Winning is Everything (50 page)

“Oh,” said Kip, “I’ve been playing someone who’s making believe he’s crazy.”

“Well, then, I certainly don’t have to rush to see that, do I?” asked Jean Bramer with a wink. “That’s a part I’ve been playing for years!”

96 

Warren Talbot would have loved his funeral. Dale Kirkland provided the writer with the splashiest burial party since the coming of sound. He summoned celebs from the whole of his Rolodex, Desi Arnaz to Fred Zinnemann. He hired so many limousines, garages had to press into service Lincolns and Cadillacs imported from San Diego and Santa Barbara.

“Christ,” remarked one of the mourners. “I haven’t seen so many flowers since they buried Benito Mussolini!”

Kirkland delivered the kind of lengthy eulogy he hoped someone might one day bestow upon him, going on and on at length about how Warren Talbot loved Hollywood, Warren Talbot loved glamour.

“Bullshit!” Ron heard someone whisper behind him. “The only thing Warren Talbot loved was little boys!”

Kirkland begged God to welcome Warren Talbot into the glory of heaven. He prayed Warren was at last at peace with himself. And then he invited everyone back to Tara for martinis and Chasen’s chili.

Later he stood on his patio ruefully telling reporters, “Thank God for Forest Lawn. Los Angeles is the only place in the world where you can die and still be in show business.”

After that, things started popping at Tara. Kirkland had decided to throw all his considerable energies into making the best movie of the year. Ron, still reeling from discovering Talbot’s lifeless body, decided to give up drugs and booze. He managed, in fact, to keep away from pills for several hours, until the first crisis of a typical day with Kirkland presented itself; and he was able to stay off alcohol almost an entire week. Then he reasoned the pressures of putting together a major movie were great enough to drive anyone to drugs and to drink.

Working seven days a week, Ron was often on three lines at once, talking to agents, haggling prices, setting production schedules. He was working his butt off.

It had taken three months for Kirkland’s lawyers to finally acquire the movie rights to the
New York Magazine
article. It had taken Vince Simon and Warren Talbot five months to come up with a screenplay which satisfied Ron and Kirkland. It had taken weeks and weeks of meetings with all levels of directors before Kirkland had finally agreed to hire Jonathan Crawford, a youngish director who had several impressive TV-movies-of-the-week to his credit. And it had taken many weeks after that to begin putting together a promising cast.

Kirkland’s newest secretary, Sheila, buzzed Ron on the intercom.

“What now?” he snapped.

“Norman Felton on three,” said Sheila.

“The agent?” asked Ron.

“No!” said Sheila. “The tightrope aerialist! Of course the agent!”

“I’ll talk to him. Hold all other calls!” Ron clicked into line three. “Normie! How’s it rolling?”

“Can’t complain,” said the agent. “Just had a thought for the part of Monica. How ‘bout Joanna Pettet?”

Ron made a sour face. “You crazy, Norm?” he asked. “We’re looking for freshness and youth. What has your client done since
The Group?”

“Just thought I’d throw it out. Don’t burn me for it. Hey, I’m throwing another all-night wild one a week from this Saturday. Can you make it?”

“That depends,” said Ron. “Will I be able to get laid?”

“Come on, Zinelli, you know better than that. Anyway, it should be a swinging blast. Friend of mine is coming down from San Francisco with some LSD, guaranteed fresh out of the laboratory. Dynamite stuff. If it isn’t too foggy out there, we may all be able to go blind staring into the sunset.”

“Sounds great!” said Ron. “But I gotta start laying off drugs sometime before my brain turns to scrambled eggs.”

“Hey, kid, this is Southern California, remember? Drug capital of the U.S. of A.”

“Right!” said Ron. “Tell that to my mind, which is now waking up in the middle of the night convinced my bed is on a roller-coaster ride.”

“Relax,” said Felton. “Anyway, Louise Chapin, that actress with the big tits you liked so much at my last party, is also gonna be out there.”

“Louise Chapin, huh?” Ron’s eyes lit up. “Hey, do me a favor, will you, Normie? Call the little vixen and tell her I’m thinking seriously of her for the part of Monica, okay?”

“One thing I like about you, Zinelli,” Felton said facetiously. “You have so much trouble playing the Hollywood game.”

Ron hung up the phone and as soon as Sheila saw the light on line three go out on the extension in her office, she buzzed Ron.

“Phone rang only twelve times while you were talking to Norman Felton,” Sheila told Ron. “Where shall I begin?”

Ron looked at his watch. Not even noon, and already he was exhausted. He opened his middle desk drawer. “Where the hell are those ups I had in here?” he asked Sheila over the phone.

“Gave ‘em to me to put away, remember?” Sheila reminded him. “You said you’d had enough reds, you were weaning off them.”

“Fine,” said Ron. “Bring in two for me—with a glass of water and a strong cup of coffee, will you? I’ll never make it through this day straight.”

“Will do,” said Sheila. “Then we gotta get to work. You got more calls to return than Santa Claus has letters. Mr. Kirkland wants to have the rest of the picture cast by week after next …”

“I know, I know,” said Ron. “Just fetch the drugs, will you? Let me worry about the movie.”

By now almost all the key parts in the picture had been filled. Only the part of Russ, one of the two bikers, had yet to be cast, and that afternoon Ron was planning a surprise regarding the part. He had been quietly negotiating to bring in Scot Alexander, the decathlon gold-medal winner at the ‘68 Olympics in Mexico City, to read for Kirkland. Ron knew his boss was mad for the handsome Olympic athlete, and Scot Alexander had just announced that he was retiring from sports. To date, the only work the athlete had found was as commentator on a Sunday sports program NBC had just decided to cancel.

When Ron spoke to the jock and found out he would be interested in the movie, all that was left was for Ron to set up a date with Kirkland. That date was at three o’clock. Ron had spent the morning looking at his watch. Finally, three o’clock came, but no Scot. Then three-thirty. Then four.

At four-thirty Sheila buzzed Ron to say that Kirkland had a five-o’clock appointment with a vice-president at Universal and would have to be leaving for it soon. Ron was all set to chuck the whole idea of hiring a jock for the part when the guard at the entrance to Tara buzzed Sheila on her other line to say that one Scot Alexander had just driven up.

“Great!” Ron shouted into the intercom. “I’ll go down front and greet him personally, bring him in to meet Dale. You tell Kirkland the surprise I’ve been holding for him is about to arrive.”

Ron clicked off the intercom, and bolting from his office, ran down the long, long white circular staircase that led down to the main entrance.

Scot Alexander was just pulling up outside the house in his Jaguar XK150 convertible. As Ron flung open the door, he was delighted to see that the jock had a most pleasant manner. Damned if the guy couldn’t be a natural actor.

“Let’s go in and meet with the starmaker, shall we?” said Ron.

“Lead the way,” said Alexander. “I’ve heard so much about the guy, I’m real curious to find out what he’s really like.”

“He’s nothing like what he’s really like,” said Ron. “Follow me!” Ron turned around to head upstairs to the famous bordello that was Dale Kirkland’s office and bedroom.

“Hi!” Ron stuck his head in the doorway. “Can we come in?”

“Come in! Come in!” Kirkland insisted emphatically. “I should’ve left for Universal half an hour ago. Just what the fuck is so goddamn important it couldn’t wait till after my meeting, Zinelli?”

With his most confident grin, Ron slowly opened the door to reveal all six-foot-three of Scot Alexander.

“It’s not!” said Kirkland, slack-jawed.

“Bet your boots, it is,” said Ron. “Come on in, Scot. Say hello to the future of Hollywood and the great white hope of show business. Dale Kirkland, say hello to Scot Alexander.”

Scot Alexander walked into the room and shook hands vigorously with the producer.

Dale Kirkland was convinced every bone in his hand had just been shattered to pieces. He had never been happier.

“How do you do,” said Scot.

“Fine, thanks,” said Dale. “How do
you
do?”

“Great!” said Alexander. “I liked your film about the college kids. Liked it a lot.”

“Thanks,” said Kirkland. “I liked the way you ran the decathlon. In fact, I’m positively
mad
for your legs!”

Ron rolled his eyes to the ceiling and elbowed his boss in one of the folds leading to his ribs. “Dale’s a great josher,” he told Scot. “Always kidding good-looking people about the way they look. You’ll get used to it. Hey, why don’t I leave you two alone so you can talk some business?” Ron winked at his boss. “Scot knows he’s here to talk to you about the part of
Russ,”
Ron informed Dale. “He thinks working for you would be the only thing that might possibly top his performance in Mexico City. I’ll call Universal and tell them you’ve gotten tied up and rearrange your appointment there for tomorrow morning. And let’s see … Oh, yes, if you want to ask Scot to stay for dinner, he’ll be joining Mia Farrow, George Cukor, the Cary Grants, Audrey Hepburn, Roman Polanski, Doris Day, and a few other struggling actors. But I spoke to the chef, and there’s plenty of food.”

With a smile and a wave, Ron started for the door. He could tell by the look on the athlete’s face he’d definitely be staying for dinner.

97 

You’d think from the way Dale Kirkland carried on after signing Scot Alexander to appear in
Nowhere Road
that he’d pulled off the greatest casting coup since David Selznick hired Clark Gable to play Rhett Butler in
Gone with the Wind.

Kirkland the starmaker saw to it that Alexander got the full celebrity treatment. Night after night, cocktail parties were held at Tara to introduce the athlete-turned-actor to the press.

Kirkland’s childlike crush on the decathlon champ was consummate. Every night, the enormous producer took Scot Alexander and his pretty wife, Jeanette, out to dinner or to a huge Hollywood party or to a movie premiere. Some nights he stayed home and tossed parties of several hundred guests, right there at Tara. All for Scot and Jeanette. Kirkland hired a huge yacht to take the Alexanders and himself over to Catalina one weekend. Another weekend they all motored to Palm Springs and spent a few days partying there. Kirkland was spending so much time serving as host, he was soon neglecting his multimillion-dollar film project now two weeks away from the start of shooting.

Kirkland just told Ron to take over the decisions. “Just prepare everything,” he told his executive assistant. “Get the cast, the crew, the details over to the location. I’ll fly over to Antwerp with Scot and Jeanette the day before we start shooting.”

Delighted to take over, Ron dived into the preproduction work, making on-the-spot decisions, settling last-minute problems, working out final schedules, haggling over fine points on contracts still unsigned. He was working so hard, he almost had trouble finding the time to scoot out to Malibu on Saturday to attend another of Norm Felton’s beachside blasts, but somehow he managed.

Louise Chapin was there, once again, wearing the smallest of baby-blue bikinis, the bra of which was so crammed full of bosom, Ron was sure the actress could safely float across the English Channel.

“Normie tells me you’re thinking about me for a part in the Dale Kirkland movie,” Louise said, batting a ton of Maybelline in Ron’s face.

“You mean Dale Kirkland and Ron Zinelli’s movie, don’t you?” Ron grinned.

“Of course!” The starlet bit her pouty lower lip. “After all, you are the producer, are you not?”

Ah, Hollywood, thought Ron. I could spend my entire life here doing nothing but getting recognized and laid. But not today. He had a movie to produce. “I gotta get back to town,” he said. “I just drove out for a quick drink, a fast hello …”

“And what about the part?” asked Miss Chapin.

“Right,” said Ron, switching on the charm. “I just don’t know. Monica is a high-school dropout, a waitress who knows how to deliver a whole lot of sex appeal in a very short time. She’s working her tits off in a low-down dive. The scene calls for someplace seedy, slimy, so we may just film it on location … inside Dale Kirkland’s large intestine!”

“And what do I have to do?” Louise asked without the blink of an eye.

“You have to be seductive,” said Ron. “We have to sense a smoldering, intense quality. You think you could handle it?”

Louise realized this was no time to be shy about her talents. “Just give me five minutes in your car …”

Jeez, Ron wondered. Wasn’t sex in Southern California ever going to present itself as a challenge? “Why don’t you go ahead?” Ron slid a slow finger along the line just below the bottom of Louise’s breast. “My car’s the tan Mercedes across the street, parked in the shade. The one I can’t afford. I’ll just say hello/good-bye to Normie and be over in a few minutes. You can start racing the engine—yours, not the Mercedes’.”

With a toss of her golden mane, Louise Chapin pivoted and hurried out of the Felton compound, across the Coast Highway, down the side street, toward Ron’s car.

After telling Norm he had to rush back to the studio, Ron walked toward the side street where his car was parked. He carefully reminded himself not to mention to Louise the fact that two days earlier Kirkland had signed Jacqueline Bisset to play the part of Monica.

Michael Reese turned his key in the lock and walked into the apartment. He found Gary watching an old Ronald Reagan movie.

“Hey!” Michael snapped off the set. “What’s more important? Watching an ex-president of the Screen Actors Guild or working on your revision?”

“Just taking a short break,” said Gary as he stood to walk over to his desk. “I’ve rewritten this scene so many times now, I can type it in my sleep.”

“Good,” Michael insisted. “That means it’s probably almost ready for the printer. It’s an important scene,” he added. “The young man has just found out his girlfriend is dying. You can’t skim over it.”

“I didn’t think I had,” said Gary, slightly indignant.

“I’m sorry,” said Michael. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I’m sure a lot of this detail must be difficult for you.”

“Finally!” Gary raised his hands to the ceiling. “An understanding word!”

“Better late than not at all, huh?” said Michael.

“Looking back,” said Gary, “I suppose one of the reasons it was so painful being with Nora near the end was that it was like watching my mother die all over again.”

“Hey …” Michael placed his hands on Gary’s shoulders. “Why don’t we take a short break for a hamburger and a beer?”

“This
from my editor, the noted Führer? I wonder if Max Perkins treated F. Scott Fitzgerald as harshly as you treat me.”

“Only if he was lucky,” Michael said as he got up from the couch and walked over to the desk to give Gary an affectionate kiss on the back of his neck.

“What’s that for?” asked the author.

“Nothing,” said Michael. “Just to let you know I still care. Now, finish that paragraph so we can eat. Next week has to be your deadline. Kip and Ellenor will be back from London, and you’ll want to be spending time with them, right?”

“Damn right!” Gary agreed. “How many
c’s
in ‘necessary’?”

“One,” said Michael. “And it’s a good thing spelling doesn’t count!”

“That’s why I have an editor,” said Gary as he looked up from his typewriter. “Hey, what do you think Kip and Ellenor will think?”

“You mean about us?” asked Michael.

“Yeah, about us.”

“I doubt it will be much of a surprise,” said Michael. “You’ve mentioned me in your letters to them. They’ve said to be sure to say hello to me in all of theirs. My guess is they’d be surprised if we hadn’t become lovers. Now, let’s get some food.”

Gary smiled and got up from the typewriter.

Kip and Ellenor were at the Dorchester their last weekend in London, having tea. A waiter carrying a tray of pastries came over to them and bent over, offering a varied selection of confection.

“Please!” Ellenor held up an open hand to the waiter. “Do remove those fattening reminders of cellulitic nightmares from my sight. My client cannot afford to indulge in any such excess.”

The waiter mumbled something that sounded like, “Veddy good, madam,” and moved on, carrying his calories to another corner of the room.

“I’m going to miss London,” said Ellenor, leaning back in her velvet settee.

“I’m not,” said Kip. “Maybe once we get back to New York you’ll let me start eating again.”

“Maybe,” said Ellenor. “But you’ve got two more days of shooting, and we both know the camera makes you ten pounds heavier. So just be a good boy for two more days, and then I promise you at least one major pig-out before you go back in training.”

“Pasta and beer?” Kip asked.

“Anything you want,” said Ellenor.

“Hot-fudge sundaes?” asked Kip.

“All you can eat!” Ellenor guaranteed.

“Christ.” Kip sipped his Darjeeling tea. “I thought being in training for wrestling matches was tough. But staying down for you and the camera turns out to be the real bitch.”

“The price of fame, I’m afraid, my dear.”

“Let’s hope so,” Kip said, placing his cup and saucer down on the small coffee table before them. “Sure feels good to have the day off. This shooting schedule’s been endless.”

“I know,” Ellenor agreed. “And you’ve worked real hard. I couldn’t be more proud of you. Now if your
enfant terrible
director can just start agreeing with his film editor, they just might be able to piece together a film that works.”

“Wouldn’t that be great?” asked Kip as he eyed another passing tray of fattening goodies.

“Well,” said Ellenor, “it would at least be the shot we need to keep your career zooming.”

“What career?” asked Kip. “It’s going to take them maybe ten months to edit this picture. I could be a has-been before it’s even released.”

“Relax,” said Ellenor. “I promised to take care of you, didn’t I? If nothing else happens, we can always fall back on antique quilts. Besides, when you spoke with Phyliss Dodge last week, didn’t she say she had three producers interested in at least talking to you?”

“She did,” said Kip, taking hold of Ellenor’s hand. “I’m glad you called her on my behalf.”

A strange look of sadness suddenly crossed his face.

Ellenor squeezed his hand tighter. “What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking lately,” said Kip, looking down into his cup of tea. “I realize now I’ve wanted to become a great success not just for myself, but to impress my old man. I guess I’ve just been thinking lately how ironic it is that now that I’m almost there, he’s not around to appreciate any of my accomplishments.”

Ellenor held on to Kip’s hand. A few moments later he shook off his mood and said, “Let’s go back to the room. I know several things we can do that will cheer me up.”

“I can’t think of a better way to spend the rest of our day off,” said Ellenor. “And just think … in a year or so, when you’re a big star and I’m just a memory, I’ll be able to say, ‘Kip Bramer … sure … I knew him
when.’”

“Hey!” Kip scolded. “I thought we weren’t going to have any more of that insecure talk.”

“You’re right. Forgive me. You hate me. You’re tired of the whole relationship.”

“Come on. You’re being silly. I’m not tired of you, I’m not about to tire of you. I love you and I want this to work, okay?”

“You mean like the one out of seven hundred other Hollywood romances?”

“We are not in Hollywood. This is London and everything is fine … so far. We do not have to get caught up in that Hollywood-couple crap. And if we continue to work together, who says we can’t make it together?”

“Not I,” claimed Ellenor. “Maybe we’ll become the first of a new breed. The successful show-biz twosome.”

“Maybe we shall,” said Kip, looking straight into Ellenor’s eyes. “I sure as hell know I’m going to work for it.”

Ellenor kissed him quickly on the lips. “So am I …” and kissed him again.

“Are you mad, woman?” he asked, pretending to be annoyed. “Kissing in public, indeed! Try not to act like an American savage, okay? I am now going to signal for the check and we are going to hightail it back to the room, and then, watch out, kid—everything before today was merely practice.”