Heartland (16 page)

“It's not that easy.”

Milo wasn't done. “Makes me want to gag, talking up that show.”

Martin walked to the portable bar and freshened his drink. “You know, I think that's what ruined Townsend. Not the stardom. Having people expect him to
be
that guy. Honest and straight and strong and true. The red-blooded American hero.”

“Don't forget religious.” Milo took a deep belt from his own drink. “That show's made us the laughingstock of Hollywood. Even when it was at the top of the ratings, we were still the backwater studio nobody wanted to touch.”

Allerby gripped the railing and said nothing. He knew all about what the Hollywood greats thought of him and his studio and his show.

One of the longest-lasting oddities about Hollywood was the status of television versus film. The money was in TV. A hit series or game show printed money for years. Success in film was greater when it came. But each feature required starting over from scratch. Television income was far steadier and lasted longer.

But there wasn't a single television director, actor, or studio executive who wouldn't have traded his next of kin for a slot in features.

A story making the rounds was about a writer who pitched a modern version of
Faust
. He set it in Hollywood, where a director was offered the chance to move into film if he gave up his soul. The studio exec heard the writer out, then said in all seriousness, “There's no way I'm turning my autobiography into something you watch at the local cine-plex.” Allerby had no doubt the story was true.

The doorbell rang. The pair listened as Allerby's Nicaraguan maid opened the door. Allerby asked, “Ready?”

“I got to hand it to you, Martin. You know how to impress.”

“Thanks, Murphy. Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Allerby disliked bringing business home. His privacy was critical. He needed a haven removed from the Hollywood struggle where he could drop his mask and relax. But this was an exceptional situation. The meeting had to happen. And it had to be where privacy was guaranteed. But it also had to impress. And charm. Allerby had cast about for weeks and come up with no better alternative. From the looks of things, he had chosen right.

The dining table was situated under the balcony roof overhang. A gas fireplace set into the house's outer wall fought back the evening chill. The sun was giving them an LA send-off, the haze forming a purple-and-gold veil. Down below glimmered the billion false stars of Los Angeles.

Murphy Watts, also known as the King of Sleaze, was the only man at the table in a tie. His dress was part of his trademark. His suits all came from a bespoke tailor on Savile Row. His shirts were Turnbull and Asser. His shoes handmade by Church of Jermyn Street. Murphy Watts owned a Regency manor in Dorset. He preferred living, it was said, where no one connected his money to his morals.

Allerby had come across Murphy Watts early in his career. Among other things, Watts ran a string of high-end call girls, the kind of ladies smart enough to avoid the Mob. Watts promised quality and discretion, things prized by studios entertaining on the sly. Though Watts rarely associated directly with such a relatively trivial portion of his empire, Allerby had made it a point to seek Watts out. Allerby always liked a man who delivered.

Allerby's maid arrived with their starters of salmon terrine and Beluga caviar. Watts watched her use the silver tongs to settle crustless brown toast onto his butter plate and said, “I doubt I could do better at the Connaught.”

“We aim to please, Murphy.” He toasted Watts with his glass. “And make us all rich.”

“I'm already rich, Martin.”

“Wealth comes in more forms than bank balances, as you well know.”

Murphy might be wearing clothes worth more than a new S-Class, but underneath he still looked like a glossy plumber. He stood six-three in his stocking feet, weighed in at over two fifty, and possessed the coarse features of generations of heavy lifters. His eyes were ghostly pale, his age somewhere over sixty. Murphy Watts had started his first skin magazine while still a teenager in the Bronx. He had soon graduated to Los Angeles for two reasons. California's liberal courts had fought down all attempts to control the growth of porn. And there was a constant supply of new talent, drawn west by the lure of stardom. When the doors of Hollywood proved stubbornly shut, Murphy Watts was there to offer another way to play beneath the lights.

Allerby asked, “You have any objections if we talk business while we eat?”

Watts nodded at the maid filling their glasses. “Is it safe?”

“One of Lucia's most endearing qualities,” Martin replied, “is her complete lack of interest in the English language.”

Watts' meaty hands made a mockery of his table manners.

“So, Martin. Other than a great view and better food, what do you have to offer?”

“I'd say a chance of a lifetime, but you'd probably laugh.”

“Not to your face,” Murphy Watts replied. “I admire you too much for that.”

Watts was accompanied by a man he had introduced simply as his associate. Martin's research had identified him as Irving Wexlar. Wexlar's nickname around the Watts empire was the Cadaver. Wexlar had a reputation for polishing every one of Watts' dimes before letting it go. He was a bloodless man with skin like wet wax. He did not look at anyone directly. He never spoke. But Martin knew what few others did. Irving Wexlar had a weakness. One Martin intended to exploit mercilessly.

“So let me lay it out, and you tell me whether it's as good as I think it is.” Martin set down his fork. Dabbed his lips with his napkin. Set that aside as well. Claiming center stage. “I want to offer you what you've been denied for far too long. A chance at legitimacy. Part ownership of a Hollywood studio.”

The mildly mocking smile dissolved. “Centurion is not for sale.”

“It will be. Sooner rather than later.”

“You're sure about this, are you?”

“The lawyer who is handling the deal has risked his bar license by breaking confidence with his client.”

“Now why would a good upstanding Hollywood attorney do that for the likes of you?”

“Because,” Martin replied, “I offered him five percent of the company.”

Milo then performed his one role of the night. He made sure Murphy's attention was elsewhere, then nudged Wexlar. Once. A move subtle enough to either be ignored or misinterpreted. Except for the look Milo gave when the Cadaver glanced over.

Murphy Watts was a typical New York mick. He had brawled his way to the top of a very ugly pile. He paid Wexlar very well for his services. But Wexlar wanted what Murphy Watts would never give him. Wexlar wanted ownership. He wanted a piece of the pie and a seat on the board.

Wexlar lifted his narrow face a fraction and looked straight at Allerby for the first time since entering. Allerby made no sign. Just met the man's gaze.

“So Centurion's going on the block.” Watts made a pretense of unconcern. “So what?”

“Not the block, never the block. Carter Dawes is sick. He will soon be approached by a buyer. He—”

“You?”

“Indirectly.”

“You have financing in place?”

“Half of it.”

“That's what you want from me? Money?” Watts pushed the plate aside. “I don't do minority deals, Martin. I'm surprised your research didn't come up with that.”

“You'll never be accepted as principal of a studio. The moral parasites back east would parade you in front of Congress. The majors would shut you out of distribution to protect themselves. You know that as well as I do. Even the softest of your products isn't taken by any of the networks. For the same reason.”

Murphy Watts touched the knot of his tie, as though taking reassurance from the silk. “I've done all right.”

“That's not what we're talking about, though, is it? Doing all right.”

“So what do I get from this other than my name on the role of a third-rate company that's lost in the wilds of television-land?”

Milo flushed and started to respond. Allerby silenced Milo with a look. Watts caught the exchange and smirked.

“We intend to launch a new reality show,” Allerby said. “Two hundred contestants. The top twelve will be given costarring roles in a movie we will film and market. A movie that will carry the same title as the program.”

“Which is?”

“Vegas Stripper.”

Milo spoke for the first time. “The tagline will read, ‘Innocence on Display.' ”

Watts studied him intently. “You have a buyer?”

“Two cables are bidding,” Milo replied.

“Which ones?”

“Filmbox and Movietime.”

Allerby knew what that meant. Both had refused to even take a meeting with Watts or his team. Watts said, “They'll slap you with the eighteen rating and slot you in after midnight.”

“That's why they invented TIVO,” Allerby replied. “Think for a second, Murphy. We're not talking about just another soft porn. We're talking about selling innocence. Think of what a young actress would do for the chance to go from nothing to actually starring in a feature.”

“A feature about skin,” Watts corrected.

“Reality shows are already as close to peddling flesh as the watchdogs permit,” Allerby replied. “We're taking it to the next level, and we're doing it on a major cable network.”

“Where's your other money coming from?”

Allerby knew Watts expected him not to say. Which made it even sweeter. “Harry Solish.”

“He know you're talking with me?”

“Of course not.”

Watts actually smiled. “Let me guess. You've promised Solish you'll keep doing the same old schtick. Then you'll bring me in. And even though you'll have just a minority stake, you'll actually control the studio, because your two principal investors hate each other with a dedicated passion.”

“And we're going to make a killing,” Milo said.

Watts rose from the table and walked to the railing. He said to the night and the shadows of eucalyptus trees, “Yeah, you probably will.”

Wexlar looked up a second time. Straight into Allerby's face. Allerby nodded. Once.

The deal was as good as done.

Chapter 19

T
he Nguyens' farewells were a bittersweet moment, and followed an argument that had lasted through dinner and into the evening, then restarted over breakfast.

Though
argument
was hardly a word that fit their soft voices and exquisite politeness. They merely gave voice to their concerns. Over and over and over. How JayJay could not possibly think their young son deserved such a gift. No, no, please do not call this work. Ahn has no experience, and he dreams of entering the movie business, and you give him this wonderful opportunity, he should pay
you
. How could we accept your money and remain honorable people? We would be insulting you, and be dishonorable to our God. And of course such a fine gentleman as yourself would not seek to cause us such distress.

Like that.

Ahn said almost nothing. He simply watched. Minh also. They both translated occasionally when the English words escaped their parents. But that was all. The hard-nosed jester who had held up the president of Centurion Studios was gone. Which JayJay found intensely moving, how this kid would show his parents such deep respect. Which left JayJay arguing more fiercely, since he was standing up not for himself, but this kid.

The one bad moment came two hours after dinner, when they had halted and asked if JayJay would join them for an episode of
Heartland
. Ahn reminded them that it had starred the other guy, which was the one point where MahMah became voluble, showing her disgust with a queenly drop of her hand.

JayJay viewed the episode with nightmarish dread. There upon the screen was a rerun of his own life, starring a man who slurred his words and kept his gut in place with lycra. This fake used JayJay's truck to wrangle up a herd of young calves in a lightning storm. He
remembered
the time. During the commercials JayJay wiped his face and studied the sheen on his hands. The family saw his distress, but said nothing when JayJay excused himself and went to bed.

His night was one long tumbling dream of whirlwinds and plagues and evil bankers, and he couldn't say for certain whether the nighttime images were more real than what he called his own past.

The next morning, when the parents started back in on Ahn's payment, JayJay found himself unwilling to hear more of the same. “Look here. We're not either one of us budging. It's time we moved on.”

“But Mr. JayJay, if you will just listen—”

“I done heard you five times already, Mrs. Nguyen. I don't mean any disrespect, ma'am. But I tell you what's the truth. I'm headed out this door to catch a bus. The last time I got on one of them things I fell asleep and landed up in a world that don't make no sense. But I'm here, at least for now. And your pastor's words really hit home. He told me to do the best with what God's put here before me. And I'm starting with you folks.”

From the way their foreheads scrunched up, JayJay knew they hadn't understood a lot of what he'd just said. And it didn't matter. “So this is what's happening. Ahn is keeping the money.”

“But Mr. JayJay—”

“No, now excuse me. But it's your turn to listen up. Okay. The money is your son's. If accepting it disrespects you, give it to the church. Or take it out back and heap it in a pile and burn it all. That's your choice. But I'm not taking it back. What I'd suggest, though, is you treat it as a gift. Ahn is headed off for more schooling, right? So you've been nice to a stranger. You've taken him in and fed him and clothed him and given him a roof over his head—”

“You are not a stranger. And you saved our children's lives.”