Winning is Everything (43 page)

“Got’cha,” said Ron.

Kirkland pushed his breakfast tray aside. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Yeah …” Ron pointed to a script lying atop Kirkland’s comforter. “You get a chance to read
Is There Life After Breakfast?
yet?”

“Not yet,” said Kirkland. “Any good?”

“Yes, it’s any good,” said Ron. “That’s why I asked you to read it a week ago. Good screwball comedy. Agent’s having an open bidding on it this afternoon, and I think you ought to get in on it. I know Fox and Paramount are interested.”

“Fine.” Kirkland shrugged. “Put in a bid for me. Make it a hundred thousand higher than whatever Fox puts up.”

“But you haven’t read the script!” said Ron.

“Who cares?” kvetched Kirkland. “You like it, Paramount likes it, Fox likes it. Let’s at least get in the running, show ‘em we’re interested, no?”

“But what if you win the auction?” asked Ron. “You’ll be buying something you may not want to produce!”

“So I’ll sell it to someone else,” said Kirkland. “First thing to remember in this business: if a property is hot, it becomes its own star. Nothing adds so much to the luster of a script as being around awhile and having all kinds of expenses attached to it. All part of the Hollywood snob system.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Ron, so grateful for the inside advice, he no longer minded that he had to fetch Dale’s slippers.

Ron spent the rest of the morning at Tara downstairs in the office going through the mail, rejecting several scripts, and talking on the telephone to agents, lawyers, studio executives. He drove out to Burbank and lunched with a couple of up-and-coming producers who wanted to interest Kirkland in becoming the executive producer on a property they were developing. Ron knew his boss wouldn’t be interested in working with these guys, but it was always a good idea to listen to everyone.

After lunch, Ron drove back to Tara, where preparations for that evening’s dinner party were under way. Ron checked the kitchen, spoke with the chef, went outside and spoke to the pool man. He had a fight with the florist about the centerpiece not being grand enough and he asked the handyman why the lights around the pool still had yet to be hooked up. Then he went into the library, where the two newest fillies from Frisco had just arrived.

“Hello, boys,” said Ron, taking a seat. “How was your flight?”

It took little time for Ron to perceive that although both hustlers were rugged and blond enough to please, one of them had yet to graduate past the school of dese, dem, and dose. Ron decided to invite the beauty who could complete several sentences in a row to the dinner party, and take the inarticulate animal to his apartment until after supper.

That decided, Ron drove over to the Kirkland offices in Century City to make a few calls, answer a few letters, check to make sure the new valet had arrived, and then drove home to his apartment in Beverly Hills with the less-articulate hustler, whom he planted mutely in front of the television.

By seven he had showered, dressed, thrown on his love beads, and was on his way back to Tara. He arrived to find the flowers still uncut, the table as yet unset, the chef throwing a tantrum in the kitchen because Balducci’s had failed to send over cilantro for his gazpacho, and other typical emergencies that called for his immediate attention.

Ron was good at managing hysteria. In fact, he thrived on it. So it was relatively easy for him to calm the chef, to arrange for the flowers to be correctly displayed, for the table to be promptly set.

Then he went upstairs to see how the Empress was doing with his new wardrobe man.

“You decent?” he asked outside the door.

“Come in, come in!” Kirkland yelled from inside his bathroom. Ron walked through the large master bedroom, into the bathroom, itself the size of Rhode Island, and looked around.

Mirrors everywhere. Apothecary jars filled with pastel powders, shelves of colognes, soft pink lighting, and a practically Olympic-sized bathtub with its own Jacuzzi jets, its own waterfall, and its own private glassed-in view of lower Beverly Hills.

And in the middle of all this opulence, floating around in a tiny mountain of pink bubbles, looking more Moby Dick than film producer, sat Dale Kirkland.

“Come here!” commanded the producer. “You’re just in time to scrub my back.”

Again that familiar sharp pain of disgust ground its way down Ron’s spine as he accepted the large bar of Givenchy soap his boss handed him.

“Turn around,” said Ron, sitting at the tub’s edge. “How do you like your new valet?”

“He’s in the other room ironing my blue caftan,” said Kirkland. “He’s certainly young and charming. The big question is, does he know how to iron?”

“We’ll know soon enough,” said Ron.

Ron and Dale had some business matters to discuss. Kirkland had five deals pending on five film musicals. There was a Broadway show in which he was greatly interested, two television specials, and several literary properties on which he was bidding. So he asked the most important question first. “What are the boys from San Francisco like?”

“You’ll love ‘em, Dale,” said Ron. “One is a perfect gentleman, and he’s coming to dinner. Very Boston, preppie, big shoulders, looks like he crewed for Yale.”

Ron could tell from the way Kirkland’s tongue was about to start lapping up his bathwater that the fat man was eager to meet his dinner companion.

“The other one is a late-night entry,” said Ron. “I think you may have struck gold with this import, Dale. He’s too crass to allow at the dinner table with your show-biz A-list royalty, but I’ve arranged for him to come over after the guests have left for a midnight swim and perhaps a short baby-oil-and-pose-down-wrestling-orgy. He’s a real gladiator!”

Kirkland’s entire face lit up like they’d just announced he’d won the Academy Award. “You’re the best, Zinelli,” said Kirkland.

The new valet came into the bathroom, proudly carrying Kirkland’s dark blue caftan in his arms.

“My God!” cried Kirkland. “Look at those seams! The fellow can iron! Zinelli, this may just be my lucky day! Let’s take something to celebrate!”

“Something like what?” asked Ron.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Kirkland. “Something to get us through the earlier part of the evening, something to keep my anxiety from exploding. Hand me that orange-and-green snuffbox on top of my dresser.”

Ron did as he was told.

“Perfect!” said Kirkland, lifting the top of the box and taking out a couple of Quaaludes. He handed one to Ron and put one in his mouth.

Ron made believe he swallowed the large white tablet while in fact he shoved it into his pants pocket. He wasn’t mad for the deep-down-stoned condition that came from mixing wine with the hypnotic tranquilizer.

“Okay, boss …” Ron stood up. “I’ll give you another fifteen minutes to get dressed, and then I’m sending up your new romance.”

“I’ll be waiting for him,” said Kirkland, dunking himself beneath the water.

Ron watched the symbol of the New Hollywood going down for the plunge and suddenly had a vision of what it might have been like to witness the sinking of the
Titanic.

86 

Guests began arriving a little after seven-thirty. Ron greeted them in the living room and entertained them while they waited for their host. The successful producers and important studio heads, wealthy movie stars, and top agents had no idea that Kirkland was upstairs, preoccupied, sipping champagne with an expensive, if insipid hustler from northern California.

Virginia Michaels arrived just before eight and Ron was pleased to see she looked dazzling. He kissed her hello and nuzzled her ear, hoping Kirkland wasn’t going to be the only happy winner that night.

Just before eight-thirty, Kirkland bounced downstairs with his new boyfriend. You’d think they’d known each other half a lifetime, the way the large man escorted the boy around the room, introducing the kid to all the guests.

Ron was glad the Empress was pleased. Hopefully the fat man might fall in love. That way, he’d be sure to take off in a few days for Paris or Tahiti or some place that would keep the hustler happy. It was a familiar tune. Kirkland would shower any hustler he liked with gifts and trips, and the boy would stick around, sometimes even going on salary, until the fat man tired of his presence.

Kirkland opened a gold Tiffany cigarette case and offered the Hollywood hip one of the marijuana cigarettes he had rolled upstairs. By the time dinner was served, guests were so stoned they had to practically be led into the candlelit dining room.

Kirkland wolfed down his gazpacho and encouraged everyone else to do the same. When the salmon mousse arrived, he gobbled it up and then waited at the head of the table, impatient and petulant, while the rest of the guests savored the fine champagne sauce. By the time the
Chateaubriand
arrived and Kirkland began chomping down his meat like a caveman, it was apparent to Ron that the only thing his boss was in the mood for that night were the imported delicacies from San Francisco.

When the maid came over to Kirkland and asked quietly if she should bring out the serving tray to see if anyone wanted second helpings, Kirkland told her not to bother. He told her, in fact, to skip the salad-and-cheese course and go directly to dessert. To hell with the guests.

As the
tarte aux framboises avec crème fraîche
dishes were being cleared, Kirkland announced that coffee and cognacs and still more kif would be served in the living room. Ron headed straight into the kitchen and told Henry the chauffeur to drive over to his apartment, pick up the mystery guest there, and bring him back to the Kirkland kitchen until they were ready for him.

Ron cleared his way through a haze of smoke as he walked into the living room. He knew the wheels of the rest of the evening were now in motion and he could soon stop worrying about Kirkland and start concentrating on Virginia Michaels.

Guests splintered off into various cliques around the many couches in the huge living room. Conversation was lively and heated. It mattered not on which couch you were seated, the topic of discussion, suede to suede, chintz to chintz, was invariably the same: the movie business.

Ron was grateful the dinner party was being held on a Wednesday night. People in the movie business started work early, so he knew this week-night party would be breaking up soon enough.

By 11:30 most of the guests had already left, the few remaining finishing up cognacs or trying to sober up for their drives home with final cups of coffee.

Ron walked into the kitchen to make sure the hustler had shown up. Sure enough, blond and muscular, the fresh recruit sat on a stool eating a plateful of leftover Chateaubriand.

“Good—you’re here,” said Ron.

“Your television gets lousy reception,” said the hustler.

“Thanks,” said Ron. “I promise to have it fixed before your next visit. They giving you enough to eat?”

“Sure.”

“Okay … have a good time. Shouldn’t be more than another half an hour before you start. You play your cards right, you could be a rich young man by morning, understand?”

The hustler smiled. He understood.

Ron returned to the living room, sat down next to Virginia Michaels. “How would you like to come back to my place?” he whispered into the starlet’s ear.

Virginia considered her options. If Kirkland Enterprises began to manage her career, it could be the best thing to happen to her. And if going home with this nice-enough fellow might facilitate that decision, she’d damn well better accept. “Love to,” she whispered back.

Kirkland was at the front door saying good-bye to the last of his guests. He was, at this point, so woozy he was weaving to and fro, looking like a drunken sumo wrestler.

But that was really not Ron’s concern. He reached into his pocket, snapped in two the Quaalude Kirkland had given him earlier, and handed half to Virginia. “Here,” he said seductively. “You’ll like this.”

Virginia didn’t blink as she accepted the drug. “When do we get out of here? I’ve got my car. I’ll follow you.”

“Just a few more minutes,” said Ron as he took some of her soda water and swallowed his half of the pill. Indeed, he was anxious to get out of Tara and home to his place before the effects of the drug made driving unfeasible. “I just have to deliver a package from the kitchen, and we’ll be off.”

Ron gave Virginia a small kiss on the lips and then went into the kitchen to fetch the second gladiator.

Dale Kirkland was thrilled by the appearance of the midnight guest, even if the fat man was too gonzo-bonzo to distinguish if he had on hand a Mickey Hargitay or a Mickey Rooney.

It was a good thing the two hustlers were weight lifters, because they had to practically carry Kirkland up the many stairs to the master bedroom.

Kirkland lay down on his bed and was all set to begin the overture of his orgiastic orchestrations, all set to get the boys hopped up for their wrestling match, all set to start tinkering with a whole new arsenal of drugs, when he closed his eyes for the shortest of moments and—unexpectedly—stayed down for the count.

The hustlers didn’t know quite what to do, so they kind of napped in a couple of easy chairs while their fat john snored blissfully as he slept.

Back in his apartment, Ron kissed Virginia Michaels. He could tell from the pliancy of her lips that her half Quaalude had taken effect. He looked forward to staying up maybe till dawn, knowing Kirkland would probably be spending the day in bed. He was pleased to know he could sleep late, that Tubby the Tuba would be up all night, languishing between the biceps, the buttocks, the thighs of his gladiators. The only work Ron might have to do the following morning would be to call a jeweler or two, or the fat man’s travel agent to initiate some airplane and hotel reservations. It would be a light day.

By seven o’clock the following morning, Kirkland was far too hung-over, in far too bitchy a mood to think about playing with his gladiators. He told them to gather their things and get the hell back to San Francisco.

The romance was over. There would be no trips to Tahiti.

The boys did as they were told. They hardly cared. It was certainly the easiest two hundred and fifty bucks they’d each ever made.

Ron’s plan to sleep late and have a light day was soured when the phone began ringing off the hook at 7:30 and Kirkland, howling mad at himself for having passed out the night before, demanded Ron’s presence at Tara in twenty minutes flat.