Celluloid Memories (17 page)

Suddenly, Savannah thought of her father, and all he must have gone through over the years. The hard work it had taken not only trying to prove his own talent, but also building the right kind of support around him to make his career possible. It couldn't have been easy, and maybe it wasn't supposed to be. It was ironic that it seemed to be happening so fast for her. Was this what she wanted for her own life? To be caught up in the Hollywood fantasy machine?

Could she be any less brave then Rae Marie, or her own father?

Savannah opened her cell phone and entered McCoy's office number. The assistant answered and informed her that Mr. Sutton was out of the office for most of the day, but he'd be sure to give him her message when he called in.

“Please tell Mr. Sutton that I need his advice on a contract I've been given to sign,” Savannah added.

“Will he know what it's about?”

“No,” Savannah admitted. “But I have it with me. Can I drop a copy off for him?”

“That's a good idea and will save time. Do you have the address?”

Savannah drove to McCoy's Century City office. The male assistant met her in the reception area where she handed him the contract. He glanced quickly over the first page.

“Is this about a real estate deal?”

“It's about this,” Savannah said, pulling a copy of the script from her tote bag.

“Fine,” he said. “I'll make a copy of the contract and give the original back to you. It'll just take a minute.”

Savannah thanked him for his trouble, and in less than fifteen minutes she was back in her car and on her way to her office. It was only then that she felt somewhat relieved and began to settle down. Only then did she believe as well that everything would work out.

It was almost three-thirty when McCoy called her.

“Sorry I couldn't get back to you sooner,” he said.

“I'm sorry I called on such short notice.”

“I haven't had a chance to read through those papers yet, but I wanted to make sure you're okay.” McCoy said.

“Yes, I'm fine. I just didn't want to sign anything without checking it out first.”

“Smart move.”

“But it can wait for a day or two,” Savannah offered.

“No, let's deal with it now. Can you come by my office later? I'll have the contract read by then and we can talk.”

Savannah hesitated. Of course she wanted to know what McCoy thought, and to get his insights, but she felt uncomfortable, nonetheless, asking him.

“I can be there by six.”

“Good. See you then.”

After hearing from McCoy, Savannah's anxiety returned, and she couldn't say why. There was certainly a sense of anticipation, but also something else that was harder to define. For a while she even wondered if it had been a good idea to call McCoy at all, to involve him, but there was no one else she felt she could trust to be honest with her.

Well, maybe her father's former agent, Simon Raskin, but that also did not sit well with Savannah.

As the rest of the afternoon unfolded it finally occurred to her to call Taj with the latest information about her script.

“The Man himself is willing to take you on? Hey, I'm not surprised. That's why I went to him. Are you going to sign an agreement?” Taj asked Savannah.

“I'm thinking about it, Taj. The contract looked a little complicated and I want to take my time reading it to make sure I understood.”

“You can't get no better than Punch Wagoner, Baby Girl, and he's one of us. He'll watch out for you.”

“You're probably right, but he was okay with me getting back to him.”

“I guess I should congratulate you.”

“Taj, I haven't done anything yet. Right now it's still just a script.”

“I'll make you a bet that something happens with it.”

“What are you willing to bet?” Savannah asked, getting into the spirit of the moment.

“Double or nothing. If you're right, and the deal dies a quick and natural death, then you don't owe me anything. But if I win, then it's the whole nine yards times
two.
”

“Even if I'm right, Taj, then I'll have to do something for you. I wouldn't have gotten this far without your help.”

“You know, maybe I should become an agent like Punch. Hell, you could've been my first client,” Taj bemoaned the loss, making Savannah laugh.

But when she arrived later that afternoon at McCoy's office the humor of that moment had vanished. She was still no less anxious to hear what he had to say about the management agreement Punch Wagoner wanted her to sign.

The assistant was waiting and led her right into McCoy's office. Savannah tried not to read anything into the fact that Mac hadn't met her himself. As a matter of fact, when she entered his office, he was not seated at his desk or standing in front of it to greet her. Instead, Savannah found him staring out the window, his back to her.

“Ms. Shelton is here,” the assistant announced.

“Thanks,” Savannah said to him as he left, closing the door behind him.

It was only a matter of seconds before McCoy finally turned from the window but to her it seemed interminable. Something felt off, and she felt the need to apologize.

“If this isn't a good time, I…”

“This is as good a time as any,” McCoy said, sitting down at his desk, and indicating one of the two chairs in front of it where she was to take a seat.

“How are you?” he asked.

The question sounded formulaic to her. She shrugged. “Confused and harried. So much is happening.”

“You certainly have been busy,” he commented.

Savannah frowned. “Not really. The script and the contract all came about pretty fast. I had no particular thought or plan.”

McCoy sat back in a relaxed position, his legs crossed at the knees. It was then that she noticed two things. He held in his hand, not the contract from Punch Wagoner but the copy of
Fade to Black.
The second thing was the tone of his voice. As he silently and thoughtfully scanned the first few pages of the script a third came to mind. Mac seemed to be avoiding meeting her gaze.

The revelations caught Savannah off guard and left her startled. He had not greeted her at all. Gone was any sign that they knew one another, that there had just recently been conversation, laughter and a kiss between them that was still open to interpretation.

“You wrote this?” McCoy finally asked.

“Why is everyone so surprised by that?” Savannah asked. “Yes, I did.”

“I wasn't questioning the authenticity,” McCoy said calmly. “Just expressing my admiration and my awareness that it's a good script.”

“Thank you,” Savannah said quietly, bewildered by his formality, and not even sure that he was actually paying her a compliment.

In that moment McCoy finally gazed into her eyes. His were clear, focused and coolly professional. Now he gave her his complete attention, and Savannah reasoned that he was doing exactly what she needed him to do—being serious in his appraisal and advice. She suddenly realized that it was she who had to make the adjustment and accept that she'd called him on a business matter, and that he was behaving in an appropriate businesslike way. But she found it unsettling.

Savannah realized she was looking for much more in his eyes. The something that would have reassured her, and that would not necessarily have been all about business, but also about…

About what? Their knowledge of each other? Growing camaraderie? Affection?

“I had to read it quickly, but I enjoyed it,” McCoy said.

“I didn't mean to rush you,” Savannah said.

“I'll read it again, when I can take my time, but I think what you've done is very good. The concept is fresh and daring, with a lot of heart and a lot to say.”

“Thank you,” Savannah said again, this time warmly and with relief. “I had no idea what I was doing. I was writing by the seat of my pants,” she attempted to joke. It fell flat.

McCoy suddenly fastened a speculative searching look on her. “Why this story? Is it based on someone you know?”

“Why are you asking?” she countered.

“It's a painful story, Savannah. Very revealing, and very humiliating,” McCoy said. “It airs some of our own dirty laundry from the history of black Americans. The story is filled with desperation, but it's also about someone who was undeniably brave. Who do you know who's like this character?”

Savannah was surprised by the sharpness of McCoy's question, but she knew she shouldn't have been. One of the reasons she'd thought to discuss her project and the contract with him at all was because she believed she could trust his opinion.

“Her name is Rae Marie Hilton. I don't know her, but I found a lot of information about her in my father's personal records. What I learned about her leads me to believe she was a black actress passing for white, and that my father was her friend and confidant. I've also seen some pictures of her. She was stunningly beautiful, and she did look white. That's about it. I don't know if she's still alive or, if she is, where she lives. I've found very little about her career as an actress and nothing about her personal life. It's as though she's vanished from the face of the earth.”

McCoy was closely watching her as she spoke, but again, as with Punch Wagoner that morning, Savannah had the sense that he was studying her, appraising her as well. She didn't understand why he'd feel the need to. She'd allowed him to get closer to her than any man had in a long time.

He nodded in understanding when she'd finished what she knew about Rae Marie. “Is your script based entirely on her?”

“No, it's not. I only used her as the model for my heroine. I made up the story to suit my theme.”

“And that is?”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

“I see that,” McCoy said.

He grew silent, once again giving his attention to the script, taking time to reread random pages. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow and seemed to be considering much more than she was asking of him.

“Mac, I want you to be honest. You won't hurt my feelings, I promise. I don't want to make a fool of myself. Should I put it in a drawer and forget about it?”

“No, you definitely should not do that,” he said, pulling his chair up to the desk and seeming to settle down to the business at hand. “Let me make something clear. I'm not an entertainment attorney.”

“I know that.”

“So you have to take what I tell you with a grain of salt.”

“I trust what you'll tell me because I believe you'll be fair.”

“I appreciate your faith in me,” he said coolly, “But let me tell you what I see here.”

Savannah was surprised by the thorough and thoughtful assessment he gave her script. Like Punch Wagoner, McCoy was honest about what he saw as her chances for selling her concept, the bottom line for any producer or director being whether there's an audience, or if a film will earn back the investment.

“I think Punch was being straight with you about that part. It's an excellent script and story, but Hollywood has been known to go for total nonsense to make money,” he said dryly. “The first thing I want you to do is to register a copy of your script with the Writer's Guild of America. It acts like a copyright office for the film industry. Do it tomorrow on your lunch break. And make sure you keep all your original notes and computer versions of the script. Just in case.”

“Okay.” Savannah quickly dug out a notebook from her bag and wrote a note to herself.

“I know Punch Wagoner socially,” McCoy suddenly confessed. “He's got a good reputation in the business and I think he's a straight shooter. That said, I have some problems with his agreement.”

Referring to the first page, and methodically continuing through the entire document, McCoy alerted Savannah to the terms, clauses and language that he felt she should be aware of and careful with. He suggested changes.

“Something else,” he said, frowning over one page. “I don't like that Punch has put the title of producer for himself into the contract. It's not illegal, but I think there's a big conflict of interest. It looks like he's using your project as leverage to further his own interest in that area.”

“What should I do? Will he take that out if I ask him to?”

“You won't have to. That's why you talk with a lawyer before signing anything. I'll call him and give him a heads-up, let him know that you and I are acquainted and I gave you my professional opinion of his agreement. But I'll give you the name of someone I know who'll work with you and Punch to make the contract more acceptable. He probably told you it's a boilerplate contract, but no contract is written to the benefit of the person who's to sign it. I'm glad you didn't sign this,” McCoy said dryly.