collectively sucked in its breath. Jorge’s right eyebrow rose, in surprise. A scene from a 1993 football picture,
The Program,
was also cut because kids had imitated its characters, who lie down on a highway, for fun.

“That won’t be possible,” he said.

“Are you her manager?” I asked.

There was more shocked inhaling. Jorge sighed. With a wave of his hand, he motioned his teammates from the room. Casting sorrowful looks at me—they would never see me alive again—they dispersed to other areas of the enormous suite.