Fade to Blue (8 page)
He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “I wish I could explain how difficult it is getting a project together, the financing, distribution, casting, all those details, but a lot will be riding on this demonstration for the investors.”
“I’m sure. I just don’t understand why you won’t tell me more about the script. What’s the big mystery? Is there a script?”
Robbins smiles. “Yes, there is a script, but there are reasons we haven’t showed it to you yet, reasons that will be clear once we have the money lined up. Can you just bear with me until then?”
I think for a moment. I don’t want to walk away from an opportunity to score a movie, but there are so many unanswered questions, and I don’t like the feeling that I’m being sold a bill of goods. “Okay, but next week, after the demo, we have to talk again. And I’m going to want some answers.”
“Absolutely. You have my word.” Robbins gets to his feet and straightens his tie. Meeting over. “I have to get going on this photographer mess.” He starts out then turns back. “By the way, how are you going to handle this demonstration?”
“I’m going to videotape Ryan.”
After Robbins leaves, I change into a tee shirt and swim trunks and go back down to the beach. Andie is lying on her stomach. “I think you could use some lotion on your back.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to do it.” She reaches behind her and unties her top. “All over, please.” I squirt some lotion on my hands and rub it over her back and legs. “Mmm,” she mumbles, “you do have nice hands.”
I give her butt a little playful slap and stand up, pulling off my shirt. The waves look a little bigger now. I suddenly feel like I’m back in Santa Monica High School, cutting class for a day at the beach. I sprint down to the water, splash up to my knees, and dive in, feeling the chill instantly. I swim out to the break, wait a moment and catch a good-sized wave.
Sliding down the breaking wave’s face, I feel the sun on my shoulders, the cool salt water churning around my face as I pick up speed. I see Andie sit up and watch.
If only everything could be this easy.
Late Saturday afternoon, Emillio serves a delicious early dinner on the deck of grilled salmon, salad, rice, and a dessert of fresh strawberries and French vanilla ice cream. Ryan and Melanie are back on track, virtually ignoring Andie and me, gazing into one another’s eyes and holding hands under the table. Over coffee, we watch the sun start to set on the horizon.
“God,” Andie says, pushing her plate aside. “I want to take Emillio back with me.”
“Yeah, Emillio’s the man,” Ryan says. He looks at me. “What are you two up for tonight?”
Andie squeezes my leg under the table. “Just a quiet evening at home, I guess.”
“Cool. How about a little siesta then, we’ll meet in the screening room for a movie.”
I look at Andie, catch her nod. “Works for us,” I say. “But now, if you’ll excuse us we’re going to have a twilight walk on the beach.”
We don sweatshirts, leave Ryan and Melanie, and walk down to the beach. It’s chilly but still pleasant as we stroll up the beach. We pass a few people walking dogs but otherwise, the beach is quiet. Lights are coming on at many of the homes as evening begins for the beautiful people of Malibu.
Andie holds my hand and leans against me as we walk. “This part is nice,” she says. “I’ll be sorry to go back.” She stops to dig her toes in the cooling sand.
“I’ll be sorry to see you go,” I say. We pick a spot and sit down on the sand, watching the orange ball of the sun slip into the horizon, the waves rolling in quietly and calmly now.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
I nod. “I talked more with Robbins today. We’re putting on a demonstration for the investors next week. They want to see how Ryan looks at the piano. Then, he promises to tell me about the script and what this movie is all about.”
“Is our boy up for it?”
“Yeah, I think he’s going to do okay. He’s been working hard and I’ll push him more this week.”
“So assuming everything goes well, what happens after the dog and pony show?”
“Once the money is in place, they’ll schedule the shooting, cast all the parts, all that stuff, and I can go home for awhile, once I sign a binding contract to score the movie and continue as a consultant. I’ll probably be on the set at least part of the time, but I can’t really start scoring until I see a rough cut of the film.”
Andie looks at me and smiles. “You’re really getting into this, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess I am. It’s like another door opening. Let’s face it. I’ve been close but it hasn’t happened for me yet and may not ever. There are a lot of great pianists out there, Andie, and they’re all younger”
Andie nods and doesn’t argue the point. “How binding is this contract you’ll have to sign?”
“Like Ryan, the director, the other actors. I assume I’ll be locked in for the duration.”
Back at the house, we settle in for the movie Ryan has arranged in the screening room. Emillio has brought in a couple bowls of popcorn and drinks while the four of us relax on two leather couches angled toward the television.
“Nothing like the local cineplex is it?” Andie says as she munches popcorn and sips some chilled white wine.
Ryan and Melanie are on the adjoining couch. The lights dim and the film begins on a huge screen that dominates one wall. It’s black and white, and as the opening credits roll—Kirk Douglas, Lauren Bacall, Doris Day—the first thing we hear is Harry James’ trumpet.
“You were right,” Ryan says. “This is a good one.”
Young Man With A Horn
is loosely based on Dorothy Baker’s novel about legendary trumpeter Bix Beiderbecke. Douglas does a convincing job as a trumpet player, and even more so as a misguided alcoholic bad guy who can’t see vocalist Doris Day is the right girl for him over the manipulative Lauren Bacall character. But of course this is Hollywood at its fifties best, and the film strays far from the book. Douglas has a meltdown at a recording session trying to find that elusive right note, and ends up on the street. He’s found and saved by Day and his pianist buddy Smoke, played by Hoagy Carmichael. Douglas and Day end up together happily ever after. Not quite the way things ended for Bix. He was dead at twenty-eight.
“You going to make me look as good as Kirk Douglas?” Ryan asks, as the lights come up.
“That’s up to you,” I say. Andie stirs next to me, having dozed off earlier.
Ryan stands and stretches. “I know,” he says nodding and smiling, full of confidence. “Back to work tomorrow, right?”
“Absolutely. We only have a few days.”
“Don’t worry, I’m ready,” Ryan says. He takes Melanie’s hand and they leave us as the final credits roll.
“Did I miss anything?” Andie asks.
“I’ll let you know.”
***
By midmorning I have Ryan back at the piano. I’d already said my goodbyes to Andie when Melanie offered to drive her to the airport. “Watch yourself,” Andie had said as she got in the car. “Call me.”
I’d come up with another idea to showcase Ryan’s make-believe piano playing. We continued with the Red Garland trio, making Ryan play and listen to it over and over, and then I remembered another recording that would work well for this purpose. A Chet Baker recording with Phil Markowitz on piano. On one of the songs, “The Touch of Your Lips,” Markowitz plays an almost textbook solo that begins with single notes using only one or two fingers, and builds slowly into a two-handed solo. It’s a good one for Ryan to emulate.
“I need a break,” Ryan says, massaging his forearm. He looks down. “Hey, it doesn’t hurt quite so much.
“You’re getting used to it now.” I tell Ryan about the Chet Baker recording. “You do have a video camera?”
Ryan nods. “Yeah, why?”
“I’m going to tape you but we need a couple of things. The Chet CD and an electric keyboard.”
“Why, when we have this piano?
“So we have a keyboard that doesn’t make any sound.”
Ryan looks at me, puzzled for a moment, then a smile spreads over his face. “You tape me as we play the record. Fuck, man, you’re a genius.”
“Do you remember if the store where you rented this piano has electronic keyboards?”
“Yeah, I think so. I can call, have one delivered.”
“Or, we could drive into Santa Monica and pick one out, have lunch.” I want to keep him relaxed, but edgy too.
He grins. “I like that idea better.”
“Better get your blond wig and baseball cap.”
***
Ryan decides to take his chances without the wig but does wear the Dodgers cap and sunglasses. We find the music store in Santa Monica. It’s a full-service, professional store, so there’s a minimum of fuss as Ryan is recognized. I explain what I want to the manager and why.
He listens, then says, “Just a minute.” He disappears in the back for a couple of minutes, then comes back with a keyboard under his arm. “It’s from a school, dummy keyboard, no sound, just used for fingering exercises.”
“Perfect.” Ryan takes out a credit card but the manager waves it away. “Take it,” he says. “Just bring it back when you’re finished. I’d never sell this anyway. You can send me a ticket to the movie.”
We put the keyboard in the trunk of Ryan’s Mercedes and head for Santa Monica Mall in search of a record store. I still can’t believe Tower Records went under, but we find a good jazz selection at Borders Books. They have almost all of Chet Baker’s recordings, including the one I want. We take it and also a couple of Bill Evans’. “Damn,” Ryan says. “Never thought I’d be buying jazz CDs.”
“We all grow.”
Back in the car, Ryan looks at me. “Okay boss, I’m hungry,” he says. “Got any place in mind?”
“As a matter of fact I do, if you feel like a burger.”
“Lead on.”
I direct him toward West Los Angeles to the Apple Pan on Pico Boulevard. We find a parking place on the street and Ryan regards it haltingly.
“You’ll love it,” I say. “I used to go here when I was in high school.”
Inside, nothing much has changed. Counter-only seating and old-fashioned burgers cooked while you wait. We add fries and cokes and it’s like a scene from
Happy Days.
It’s crowded but with the dark glasses and baseball cap, nobody seems to recognize Ryan, mainly I think because nobody expects to see a movie star eating a hamburger at the counter. I wonder if Ryan is pleased or disappointed.
“That was awesome,” Ryan says as we get back in the car. On the drive back to Malibu, Ryan dozes until I stop for gas at a station near the pier. He sits up, rubs his eyes. He hands me a credit card and watches me pump gas.
“Wake up, we got a lot of work to do.”
“I’m ready. Bring it on.”
Back at the house, I play the opening track on the Chet Baker CD a couple of times for Ryan, letting him get a feel for the tempo. It’s a ballad, but they do a quasi double time feel on the solos. Ryan listens intently as Chet sings the lyrics to “The Touch of Your Lips,” then opts to scat sing his solo rather than play it. It’s an amazing performance that never fails to strike a deep emotional chord for me. Ryan feels it, too.
“Jesus, how does he do that?” Ryan says, shaking his head. “He sounds like he’s not quite going to make it, but then he does. Sounds like he lived a lot.”
I nod, surprised and pleased at Ryan’s instinctive insight. “Exactly, and notice his voice. No vibrato, just like his trumpet playing.” I make him focus on Markowitz’s piano solo. I’d thought of this recording because of the way he builds slowly, starting with just one note, one finger of his right hand, slowly expanding the structure until at the end he using two hands in block chord style. A lot of space. The tempo is slow enough I think Ryan can emulate the fingering easily enough if he works at it.
I get the silent keyboard out of the car and let Ryan try it while I repeat the track several times. I show him on the keyboard the keys to start with and watch him listen, tentatively touching the keys, head down, his body swaying slightly, feeling Markowitz’s easy loping rhythm. After a dozen times, he’s starting to really get it. He stops then and looks at me questioningly.
“Look at me,” I say. “You can do this. You’re going to look like you’re playing with Chet Baker.”
Ryan nods. “I know,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”
By Wednesday, he’s got it enough that we’re ready to tape. I close the lid over the cover of the keys of the piano and lay the dummy keyboard on top. I shoot the video from several angles, gradually moving in on Ryan’s hands, then pulling back, catching his facial expressions. I make three versions of the taping, then we watch the playback on a big screen television. The sound track of the recording is virtually matched by Ryan’s hands on the keyboard.
“Look at me,” Ryan says, grinning. “I’m a fucking jazz pianist.”
“Yes you are.” It’s not quite note perfect but close enough and it should be more than enough to impress the investors when we play it for them. We do some more fine tuning and I make a final taping and let Grant Robbins know we’re ready for show time when he calls.
“That’s great, Evan.” He sounds pleased, but there’s some reluctance in his voice that I catch.
“Something wrong?”
“No, I just hoped to get this photographer thing settled before this investors meeting. I don’t like this hanging over us.”
“What’s the problem? He want more money?”
“No, it’s not that,” Robbins says. “We’ve put out a settlement offer but his lawyer can’t reach him so far. I just hope he’s not trying an end run for more publicity.” Robbins pauses. “Anyway, my house Friday night. Ryan knows the way.”
We arrive at Robbins’ Brentwood home around seven. There are three expensive cars in Robbins’ driveway. “The jury is already here,” Ryan says.
Robbins greets us and takes us into his den. Ryan turns on the big smile as he’s introduced to the three men sipping twenty-year-old scotch and puffing on cigars. They’ve obviously not met him before, and despite their own obvious success, the trio is in awe to be in the presence of a genuine movie star. You can see it in their eyes.
I take a Scotch rocks myself and sit back, listening to the small talk about Ryan’s previous movies, how pleased they are to be involved, and listening to Ryan tell a few behind the scenes stories, making them feel like insiders as Robbins orchestrates it all.
Finally, Robbins introduces me as Ryan’s tutor, brilliant jazz pianist, and his choice to score the movie sound track. “My man,” Ryan says pulling me forward. They acknowledge me politely but their interest remains on Ryan. There’s some small talk, then Robbins tops off drinks, and gets down to business.
“We have a tape we want to show you,” he says. “I think you’ll agree that Ryan is impressive.”
I hand Robbins the videotape and he inserts it in the player. I watch the investors move forward on their seats as the tape starts. It’s so close I don’t see how anybody could not think Ryan is actually playing Phil Markowitz’s solo. I watch Robbins sigh with relief and see smiles and nods all around. They all look at Ryan with new-found respect. They’re about to talk money when my cell phone rings.
“Excuse me,” I say. I get up and leave the room. It’s Coop. “Hey, you’re interrupting an important Hollywood meeting.”
“Sorry, sport, but I’ve got some news.”
I listen, my mind spinning. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Coop says.
“Okay, let me know if anything breaks.” I close the phone and go back to the den, motioning Robbins out. He glances at me, puzzled, excuses himself, and joins me in the hall.
“What’s wrong?”
“That was Danny Cooper. He has a friend with the Malibu police.”
“Yeah?”
“The photographer is missing.”
