Slow Fade (12 page)

Back to the script, which brings us to the phone call and Jim picking up the phone in Charles’s study with its huge portrait of Kipling staring down from over the mantel. “Hello, hello,” he yells into the receiver. “Pop?”
. . .
“Yes, yes,” thunders old Pete. “I received a letter from your sister last week that has me just about buffaloed. I’m calling off the hunt. I think she’s gone over the edge. Some kind of one-year meditation retreat in Nepal or some godforsaken place. Going on about a guru or a teacher and how happy she is and how good and accepting she feels about me. I don’t trust any of it. In fact I find it embarrassing. I immediately sent her a telegram informing her that when she got her head clear I’d be glad to see her but not before. Do you hear me? I’m fed up with the whole goddamned performance and I don’t want you dealing with it any more. Are they treating you well over there? They sound like rank amateurs to me. Especially what’s his name? Charles. In fact, I don’t think the corporation should continue dealing with that part of the world. They’re falling behind too fast. It’s not practical to rescue those parts of the third world that are threatening to become the fourth and even the fifth world.”
. . .
“I want to find her,” Jim says. “She’s been sick.”
. . .
“That’s up to you,” roars Pete. “But I would prefer that you and Lacey take a two-week vacation in Bali or Australia or wherever you want and then come home by way of Hong Kong. There’s a firm I’m thinking of absorbing and I’d like you to check it out.”
. . .
“Pop. Perhaps you didn’t hear. I’m not going to do any of that right now.”
. . .
“I assume you’re coming back to work. You have a lot of responsibilities back here.”
. . .
“I’m not coming back until I find Clem,” Jim says, surprised at what he is saying. “In fact, as of now I’m quitting.”
. . .
There is a long silence before old Pete says in a flat, controlled voice: “So be it,” and hangs up
. . . .
Jim puts the phone softly back on its cradle and says to Lacey, who has come into the room: “I’m going to have to look for a job.”
. . .
Lacey puts her arms around him, kisses him. “Good. I’ll look for one too.”
. . .

EXTERIOR—NIGHT
. . .
Charles drives them to the edge of old Delhi, where they leave him sitting behind the wheel. They walk into the smoky evening light, past wandering sacred cows, fried pancake stands, tinkling rickshas and bicycles, beggars mumbling for annas in front of cloth merchants hawking cheap paisley spreads. They stop outside a four-story wooden building with a rickety staircase winding up the outside. Jim asks a toothless hag if she knows where the Tibetan lives. She shakes her head, not understanding. “Lama! Lama!” Jim shouts and finally she nods, laughing and pointing to the roof. They climb the stairs to the roof where Lama Yeshe sits on a simple cane chair, a dozen or more people seated cross-legged in front of him. They are in the middle of a puja and Lama Yeshe’s eyes are half closed, his right hand slowly moving a dorje in loose circular motions while his left hand rings a bell. He is a thin brown man of indeterminate age with an enormous shaved head and sad liquid eyes. His young wife sits in front of him in a black chuba, playing with their two small children as the puja proceeds. The others are all Tibetans except for a blond bearded man sitting off to one side, slowly shifting the wooden beads of his mala between thumb and forefinger as he intones the solemn requests and prayers dedicated to the wrathful deity, Dorje Phourba.

Walker stopped writing and laid his head over his folded arms, sleeping for a few moments before he moved to the bed and curled up beside Rosie. Several hours later, when A.D. came back to the room, Walker was huddled in the same position. A.D. read the pages on the table and, in a move that was becoming automatic, went down to the casino’s office to have them Xeroxed. When he returned, Rosie was in the shower and Walker was sitting up in bed, drinking coffee and eating a sweet roll.

“I’m going to Albany,” Walker said.

“Say what?” A.D. sat on the edge of the bed and drank some of Walker’s coffee.

“I’ve come to that point in the script where I have to find out about Clementine.”

“You mean if she’s dead or not?”

“Something like that.”

“Why? The script can take off on its own. If you need her to be dead, make her dead.”

“I’m ready to go outside the script,” Walker said simply.

Rosie came out of the shower wrapped in a towel. Abruptly she took the coffee cup out of A.D.’s hands and went over to sit on the other bed, as if protecting her right to food and privacy.

“I’ll head for New York,” A.D. said. “It’s time to ram a deal through the money people.”

“What money people?”

“Whoever’s hanging around.”

“There won’t be anyone hanging around. The old man’s recent actions don’t exactly inspire that kind of attention.”

“Fuck your old man,” A.D. said. “We agreed on that, didn’t we? I’m just worried about the product. If you find out too much about your sister, you might not want to continue. You might not have the need.”

“That’s possible,” Walker said.

Rosie slowly finished her coffee and let the towel covering her waist slide to the floor. “If someone wants to take a turn with me, that’s okay. If not I’m going to mingle with the high rollers.”

“I’ll take you on,” A.D. said with a sigh.

An hour later he was still negotiating when Walker, suitcase in hand, waved good-bye and left.

THE NEXT
day A.D. flew to New York. He was coming off the road missing one eye and just as broke as when he left. All he had going for him was a long-shot movie hustle dependent on a used-up director just fired off his last picture who thought he was dying or wanted to die or was afraid to die. Not to mention the director’s son, the Far East man, who held the keys to the story line and was another kind of casualty altogether. And then, of course, there was India, which A.D. refused to think about.

When he arrived at Kennedy Airport he checked into the airport bar for courage. Three drinks later he felt as if all the weary little dues and leaks in confidence and energy he had accumulated over the past month had suddenly surfaced and were demanding to be accounted for. His body ached as if it had been kicked, and his entire respiratory system seemed filled with a threat of foreclosure. He was holding himself so maniacally on the point that he had forgotten how to crawl off to the side and check for missing parts. In the face of all this he told himself that even if he was riding the wrong horse, it was the only horse he had and he was committed to flogging it until it crossed the finish line or dropped. Unfortunately he had forgotten to arrange for a place to stay and was unable to reach anyone on the phone. His lack of funds made him settle on the George Washington Hotel, one step away from the street and a step he had made too many times, down to and up from. Lying naked in the hot dead air of his room, he listened to the traffic outside and thought of Wesley Hardin making air-conditioned deals at the Sherry Netherland. Even though it was close to midnight he decided to call him anyway.

Evelyn answered the phone.

“I’d like to turn in a few pages and pick up some cash,” he said.

“I guess so,” she replied vaguely, not sure whom she was talking to.

A.D. tried to make the connection for her. “When you held my hand that time in the hospital it got me through a rough patch.”

She remembered and said she would see him when he got there.

But instead of going directly to the Sherry Netherland, A.D. walked down Third Avenue, then across St. Mark’s Place to Second Avenue, and down Second to a small nightclub, the Blue Rooster. Over the years A.D. had booked several acts into the Rooster and often used the place as a hangout. He had on his Vegas wardrobe, light maroon slacks and a lemon-colored shirt plus a Samsonite briefcase. His change in style, together with his black eye patch, caused the bartender to drop behind the bar in feigned astonishment.

“Mr. Ballou,” he said on reappearing. “You’ve made a score.”

“I have at that,” A.D. admitted. “More or less.”

One of the semiregulars, a black bass player, approached him from the men’s room. “A.D., my main man,” he exclaimed with exaggerated warmth. “You’re lookin’ good,
real
good. Can you lend me a deuce?”

A.D. gave him a fifth of what he asked for and after a few mumbled words about the futility of life in general the bass player slipped out the door to “see a man about a Chinese lady.”

A.D. went over to the piano and bunched a few chords together. He felt disoriented and melancholy and unable to repress the doubts gnawing up inside him.

The owner of the club, a fat middle-aged Italian in a stained sweat shirt and baggy tuxedo pants, leaned over the back of the piano.

“Sorry about the eye,” he said in a flat voice. “But the patch does something for you. You must have lost it on the road.”

“More or less on the road,” A.D. said, not wanting to get into it. “I’ve got a lawsuit going.”

“Litigation is good for the soul,” the owner said. “As long as you don’t count on a payoff. I’ve got several going myself. By the way, I’m looking for a manager for this joint.”

“I’ve changed my game,” A.D. said. “I’m into films. You ever hear of Wesley Hardin? I’m producing something for him.”

“Didn’t he do a Western with Clint Eastwood?”

“Probably. He’s cornered the market on Westerns.”

“I heard they aren’t making them any more.”

“I’m pushing him into a new genre. High adventure set in India.”

“Why not?” the owner said, not believing him. “When you strike out in Hollywood, get back to me. Once a nickel-and-dime man always a nickel-and-dime man. I think Cagney said that.”

A.D. pushed back the piano stool. “I’ll send you a ticket to the first screening.”

He made his way into the thick humid night wishing he was anywhere else but New York. As he walked slowly uptown, he tried to find a rhythm or attitude that would let him sting and float with Wesley, but when he arrived at the Sherry Netherland he was tight and breathless and decidedly off the point.

When Wesley opened the door, he barely glanced at A.D.; his attention was nailed to the scene behind him where Sidney, the second unit cameraman, Evelyn, and a distraught bald-headed man in a blue and white seersucker suit peered anxiously out an open window. An older couple in evening clothes sat on the couch, refusing to acknowledge Wesley pacing back and forth.

“There’s been an accident,” the man said. A.D. recognized him as an English character actor, a colonel or a butler or a chauffeur.

“Not at all,” replied the white-haired woman sitting next to him. “It was quite deliberate. Wesley threw it through the window with both hands. If anyone is killed, he’ll go to jail and I won’t raise one finger in his defense.” She twisted her thin patrician head to stare up at A.D. “Are you the house detective? If so, I suggest an action.”

“I’m a producer.”

“Indeed. Then you are useless.”

Wesley came to a halt in front of her. He looked quite mad standing there in his silk pajama bottoms and loose karate jacket, his thick white hair sticking straight out from the sides of his head as if an electric current had run through it. A.D. was stunned at how pale and thin he was and it occurred to him that Wesley was incapable of directing a film, not to mention his own life.

“Amanda, my darling,” Wesley said, looking down on her. “You are a ferocious and ignorant cunt.”

“And you have lost your mind,” she replied. “You haven’t had anything new to say for years. I can’t even remember when you last directed a decent picture, let alone a semicoherent scene. You’ve lost your dignity, and it’s shameful, Wesley.”

“Here, here,” her companion said stiffly. “I must say, Wesley, as much as we have been devoted to you in the past, it seems impossible to continue being a witness to your willful disintegration.”

“Then I suggest you leave.”

“Our intention exactly.”

As they stood up there was a knock on the door.

“I’ll handle this one,” the bald-headed man said. “It will be my last act as your agent.”

He opened the door to let in the hotel manager.

“Has there been loss of life?” Amanda asked.

“No one was hurt, thank God,” said the manager. “But I must ask you to remain until this is sorted out. I don’t want to have to call the police.”

Amanda pushed him out of the way. “Don’t be absurd. Mr. Hardin is solely responsible for this act, as he is for all his acts.”

As Evelyn and Wesley moved forward with the agent to deal with the hotel manager, Sidney motioned to A.D. to join him in the bedroom.

“He threw my video camera out the window,” Sidney said, closing the door and sitting down on the bed. “I can’t be in that room any more. I’m trying to keep it contained, but when the surf is up with Wes it’s hard to stay in the water. And it was very good what he was doing. He was actually weeping at one point, talking about his friends that had died, different films, that whole scandal with Jack Warner and Errol Flynn. And then he just says this is totally profane and that he hates video, the way it gets under the skin and promotes the wrong kind of information, how falsely seductive it is. He started to rant on and on and I said, hey, listen, you were the one that asked for video. Most of the stuff I shot is in sixteen. I don’t care about video. Let’s never mention the word again. And he says ‘right’ and throws the fucking thing out the window.”

He paused, realizing that A.D. didn’t know who he was.

“I was second unit with Wesley in Durango when he lost it. He asked me to shoot all this crazy stuff and I did and I’ve just kept going. I developed some footage in L.A. and came here to shoot more. You’re A.D., right? The doctor or shrink who’s taking care of Walker.”

“I’ve been working with Walker on a script, if that’s what you mean. I’m the producer.”

“Right. I knew someone was working with him. Wesley told me he was trying to promote this script as a catharsis for him or something.”

“It’s a good script,” A.D. said. “I think it’s hot.”

Sidney walked to the bed and then to the window and back to the bed again. Picking up an ashtray, he put it back on the dresser, then lit a cigarette and stabbed it out on a paperback book. Finally he came to rest full length on the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, he said:

“I looked at the script. Tell you the truth, I don’t know what kind of a pull it has. I mean, who cares about India? Indiana maybe, but not India. I’ll tell you another thing. No one wants to go there. I wouldn’t go. I have enough problems. Everyone will get sick and freak out, and it’ll be a producer’s nightmare. Wesley won’t last one week down there. Count on it. I was with him in Mexico. But rain or shine, the old bastard is still trying to get into gear, setting up meetings and leaking all kinds of malarkey to the press. He thinks that if he isn’t riding herd on a project, he’s going to cash in.”

“Is he?”

“I’m certainly banking on it.”

“Doesn’t he want to know about his daughter?”

“Not really. That’s wrap-up stuff. What you do when you have no time left. It’s automatic. Mostly the kids are a pain in the ass. I know this tale you and Walker are laying out has put him through changes.”

“I have more pages for him.”

“Then he’ll go through more changes.”

“What about his wife? Doesn’t she stroke him down?”

“She’s holding on, but it’s hard. He accuses her of waiting for him to die and they fight and she disappears for a day or two and he totally loses control.”

A.D. went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He checked the medicine cabinet. There was an impressive display of mood elevators and painkillers, and he put a few of each into his pocket.

“Are you making a film about Wesley?” A.D. asked, coming back into the room.

“I am, but not like the family soap you’re doing. I’m traveling the low road, catching what dribbles out of the mouth after the main meal is over. Final words and that kind of thing. I pile up moments, vicious little scenes, tearful, angry, guilty, they’re all the same to me as long as they add up to some kind of confession. That’s where the gold is.”

“What kind of a deal do you have with Wesley?”

Sidney sat up on the bed and looked straight at A.D. as if he wanted to impress him with his intentions.

“No deal.”

“You mean he’s not paying you?”

“I don’t want him to. That way I own the stock. I never cashed the checks he sent me.”

“Does he know that?”

“I don’t think so. I sent him a memo which he never looked at and which I Xeroxed, so I’m covered.”

“Can you afford to keep going?”

“Probably not.”

“And you think this can make money?”

“Are you kidding? There’s only one law in this business and that’s box office. I’m doing my best to obey that law. There’s nobody over me and no middle man and it doesn’t cost anything to shoot. I’ve got Evelyn stripped to the bone screaming how she loves and hates him and I show how she gets him up in the morning, convincing him that he has something to live for. I’ve got fights and harangues and secrets revealed. I have this one scene in Mazatlán where he throws a knife at some L.A. lawyer and it sticks in his arm. And Wesley’s in the news, you know. He’s all over the place. Everyone has an opinion on him.”

From that moment on, India was never a serious issue for A.D.

“There should be a way to put everything on the same plate,” he said to Sidney, who had gone over to the door and was trying to listen to what was being said in the other room. “I’ll give you a slice of India if you cut me into your action with Wesley.”

“I don’t need India,” Sidney said. “I need fifty grand. If not from you, then from somebody.”

“We’ll talk about it,” A.D. said, noticing that Sidney had lost most of his initial authority and that the mention of money made his body contract. “Where are you staying?”

“Downtown.”

“I’ll call you when I find a place to stay. I’m at the Hilton and I can’t stand it. The service is lousy and there are too many tourists.”

“I have an extra room. Wesley likes to come down to hide out. Maybe it would make it easier for you.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Sidney stepped away from the door and wrote his address on a piece of paper in large bold letters. “I’ll give you the bottom line,” he said wearily. “I can’t stand the abuse. Like this thing with the video camera. He’s got me so twisted. It’s not like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows exactly where the lens is. But he keeps pulling the rug out from under himself. Every time he quits he asks me back, and then he quits again.”