The Making of Minty Malone (42 page)

‘You gotta try CAA – that stands for Creative Artists Agency – they’re the tops. They’re on Wilshire Boulevard. Then there’s ICM and William Morris – just ring ‘em all up and ask if any of their guys have been in contact with your friend.’

‘We’ll do better than that,’ said Amber. ‘We’ll go there in person.’

But first we took a cab to Hertz and picked up a car. Half an hour later we were bowling along in a Ford Mustang convertible with the roof down. I switched on the radio and spun through the dials.

‘
This is KLSX Talk Radio on 97.1 …expected high, 74 degrees///Call Attorney Frank Cohen – no win, no fee/// …smog levels good today …long tailbacks on Santa Monica …///And God said to me, “Go forth and slay the devil …”///You’re listening to KXWQ/// …And now these messages: Why not make new friends and find that special someone
 …?’

I
had
found that special someone, I realised ruefully, but then I went and lost him again.

‘Dorothy Parker described Los Angeles as “seventy-two suburbs in search of a city”,’ said Amber. ‘I think that’s rather good, don’t you?’

Indeed I did. For where was the centre? There didn’t seem to
be
one. We just criss-crossed street after palm-punctuated street, all looking roughly the same – low-rise buildings topped by huge billboards with vast, iconic images of the stars. Sandra Bullock and Sharon Stone were projected forty feet high. Harrison Ford seemed to gaze down on us with Pharoanic grandeur. The Marlboro Man loomed as large as Godzilla or King Kong. Overhead, signs directed us to Bel Air and Santa Monica, Venice Beach and Brentwood, Pacific Palisades and Fairfax, Malibu and Hollywood Hills. I stared at the map on my lap, but it might as well have been differential calculus for all the sense it made to me. I hadn’t a clue where we were, but it didn’t matter, because Amber did. She knew exactly. And it occurred to me, not for the first time, that there’s a parallel here with her career. She’s so much a better critic than she is a novelist, just as she’s a much better navigator than a driver. I mean, she’s really
not
very good behind the wheel, but she sure as hell knows the way.

‘OK – this is Sunset Boulevard,’ she said, stabbing the map with her right index finger as we drove along. ‘That’s the House of Blues-’ she pointed to an artistically dilapidated tin-shack. ‘It was owned by John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd. And that,’ she said, swivelling her head to the right with an alarming lack of rearwards observation, ‘is Spago’s, Los Angeles’ most famous restaurant.’

‘How do you know all this? We’ve only just got here.’

‘By meticulous study of the guide books,’ she replied. ‘I
love
guide books, Minty, don’t you? I read them like novels.’

‘Well …’

‘Now, that black building must be the Viper Room,’ she added as we approached a traffic light. She looked at her guide book. ‘Yes, it
is
,’ she confirmed happily. ‘It’s the Viper Room –’

‘Amber!’

‘No, it was still green.’

‘It had gone red!’

‘Oh well, I just can’t find the brake on this bloody car.
Anyway
, the Viper Room’s owned by Johnny Depp,’ she explained calmly as my soaring pulse began to dip. ‘That’s where River Phoenix died. Right there. On the pavement. Terrible. OK,’ she went on, ‘we’re going to the top of Sunset. And of course everyone knows what happened to Hugh Grant on Sunset Boulevard, don’t they? Poor love! Anyway, we should hang a left somewhere soon and that’ll take us on to Wilshire Boulevard, and with any luck we’ll find CAA somewhere near the top.’

Five minutes later we slammed to a halt outside a white office building, bowed at the front like the space ship in
ET.
I ran inside and spoke to a woman on reception, and she put me through to someone called Cathy on an internal phone.

‘Do you know a British scriptwriter by the name of Joe Bridges?’ I asked her. ‘He’s written an absolutely
brilliant
screenplay.’

‘Oh, really?’ she said warily. She was as warm as Icelandic cod.

‘Yes,’ I persisted. ‘It’s about an autistic boy and his dog. It’s set in Poland after the war. It’s very, very moving, and it’s based on his novel, which was published in Britain last year. He’s called Joe Bridges,’ I repeated, ‘and I’m rather anxious to find him.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Cathy, ‘I really can’t help you. We get so many enquiries from scriptwriters.’

‘But I’ve flown to LA from London specially. I’m in love with him, you see.’

‘You’ve come from London?’

‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

‘You’ve no address for him, and you’ve just flown here from London?’ she repeated incredulously.

‘Yes,’ I said. I suddenly felt silly and rather self-conscious.

‘Oh, that is
so
romantic!’ she exclaimed. ‘Hang on, I’ll be right down.’ And so she came down to reception.

‘Now, I haven’t heard of this guy – what’s his name again?’

‘Joe Bridges. He’s only been in LA two weeks.’

‘And his script’s about an artistic Polish boy who befriends a dog.’

‘Not artistic,
autistic.
Like in
Rain Man.
It’s absolutely brilliant – incredibly moving. Anyway, as I say, I’m trying to find him. Could you possibly ask your colleagues if they’ve heard of him?’

‘Hmm, I guess I could send an e-mail round to everyone, but I’m afraid they’ll take time to get back to me.’

‘Well, if you do discover that someone working here knows him, or has even met him, please could you ask them to call me at my hotel?’

‘Sure. Oh, this is
so
great – I just love stories like this.’

‘Well, thanks very much for your help. If he
does
turn up here in the next five days, could you possibly tell him that Minty’s at the Four Seasons and would really like to see him?’

‘Sure. Lemme write that down. Minnie’s at the Four Seasons …’

‘No, not Minnie, as in Mouse – Minty.’

‘That’s what I said, Minnie. Good luck.’

Next stop was ICM, a little further down Wilshire Boulevard, where I repeated my spiel about Joe and his script, only to be told the same thing. And then we drove up to William Morris on El Camino Drive – I drew a blank there too. By which time Amber said she was exhausted and feeling jet-lagged and needed to go shopping in Rodeo Drive.

‘Perhaps he’s gone straight to a producer,’ she said as we wandered out of Versace and into Tommy Hilfiger twenty minutes later. ‘Perhaps he’s working in a studio. Perhaps he’s sweeping the streets.’

‘Perhaps he’s living on the moon with Elvis,’ I said bleakly. ‘I mean, where do scriptwriters
go
in Tinseltown?’

‘Excuse me,’ said the young assistant, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing you, and I think I might be able to help.’

‘
Yes
?’ we said.

‘I’m trying to break into scriptwriting too,’ he said. ‘There’s a café where a lot of the writers hang out. It’s on Beverly
Boulevard, and it’s called Insomnia because it’s open until four a.m. Maybe you’ll find your friend there.’

Amber had parked the Mustang at an oblique angle under a jacaranda tree. She released the handbrake and off we went, her head darting dangerously from road to map.

‘It’s at 7285 Beverly Boulevard,’ she said. ‘OK, we go up here to Olympic Boulevard, then cross La Cienega, drive about fifteen blocks, take a left down …Cloverdale, all the way up, on to Beverly, and then it should be a couple of blocks down on the left-hand side.’

And she was right. That’s exactly where it was. Opposite a synagogue. The café was done up in theatrical, shabby-chic style, with heavy velvet drapes, dusty chandeliers, battered chairs and tables, and shelves groaning with books. It was packed, yet it was silent. This was because everyone – including the waitress – was writing. They sat there in silence with their latte and their lap-tops, or with pens and pads of A4. The atmosphere was as quiet and intense as that in a university library the day before finals. Inhibited by the atmosphere of studious concentration, I idly looked at the books.
How to Sell Your Screenplay; How to Hack it in Hollywood;
and
Body Trauma – A Writer’s Guide to Wounds and Injuries.

‘Ask
him
!’ whispered Amber hoarsely. ‘That chap over there, in the blue jumper. He looks like he’s taking a break.’

I went up to him, introduced myself, and explained that I was trying to find Joe.

‘Joe Bridges?’ said the young man thoughtfully. ‘Joe Bridges? Mmmmm. Joe Bridges …?’

‘You’ve heard of him?’ I said.

‘No.’

‘Oh. Well, he’s written a script,’ I explained. ‘It’s set in Poland. It’s about an autistic boy and a dog. It’s absolutely brilliant. He’s trying to sell it, and I just don’t know
where
he is or what he might be doing. His mobile phone doesn’t work, and I don’t have any leads and I’ve only got five days and I don’t really know LA, so I can’t begin to imagine where he might be or what he’d be doing.’

‘Well …’ said the writer, whose name was Jed, ‘he’d be hanging out in the bars; crashing the Hollywood parties; trying to get an actor or a director interested in his film. I’ve got a deal,’ he went on as he sipped his coffee, ‘and I got it by disguising myself as a waiter at a party where I knew John Boorman was going to be. When I brought him his drink, I gave him a copy of my script. Just like that! And he read it, and he liked it, and now it’s in the early stages of development.’

‘Wow!’

‘A friend of mine got a job washing the cars of famous directors. He was cleaning Tim Burton’s car and he just left a copy of his script on the passenger seat. And Tim read it and liked it.’

‘Gosh.’

‘And a girlfriend of mine posed as a hairdresser and did Meg Ryan’s hair. While Meg was sitting there, she told her all about her script.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, you know that messy, just-got-out-of-bed look Meg’s got?’

‘Yes.’

‘Unfortunately that was the best my friend could do. Luckily, Meg liked it. Then someone else I know disguised himself as a dentist and got to do Kevin Costner’s teeth, and while Kevin was stuck there, in the chair, he said he’d extract them all if the guy didn’t read his script.’

‘What happened?’

‘He got arrested. So your friend might be doing that kind of thing.’

‘I hope not.’

‘I mean, he’ll be networking like crazy by any means he can, because it’s just so hard in this town. I mean, like, every day two hundred people move to LA in the hope of becoming successful scriptwriters. It’s desperate.’

‘Do you come here a lot?’ I asked him.

‘Most days. I’m rewriting my re-writes.’

‘Well, if you do see Joe Bridges, please would you give him
a message? Would you tell him that Minty’s staying at the Four Seasons.’

‘Sure: Mindy’s at the Four Seasons.’

‘No, Min
t
y’.

‘That’s what I said: Mindy. But if you’re staying at the Four Seasons you should ask people there – in the bar. Just go right up to them and ask. It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody. It’s like, complete Rumoursville here,’ he went on. ‘It’s Chinese Whispers. People gossip constantly. So if you get chatting, I’m sure someone will have met him. Or you might even see him walk in.’

So that evening, when we got back to the hotel, we changed into our smartest gear. I’d put on a cocktail dress, and Amber was wearing a linen trouser suit. And I was just applying a bit of make-up in the bathroom, because obviously I wanted to look my best when I saw Joe again, when I glanced at my watch and saw that it was eight p.m., which was really four in the morning for us.

‘You know, we’re lucky the jet-lag hasn’t hit us too badly,’ I called out as I put on some mascara. ‘I mean, to us, it’s really the middle of the night, isn’t it? But I think we’re coping pretty well, aren’t we, Amber? …Amber? …Why don’t you say something?’

I stuck my head round the door. She was lying face-down on her bed, asleep. And I felt exhausted too. A wave of fatigue knocked me down like a brick to the head. Joe would just have to wait, I thought wearily, as I put on my pyjamas. Never mind, I said to myself philosophically. Tomorrow is another day.

‘
Go-od morning, you’re listening to KCRW public radio, it’s Friday the seventh of May, it’s six a.m., and it’s another LA day. The sun is ju-st coming up and smog levels are going to be good …
’ I got out of bed, opened the balcony doors and stood there watching the sky turn from russet pink to pale turquoise to a searing Yves Klein blue. Then I heard Amber stir and we went down to the open-air fitness centre on the fourth floor. We lapped
the pool for half an hour, then sat in a cabana sipping coffee.

‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said Amber as a hummingbird hovered by an adjacent orange tree.

‘It’s lovely,’ I said. And then I glanced into the gym, which was already in use despite the early hour. We could hear the whir and bleep of the machines.

‘
Sporty Spice
!’ I whispered in the hushed, reverential tones David Attenborough uses when he’s just spotted some rare species of tropical bat.

‘What?’

‘Sporty Spice –
there
, in the gym.’

‘My God!’ breathed Amber. ‘So it is. She’s up early.’

‘So are we. And isn’t that …no, it can’t be …but it does look like …?’

‘Who?’ said Amber, squinting.

‘Seinfeld!’

‘
No
!’

‘Yes. There – on the far jogging machine.’

Amber’s eyes narrowed to slits.

‘So it
is.
Gosh! I dare you to go and talk to him.’

‘Talk to him?’

‘Yes, I dare you. To ask his advice.’

‘You dare me?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK then, I will.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘I’m going to.’

‘I’m watching.’

‘I’m going to go right up to Jerry Seinfeld and talk to him about Joe.’

‘Let’s see you.’

‘Right.’

‘Off you go, Minty.’

My stomach was churning like a cement mixer and my legs seemed to have turned to marshmallow.

‘Any day now,’ I said.

‘Go on. But wait till he comes off the running machine.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Don’t want to annoy the guy.’

‘No.’

Five minutes later Seinfeld’s jogging machine slowed, and stopped, then he stepped off.