Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (16 page)

~ * ~

“What do you want?” Lapham said with little friendliness, understandable given our “connection,” but since Lapham isn't known for friendliness I didn't let it bother me. He probably wears a Medic Alert bracelet warning any potential health care professional that his normal temperature is not 98.6 but 68.9, and not to assume he was dead—just that he was a cold bastard.

“I see where
War of the Wimps
has opened big, and congratulations on the full-page reprint of Robert's Jordan's review in the Times today.”

 
“I sent the two million. Norton confirms he received the two million. So what do we have to talk about?”

“I need a favor.”

“Two million dollars is not favor enough?”

“That wasn't a favor, that was commerce. You'll be doing me favors for years to come.”

“Jesus! Talk about a pact with the Devil.”

“If you're going to travel along the circles of Hell, you've got to expect to meet a devil now and then.”

“All right. What is it?”

“I want you to throw a party.”

“Throw a party? What the fuck for?”

“That's up to you. You could celebrate your new car, your recent vasectomy, or the fact that you're rich and other people aren't. I don't really care, but I can suggest that a party in celebration of the huge opening of
War of the Wimps
would not be illogical.”

“And what trendy and expensive venue am I supposed to throw this party at?”

“You will throw the party in the lobby of your building.”

“In the lobby?”

“It will be far less expensive.”

“True. Whom do I invite?”

“Whomever you want, but added to the list will be myself under the name of Tom McCabe—and Don Gulden.”

“Who the fuck is Don Gulden?”

“He's been described to me as ‘this little shit VP' at Olympic Pictures.”

“I don't invite little shit VPs to my parties.”

“You will this time—and won't he be pleased?”

I told Lapham when I wanted the party to be held and gave him other precise instructions, including getting back to Norton when all the details were set. Then I called Roee back into the library. He had been making his own phone calls getting the most up-to-date information on Lydia Corfu, plus contacting Hamo Thronycroft, an old friend of ours in London.

“Hamo agrees,” Roee said upon entering the room. “More than happy to help.”

“Fine. Listen, do you remember that gunk Petey made up when we needed to lay up that delegate to the World Population Council?”

“That stuff we put in his first aid kit in a bottle of Bactine?”

“Yes, then we put a really dull blade in his safety razor.”

“He had a four week snooze in the hospital. Did him some good. Lost some excess fat. Trimmed up nicely, then stayed in shape. Got rid of his old mistress, took on a much younger one.”

“Mistress?”

“Well, a priest can't have a wife.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right. Well, see if Petey can supply some. Don't pay more than two thousand. I only need a drop.”

“I take it you've got a master plan in the works.”

“Yes—we're going to be lawyers.”

Roee gave a sideways glance, considering the idea. “Oh, wouldn't my mother be proud.”

~ * ~

Four days later I attended Larry Lapham's party as Tom McCabe, non-entity. At least, that was the only designation anyone could put on me after a cursory glance brought no recognition. I wore a not-very-stylish business suit—real business, not show business—had a not-suitable mustache on my upper lip, and wore an ugly tie. I felt like Claude Rains in
The Invisible Man
. I moved among the masses unseen. I did have on an attractive tie tack, though. Of course, it concealed a hidden microphone.

Lapham had done a good job throwing together the party. The stars of
War of the Wimps
were there. Studio executives were there. Well-groomed guys and nicely turned-out gals were there who were probably agents. You could tell because they looked uncomfortable in the suits that made them “Suits” —a designation partly descriptive, partly a curse. You just knew that their strategizing on behalf of their own futures included consideration of costume: “If I move from the agency to a studio, I'm still in —and a—suit. However if I become a producer, it's jeans, maybe khakis, and a pullover.” Their hair was also a giveaway, especially for the guys, who all had close cropped bottom cuts that stretch from temple to temple, making them look like modern SS Storm Troopers in civvies.

As I milled about, not being invited to mingle, a snatch or two of conversation would rise above the din of what used to be called cocktail chatter, and now could only be referred to as wine walla.

“Hollywood is sick of paying the Stallones, the Willis, the Carreys. That's got to be the push behind animated features. I mean, does anyone really want to work on fucking fairy tales?” said a producer who used to be a studio head who used to be an agent who used to be written about.

“His problem is he wears his heart on his sleeve,” said one well groomed guy fingering an unlit cigar.

“That's not his heart. That's snot from wiping his nose,” said another well-groomed guy.

Just beyond them I saw the big hulking frame of Bernie Green. His name had been Greenblatt but he had changed it in college in a horrible case of misdirection. It's his first name he should have changed. Bernie was the president of production for Brookman & Bloom, a company that had started in personal management, moved into TV production for their clients, mostly hot comics, and was now becoming a burgeoning force in feature films. Bernie had once called me, through Norton, about a job. I met with him and found him particularly stupid and the job he wanted me to do particularly vile. I turned him down. Which agitated him greatly. He started screaming that he would put the word out on me, and then he threatened me with “You'll never work in this town again!” Then I slugged him very hard in his big, squishy stomach. He doubled up. I clasped my hands together and pile drove them down onto his bowed head. I used as my excuse the fact that I hate clichés, and told him so as he sprawled, groaning, on the floor.

I thought it would be amusing to get near Bernie and see if he recognized me through my disguise.

“Did you hear about the bombing in Kansas City?” Bernie was saying to a group, as I got close. “How many dead? Hundreds? That's the way the country is going, one tragedy after another, but you know, for us, it's good because we make comedies and people are going to want escapism. I mean you really should buy stock in our company.”

“Can I shoot him?” Roee's voice came in over the tiny earphone I was wearing.

“He's gay, you know,” I said quietly in response.

“I don't care.”

“And Jewish, I believe.”

“Yes, I know, I know exactly who and what he is. Brings no credit to either my race, or my religion, or my sexual preference. Can I shoot him?”

“Not tonight. Maybe later.”

“Promise?”

“If you're good and eat all your pork. Oh, this looks interesting.” I had noticed a tall, neatly bearded man about forty-five, a charitable contributor to the future of Italian tailoring, in an intense discussion with a beautiful woman in her twenties whose body demanded to be heard behind the preshrunk cotton. I passed close enough to catch:

“But I don't want to come between you and your wife,” she was saying.

“Hey, you can't come between us, if I only have you on the side,” he responded.

I thought it best to move on to a group where a young man was pitching an idea.

“I want to make a film about a serial killer who is killing all the great people in Hollywood.”

“Must be a short film,” Roee editorialized.

“Must be a short film,” I said popping my head into the group.

“Hey! That was my line!”

The group looked at me, unamused. I quickly passed. “You can have it,” I quietly said to Roee. “What a stinker.”

“It wasn't the joke. It was the delivery.”

Off in a corner, standing in front of a huge poster for
War of the Wimps
, George Christy was interviewing Larry Lapham for his “Great Life” column in The Hollywood Reporter. One of the last entertainment reporters with an old fashioned sense of show biz, Christy was going on about the reassessment of Lapham's work by Robert Jordan, obviously willing to spread the word. Lapham did not seem displeased and stood there smiling, which, unfortunately, emphasized his overbite. “He-yuck!” I could almost hear Goofy exclaim.

Moving on I soon heard: “The only way you could get him to sit down and read a script is if he had diarrhea for three days running.”

“Yeah, but then he would probably wipe himself with pages from it.”

I passed that one quickly, finding myself close by Bernie Green again, who was now talking about a major radio personality just moving into film.

“He'll never be a big movie star because he has admitted over the air to having a small penis.”

I moved between Bernie and the two-story glass window before Roee could get off a shot.

Then the elevator doors opened and Don Gulden arrived. He was about 5'7” and thin in that way that angered anyone who wasn't. He was wearing a dark gray suit that leaned towards Armani, but not far enough to hide its fake Italian, discount store origins. His hair was longish and combed straight back, but with the sides falling forward enough to allow him the occasional brush back with his hand that he probably thought was sexy. He had no facial hair showing. Whether from meticulous shaving or insubstantial hormones, it was hard to tell.

Gulden gave his invitation to the attractive Lapham assistant who sat at a table right by the elevator. He looked both cocky and nervous at the same time. Getting the invitation must have been a surprise. He handed it over to the assistant as if he believed it was forged and he would be caught at any moment, but she just looked at it, smiled and waved him into the lobby. He moved cautiously at first; looking and looking to be seen. He and a young female agent caught each other's eyes. They love-danced towards each other and came together, the female going to kiss him but stopped by Gulden, who then allowed her to kiss his cheeks. He did not return the kiss. She was not insulted by this and, indeed, displayed quick compassion—and not a little admiration—as she stared at his lips.

I wanted to watch him for a while before I made contact. What I knew about him from the digital text in the computer was typical. Twenty-seven, graduate of an Ivy League college, started five years ago as an assistant to a director-actor based in New York, with a snobbish pride in all that. Considers himself somewhat literary, although his real tastes tend towards alternative comic books—many balloon boobs; much graphic violence. He came to Hollywood when Sara Hutton offered him a VP position in development. She had been having a hard time staffing Olympic, as most people felt it was on its way out. It was an offer too good to pass up, so he came. He had a reputation of being eager to please his bosses—as it is nicely put—and of trying to build a reputation as “Artist Friendly.” He was not succeeding in the latter, but he was trying.

Gulden had moved on from the female agent and was standing with Bernie Green. They probably knew each other well as Brookman & Bloom had a first-look deal at Olympic. I moved closer to hear what Gulden had to say.

“Look, Bernie, the writer just hasn't cracked Chimp's Holiday yet. I mean, think of
The Iliad
, think of Ulysses traveling around the sea there for all those years, trying to get home, but he keeps getting waylaid, but he learns from that, doesn't he? So there's got to be something there we can use for
Chimp's Holiday
. I mean, when a man is turned into a monkey, what does he learn by that? What does being a monkey, living in the essence of monkey-ness teach him?”

“Yeah! Yeah! That's the question, what does he learn?”

Gulden took in a quick, deep breath, started to talk, started to raise his right finger to point out the what, then froze for a beat before saying, “I don't know. I'll get back to you.”

Gulden had an affected accent, a careful, drawn out style of enunciation, like he was in a bad play about the old guard upper crust in upstate New York, or maybe it was just a carefulness imposed on him by the pain from two small, not quite healed sores on his lips. This explained his no kissing policy—at least, no kissing at the moment.

As Green and Gulden separated, I approached Gulden.

“Mr. Gulden?” I said in a soft voice with just the hint of a twang in it.

“Yes?” He was, of course, confused. I did not look like a man he needed to know.

“My name is Tom McCabe from McCabe & Wilde. Have you heard of us?”

“No, sorry. Are you a lawyer?”