Winning is Everything (48 page)

“You’re right,” said Gary. “He’ll at least read the thing, I’m sure. And any advice he has will have to be more constructive than anything Don Hoexter had to say.”

“Exactly.” Ellenor smiled.

“I’ll call him tomorrow!” Gary stated emphatically.

“Don’t bother,” said Ellenor, making a face like she might have done something else wrong.

“What’s that mean?”

“That means, right after I finished reading your book, it occurred to me that the one person who should definitely see it was Michael Reese, and then, after I found out where he was, I dropped off the manuscript and set up an appointment for you.”

“You didn’t?” Gary raised his voice, not knowing whether he was pleased or angry.

“I did.” Ellenor smiled. “You’ve got an appointment Thursday at three o’clock.”

Michael Reese’s office at Littlefield was a lot larger than the cubbyhole he’d worked out of at Gyro Press.

“Come in, Gary,” Michael said. “Have a seat. Have a Coke. A cup of coffee. A glass of hemlock. You name it, we got it.”

“Nothing, thanks.” Gary shook Reese’s hand and sat down. “How’ve you been?”

“Successful,” said Reese. “Four of the books on our spring list were picked up by the Book-of-the-Month Club, and we had three of the top ten best-sellers on last Sunday’s New York
Times
list. I have my own office now, my own secretary. My expense account reads like the national defense budget. What else do you want to know?”

“If things are going so well,” Gary asked, “how come we’re not having lunch?”

“Good question!” said Reese, removing his granny glasses. “Because we gotta talk. We gotta make a deal. Then, next time we meet, we celebrate over lunch. How’s that?”

“Fine,” said Gary. “Where do I sign?”

“Try the dotted line,” said Michael. “But seriously, not only am I glad to see you, I’m glad to have read your manuscript. I think you’ve done it this time. I think we can do extremely well.”

“Really?” Gary asked, hoping not to sound too overwhelmed.

“Truly!” said Michael emphatically. “But it’s not going to be easy, and it’s not going to be any sure thing. This is a very sensitive work and, brother, have we got a lot of rewriting to do!”

“I figured as much,” said Gary.

“Good,” said Reese. “Because what we have now is a good first draft. Just that. The bones of the beast are all here, but now you need to flesh it out, give it body and texture.”

“In other words,” said Gary, “you’re telling me I have to rewrite the damned book.”

“Exactly!” shouted Reese. “You see how well we work together?”

“I thought we always did,” Gary said calmly.

“Okay.” Reese leaned back in his swivel chair. “First thing we gotta do is talk the book in broad strokes. Come to some understanding. If you agree with me as to what needs to be done before we have a first-rate manuscript, well, then I call up the contracts department and make you an offer. What do you say?”

“I say it sounds like we got a deal!” said Gary as he stood up, stepped forward, and shook hands with Michael Reese.

92 

Ron finished reading the
New York Magazine
article about a couple of long-haired antiestablishment dopers on a European cross-continental motorcycle trek and knew at once it would make a terrific film.

Time was of the essence. He put in a call to the magazine to find out who the writer’s agent was. He called the agent immediately and casually inquired how much they were asking for the film rights to the property. The agent told him they wouldn’t even consider a penny less than half a million dollars, and Ron told the agent it was too much money.

Leaving his office, Ron walked up the stairs at Tara and crossed the hall to where Dale Kirkland was having his midday snooze.

“Sorry to wake you,” Ron said, peering into Kirkland’s gargantuan suite. “But this may be real important.”

Kirkland rubbed weary eyes. “You better tell me Mr. America is coming over to jerk me off, or some rich aunt died and left me ten million dollars, buster, or your ass is going to be in a lot of trouble.”

“Close!” said Ron, walking into the room. “This has to do with money, which I’m sure is still one of your favorite words. First of all, you gotta read this.” Ron tossed the magazine down on his bed. “And you have to do it now. I just spoke to New York, and Norman Lear is interested. They’re asking—don’t laugh—half a million, probably because they’ve all seen the grosses on
Easy Rider,
but I think they’re bluffing and will settle right now for three-five, and if I weren’t so excited about this, I never would’ve disturbed La Gorda from his royal slumber. But this is it, Dale—the project we’ve been waiting for. Give it a read. Take you half an hour. I told New York we’d call back before three. As a movie, it’s a natural. We’ll put a devastating music score on that soundtrack. You’ll make almost as much money from the sale of the record album as you will from box-office admissions. Don’t thank me. Just read. I’ll be in my office biting my cuticles to shreds until you finish.”

The fat man picked up the magazine. “You better cut the bullshit and get the fuck outta here so I can read this nonsense before Norman Lear buys it out from under our noses.”

Ron turned to walk out of Kirkland’s suite. “Talk to you in half an hour.”

* * *

Ron was sitting in his office trying to decide which cocktail parties he would attend that evening, when the door flung open and his boss barreled in.

“Well?” asked Ron, looking up from his selection of invitations.

“It’s the one … you were right,” said Kirkland. “Too good to pass up!”

Ron jumped up from his desk, delighted. “Great! I just knew you’d go for it. You won’t be sorry!”

“I will if we can’t afford it,” said Kirkland. “Call New York and offer them four hundred thousand. I know it’s too much, but I don’t want to spend five weeks haggling over this property. I want it in my stable
now!”

“I already did,” Ron said sheepishly.

“Already did what?” Kirkland huffed.

“Already went ahead and called New York and told them you loved it, and offered them three hundred thou, cash on the line, and they wanted to know how soon your lawyers could close the deal.”

Kirkland took pudgy hands out of his caftan and clapped them together several times. “You mean we got it? It’s ours?”

“All ours!” Ron beamed. “There’s only one thing left we gotta do …”

“And what’s that?” Kirkland was eager to know.

“Make the goddamn movie!” said Ron with a nonchalant snap of his fingers.

“Can’t you come up with another word for ‘overcast’?” Michael asked Gary.

“Hunh?” Gary looked up from the typewriter.

They were in Michael’s living room on the Upper West Side. Michael was sitting on the floor, a slew of manuscript pages spread out on the carpeting before him.

“You’re describing this near-disastrous skiing experience between your two lead characters, in Italy. But you’ve used the word ‘overcast’ twice already. I was wondering if you couldn’t think of something fresher to describe the weather.”

“How ‘bout ‘threatening’?” asked Gary.

“’Threatening’ is perfect!” said Michael, writing it onto the page in blue pencil. “Adds to the tension of the scene!”

“Good,” said Gary, typing away at another scene he was rewriting.

Under Michael’s guidance, they were reshaping Gary’s manuscript section by section. Rarely do editors and writers work so closely, but something between them had clicked on this book.

“Want to break for some dinner?” Gary asked after he’d typed the end of a descriptive passage. “I’m getting tired.”

“How about first we finish this chapter?” Michael responded.

“It’s another twenty pages!”

“Well, why don’t we at least put in another forty-five minutes, and then hightail it down to Tony’s for something sloppy and fattening?”

“Sounds light-years away,” said Gary. “Besides, I’ve been bent over this typewriter since early morning. My back is killing me.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Michael jumped to his feet. “Not only am I the master editor, I also just happen to be a magician when it comes to sore backs.”

“Good,” said Gary, pointing to a knot at the back of his right shoulder. “Can you do something with the incessant pain right here?”

Michael stretched out his fingers and then dug them into the spot to which Gary had pointed.

“You’re right,” said Gary, enjoying the strong touch of Michael’s hands on his back. “That does feel great. If you could just keep doing that for the next three months, I promise we’ll have a best-seller on our hands.”

“Don’t worry,” said Michael, digging into Gary’s shoulder with his hands. “I’m not going anywhere.”

As Gary sat at his typewriter, he began to fantasize how he would respond if Michael were to make some sexual advance—which was something of a coincidence, because as Michael was pressing his fingers into Gary’s back, he found himself growing hard with desire.

It was only a matter of moments before they discovered their mutual attraction. In the end, they never got through the next twenty pages; they never made it over to Tony’s for pasta, either.

93 

Ron was too nervous to sit down. He paced around his office looking at his watch, counting the minutes until ten o’clock.

Twelve more minutes.

He’d been waiting several months for this day and was now getting so hyper about it, he knew he’d need to take a Valium soon if he was going to calm down. It was three months to the day that Vince Simon had been signed to write the first-draft screenplay for
Nowhere Road.
Ron had not been familiar with Simon’s work. In fact, he had suggested they hire Warren Talbot to adapt the
New York Magazine
article. But oh no, Talbot wasn’t good enough. Not for Dale Kirkland. The gargantuan producer had insisted upon hiring someone with several screenplay credits. Someone who would cost a fortune. Someone like Vince Simon.

So Ron and Kirkland had discussed the project with Simon in detail, and then, after Simon had handed in a treatment of a dozen or so pages, Kirkland had decided it was time to let Simon go off on his own and write the screenplay.

In the three months since that time, Ron had been in touch with the screenwriter almost every day, asking to see completed pages, asking if he could be of any help. But Vince Simon claimed the story was coming along just fine and that both Ron and Kirkland could take a look at the screenplay, in one shot, once it was finished.

The script was now completed and Vince Simon was sending a messenger over to Tara to deliver it.

The buzzer on Ron’s desk rang.

“Messenger’s here with copies of the Simon screenplay,” said Ron’s secretary.

“Great!” said Ron. “Bring one in to me and deliver one to Mr. Kirkland right away. I can hardly wait to read it.”

“Yes, Mr. Zinelli.”

“And hold all calls, will you?”

“Yes, Mr. Zinelli.”

“If I can get to this right away, I can read it before lunch.”

“Yes, Mr. Zinelli.”

By the time Ron finished reading Vince Simon’s screenplay of
Nowhere Road
, he had lost his appetite for lunch. He was almost too depressed to look up as Dale Kirkland came into his office.

Kirkland’s teeth had recently been wired together by a Beverly Hills physician who claimed he could get the film producer to lose forty pounds by force-fasting. Since Kirkland knew his heart was now overstrained even when he was asleep, he’d agreed to have his teeth closed for a month.

“You hated it!” Ron said emphatically.

Kirkland barreled toward Ron and threw the script down on his desk. “Of course I hated it!” bellowed the large producer through clenched teeth. “It’s dog shit!”

“True,” Ron said softly.

“For this we paid seventy-five thousand dollars?”

“The scenes in Sweden aren’t too bad,” said Ron, searching for a silver lining.

“Sure!” Kirkland slammed a fist onto Ron’s desk. “All six pages of it. And what about the other hundred and eighteen? What do we do with them, start a bonfire?”

“Okay!” Ron was decisive as he stood and walked over to his window. “Contract calls for Simon doing a second draft for another twenty thousand. Let’s get him down here, tell him what’s wrong with what he’s given us, get him back to his typewriter for another draft.”

“Screw his second draft!” screamed Kirkland. “I want him off the project. I’ve read better writing on bathroom walls!”

“Whatever you say, Dale. Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! Damn writer’s been in solitude three months, promising us nothing but Pulitzer Prize material, and finally he delivers a pile of crap not worth the paper it’s typed on. Lousy script has no balls!”

“Okay, Dale …” Ron tried to soothe his boss. “Let’s bring in someone else.”

“Fine!” Kirkland barked. “Like who?”

“How about Warren Talbot? I don’t want to say I told you so, but you remember I wanted him in from the start.”

“Talbot, that weasel?” Kirkland screwed his face into an agonized contortion and ran his fingers through his bright red hair. “You really think he can do it?”

“I do,” said Ron. “Look, the film structure is all there. Big problem we have now is dialogue and characterization—two of Talbot’s strong points.”

“Talbie, huh?” Kirkland sat down in a chair in front of Ron’s desk to entertain the notion. “What happened to that play, the one he was polishing in Tortola?”

“Closed in Philadelphia,” Ron said to the floor, so quietly Kirkland didn’t hear him.

“Stop mumbling,” said Kirkland. “What happened?”

“Closed out of town,” Ron repeated. “But that’s good for us. If his play had been a roaring success, his price would be astronomical. Now that he’s down again, we can buy the same talent for a song.”

“Big deal!” huffed Kirkland. “Who needs a cheap song?”

“Listen to me, Dale. Warren can make it work. I know he can.”

“I hear he’s drinking again,” said Kirkland, dead serious.

“I’ll take care of that,” Ron said with confidence. “I know how to handle most of his neuroses. So come on—wadda ya say?”

“I say call him.” Kirkland stood. “Get his ass out here. Put him up at the Beverly Hills … get him a bungalow … for three weeks only … after that we see a rewrite, clear?”

“Crystal,” said Ron after Kirkland had slammed the office door behind him.

Ron picked up the phone and buzzed his secretary. “Get me Warren Talbot in New York,” he instructed. “Number’s in the Rolodex. And call Scandia and tell them I’ll be fifteen minutes late for my luncheon appointment.”

A minute later, Ron’s secretary buzzed to let him know Warren Talbot was on the line.

“Talbie!” Ron sang into the phone. “You old monkey’s uncle … how the fuck are you?”

“It’s three-thirty in the afternoon,” moaned Talbot. “How would I know?”

“Rise and shine,” said Ron. “We got business to discuss.”

“Call my agent,” mumbled Talbot, sounding like he was drifting back to sleep.

“Rough night?” asked Ron.

“Are there any other kind?” asked Talbot.

“Okay … listen to this. I got a proposition for you. I want you out of bed, into the bathroom, showered, and fresh. Take a thousand aspirin and have a pot of coffee. I’m shipping you a copy of a screenplay Dale and I are developing, air express, got it? Probably get there first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll give you three hours to read it, three minutes to agree to rewrite it, three days to get your life in order and wing out here to Tinseltown, and three weeks to whip a working draft into shape. Tell your agent we’re offering a flat twenty-five thou for a second-draft rewrite, nothing more, and get your butt out here. We’re putting you into a bungalow at the B.H.”

“Is this a dream?” asked Talbot.

“This ain’t no dream, Sleeping Beauty!” insisted Ron. “This is a reallife Hollywood deal!”

“But why?” asked Talbot, sounding like a little boy. “Why do this for me?”

“Why not?” said Ron. “You helped me out when I was down, didn’t you? Least I can do is repay the favor. Besides, I honestly believe you can pull this one off.”

Warren Talbot spent his first two weeks in Hollywood drying out. As promised, he gave up the booze, gave up the drugs, and found himself fresh and alert, at nine o’clock each morning, staring at a blank page in his typewriter.

Trouble was, he couldn’t think of a thing to write.

Ron dropped in every day with lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers, and other fresh produce for salads. He brought bottles of multivitamin tablets and had several gallons of bottled spring water delivered. He promised Talbot that his writer’s block was a temporary condition, and sure enough, toward the end of the second week of his stay, Talbot’s typewriter keys started clicking. The ideas started flowing. Stale characters came to life. Vince Simon’s dialogue became sharp and witty.

Toward the end of his third week in California, Talbot told Ron he’d need at least another two weeks of work before he could turn in his rewrite. Ron said he was sure it would be no problem. He’d just make a call and get an okay from Kirkland.

Kirkland blew his top.

“That no-good has-been!” he yelled into the phone. “Another two weeks? Are you crazy? That dummy was told he had three weeks. If he chose to spend the first two weeks being insecure and crazy, is it my fault? Does he think a bungalow at the Beverly Hills is the same as a few nights at the Holiday Inn? Tell him to pack up and get out!”

Ron took the time to calm Kirkland down, to explain that he felt Talbot was finally making the story work. “We’ve come this far with him,” said Ron, “Let’s go the distance and see what he comes up with. I’ve only seen a couple of pages, but they sure seemed on the right track. Wadda you say?”

Kirkland said plenty: specifically, that he was getting bored with this entire project, that he wasn’t even sure he wanted to make a picture that now seemed, at best, like a clone of
Easy Rider,
that if Talbot wasn’t finished with his rewrite in
one
more week and if it didn’t tickle him silly, he was going to drop
Nowhere Road
from his slate and declare it as a capital loss. “It’s getting too expensive,” Kirkland told Ron. “Even for me!”

Frustrated, Kirkland slammed down the phone and dashed into the security blanket that was his kitchen. None of the servants were in, so he had to wait on himself. He opened the largest refrigerator offered by General Electric and surveyed his options. Roast beef and turkey and potato salad, and he was going crazy, salivating at the very sight of his cook’s pot roast and her noted apple pie—items he could hardly squeeze past his clamped-shut, wired-together teeth.

Rather than starve to death right there on the spot, Kirkland pulled a frozen pizza from his freezer, popped it under the broiler, and waited while it defrosted and heated.

He removed the steaming pizza from the broiler and tossed it into his Osterizer. Round and round spun tomato sauce, melted mozzarella, elastic dough.

Kirkland stabbed a plastic straw smack into the very center of all that reddish gook, and—slurp!—began sucking up the pizza juice.

It was, for reasons he could not fathom, an unfulfilling experience.

For the next week Ron and Talbot worked all day, from early morning to late in the evening. Ron even canceled his luncheon and dinner appointments just so he could help work out the elements of each line of dialogue, each character, each scene.

On Friday, at noon, Talbot crossed his last t, dotted his last and handed the finished draft to Ron.

“Congratulations,” said Ron, shaking the playwright’s hand. “You’ve done a fine job!”

“Christ,” said Talbot. “Let’s hope the fat man agrees with you.”

“You did it, Warren,” said Ron. “You stayed off the booze, off the pills. You’ve been straight for four weeks. Now, why don’t you let me buy you the world’s largest, driest martini?”

“That, my friend,” said Talbot, “is the best idea I’ve heard in a month!”

Ron and Talbot had two martinis each in the Polo Lounge and then Ron tucked Talbot’s draft under his arm and headed over to Tara to deliver the goods.

Kirkland was on his way out as Ron drove up.

“Where you going?” asked Ron.

“San Francisco,” said Kirkland, looking at his Piaget. “Catching the six-thirty flight.”

“For how long?” Ron wanted to know, surprised by this sudden shift in schedule.

“Probably just the weekend,” said Kirkland. “There’s a couple of parties up there look like they might be fun.”

“But Talbot’s screenplay!” Ron flashed Warren’s draft in front of Kirkland’s face. “He’s finished!”

“And about fucking time!” Kirkland said with a definite lack of interest. “All right, give it to me. Maybe I can read it on the plane.”

“What do we do with Talbot?” asked Ron.