Flavor of the Month (75 page)

“Sy, this is starting to make a deal with Scott Rudin look good,” Michael sneered.

“You know, maybe I should have brought Ara,” Lila said.

“No. No. Not at all. He’s an old man. A sick man. We’ll wait until we have some of this ironed out.”

Michael snorted. Yeah, like when Sy has ironed out a contract to represent Lila. Jesus. Anyway, what needed to be straightened out?

“Straighten it out? I thought you straightened it out already?”

“Well, partly. But there are some issues, valid issues, and this meeting…”

“Just shove this meeting up your ass!” Michael cried, and had begun to walk to the door when it swung open. A tall, cadaverous man, the palest, thinnest guy Michael had ever seen, walked into the room. He was dressed all in black. If Morticia Addams has an anorectic younger brother, this was the guy. Behind him was the little prick, Ricky Dunn, who, Michael noticed immediately, was not so little. The kid was taller than Michael by a good two inches.

Dunn was dressed in a pair of torn and filthy jeans, some kind of T-shirt that looked like camouflage or something, and an oiled canvas duster that must have been out of Wardrobe, used for some stupid Australian-outback movie. The Mickey Rourke look, but clean. He also had on a pair of wraparound sunglasses with mirrored lenses. He didn’t take them off, though the room was dim.

“I’m Shay Wright,” the cadaver said, holding out his hand to Sy, who obviously already knew him but shook it. Michael didn’t make a move, and Shay dropped his skeletal arm. “And this,” he added, “is Ricky Dunn.”

Shay nodded to Ortis and Lila, but Ricky acknowledged none of them. The two of them moved to the sofa and sat down so close together that they looked as if they were joined at the hip. Sy moved an armchair out for Michael and, unwillingly, Michael sat down. Lila smiled at Ricky. Michael noticed that she both licked her lips
and
tossed her head before crossing her long legs in front of them all. Christ, why didn’t she just spread-eagle?

“We’re sorry we’re late,” Shay said.

“No problem,” Lila purred.

“I just got here myself,” Michael told them. Fuckers.

“Fine, fine,” Sy said. “So, Ricky, everything just about wrapped on
Zoom?
”

Ricky turned to Shay, bent even closer, and whispered something into his ear. “Mr. Dunn says he’s very pleased with the rough cut.”

Michael couldn’t believe his eyes—or his ears, for that matter. Before he could say anything, Sy continued. “Did you enjoy working with Carpenter? I hear he’s a hell of a director.”

Again, Ricky leaned over and murmured something inaudible into Shay’s ear. Shay nodded. “With all due respect, Mr. Dunn says that Bill Carpenter is a fucking bag of shit who couldn’t direct traffic with a stoplight to help him.”

Sy blinked. Michael definitely saw him blink, but he recovered without a whimper. What a reptile! “Have they picked a release date?”

This time, Shay answered without any tutelage. “Christmas Day.”

Sy nodded. “So, we just love the script for
Scraper;
don’t we, Michael?”

Michael hunched over to Sy and whispered, “What the fuck is going on?” Lila, still smiling, was following all this with eyes that looked as old as those of the Sphinx.

Sy only shrugged. “We did have a few questions about Buck, the character Michael will play.”

“
Might
play,” Michael corrected. He was sick of this charade. Why not get to the point? “But, more important than that, we need to talk about the billing.”

“That might be premature,” Sy said, and cleared his throat. What the fuck was
that
supposed to mean? Michael flipped Sy a look.

“I’d expect top billing,” Michael said.

Ricky remained expressionless, as did Shay, but Ricky, once again, began his inaudible murmuring. When he was done, it was Shay’s turn to clear his throat. “Meaning no offense, Mr. Dunn says he would rather fuck Michael Jackson up the ass than take second billing to Mr. McLain. Understand that I’m only speaking for Mr. Dunn when I say that…”

Michael scrambled to his feet, knocking over the coffee table. “Hold it! Hold it. If Mr. Dunn wants to say something, he can fucking well say it for himself. If I hear one more word out of you, you fucking bloodless cadaver, I’ll break you into pieces…”

“No need for that kind of talk,” Sy began. “We’re reasonable people and…”

Without a word from Ricky Dunn, Shay bent forward. “With all due respect, Mr. Dunn says he’ll let you have top billing when you grow tits and fly away.”

“That’s it!” Michael McLain yelled. “I’m fuckin’ out-of-here.” He kicked the table out of his way and walked to the door.

“And fuck you, too,” Shay said sweetly.

Lila ran down out the door of the Martine after Michael. “I guess this means no part for me,” she said, almost breathless when she caught up with him. “Look, I never thought Ricky Dunn was worth shit. But you and me in
Birth of a Star
…”

Michael handed his claim check to the valet and only then turned to look at her.

“Forget about it,” he said.

She stood, silent for a moment. Then she tossed her long red hair. Like that would help her. Michael snorted.

“Look,” she said, “I thought we had an understanding. We had a deal.”

The Testarossa pulled up, and Michael nearly dragged the valet out of it in his hurry to get in. Only then did he look up at Lila, looming over the low-slung car. “Hey, babe, it was only a verbal. It’s not like I balled you,” he said, and, putting his foot on the gas, he peeled out.

Sy Ortis raised his head and stared at Jahne. “Are you crazy?” he asked, his voice low. “Are you?” he repeated.

He had already tried every rational reason he could think of to dissuade her. Faxed her half a dozen times, both on the set and at the hotel. Harangued her on the phone. Called her into his office for this special meeting. But she wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t cooperate. First Michael blows the meeting with Ricky. Then, in desperation, he wants to do this retread piece of shit for—of all people—April Irons, and now,
now
, this one, this one he made himself, waltzes in, cool as a frozen daiquiri, and tells him—
tells
him, mind you, not asks—that
she’s
going to costar in
Birth
. Without a preliminary goddamned word to him. He gets the contracts from April, and the whole thing is a
fait accompli
. Only he looks like an asshole. Well, he’d eat Michael’s shit and Ricky’s, too, if he had to, but he wasn’t going to eat Jahne’s and April’s for dessert.

He reached for his empty inhaler and fondled it as if it were some magic amulet that would make Jahne Moore disappear. “So, are you crazy, or what?” There was only one thing to do. He’d have to scare her. Then, maybe, she’d behave.

She stared back at him, insolently. She
was
an insolent bitch. Had been from the very beginning. “I don’t think so,” she said.

Sy laughed. “No, I guess you don’t. I guess you think you’re smart, or talented, or some other grandiose, self-inflated horseshit. The next Sarah Bernhardt. Better watch out you don’t become the next
Sandra
Bernhard.” Sy was so angry, so outraged, that he even slipped, his accent showing. “Well, let me esplain something to you. You aren’t here because you’re talented, or smart, or hardworking, or any of that crap. That doesn’t esplain why you’re here. What you are is
lucky
. Right now you might be one of the three luckiest bitches on the face of the planet. And you’re too fucking stupid to realize it.”

“I guess that means that you don’t think
Birth of a Star
is a good idea,” she said coolly.

“Very good. Nice use of sarcasm. Maybe you’re not so stupid.” Sy felt his chest tightening. Hold on there, he told himself. You’re losing control. You got to scare them, but not scare them
away
. Still, this was outrageous. Sy Ortis, the ultimate deal-maker, cut out of the negotiations, not even consulted. Left out of the deal. By not one but
two
of his clients. April must be laughing like a hyena in a fun house. Which just about described both her
and
International Studios. The thought of April Irons was like a band tightening around his chest. When would his secretary get back with his inhaler? Jesus, these bitches!

“Sy, it’s a good deal. They’ve offered me points. Five points is very good.”

“Five points of the
net
. There’s never any
net!
Those are monkey points. Even
Batman
never made a
net
profit. You want gross points, and on this deal you want
nada
. You want out.”

“Why?”

“It will stay in development hell forever. There still isn’t a shooting script. And you have only ten weeks’ hiatus. This will take twice as long to film, if it ever gets made. Plus, it’s just not right for you.”

He tried to calm himself. “Listen, Jahne,” he said with a wheeze. “I’m talking to you the way I would to my own daughter. You can’t have your cake and eat it, too. And the show is the biggest thing on TV. It’s the biggest thing that’s
ever
been on TV. It may save a fucking network. You’re at the very best place you could possibly be. So why risk
Birth?
There isn’t even a decent script!” he repeated. “How could you commit to something without even seeing a finished script? Has everyone gone crazy? What if it’s
muy malo
—big-time bad? Why give up a gold mine for a bird in the bushes?”

The bitch smiled. Good, he’d won her over. But,
Madre de Jesus
, these women would kill him!

“I don’t see it that way.”

He couldn’t believe it. “What?” he asked, his voice reduced to a rasp. When she had called him and told him she wanted to talk, he hadn’t been prepared for this. Who would be? But she sprung the idea of doing the April Irons film on her hiatus from
Three for the Road
—and then added she’d need four
extra
weeks off from
3/4
. Like the show could wait. Like Marty wouldn’t mind. Like the network wouldn’t go loco. Like it was nothing. She was sitting on top of the world, and now, behind his back, she wants to go film some stinking remake with a pup director instead of keeping her sure thing.

“The reality is, Sy, I get the time off or I quit.”

“What?” he whispered.

“Listen, the way I see it, it’s all got to be downhill from here. What the show has going for it is novelty. That will wear off next season. And the imitations will start. If I leave now, it will be big news. Leave at the peak. Anyway, this show was
not
what I want to do. It was only a stepping-stone. And the Huey, Dewey, and Louey dialogue is really getting me down. I want to do some serious work.”

“Since when is a potboiler like
Birth of a Star
considered serious? It’s not
Hedda Gabler
, for chrissakes.”

“It’s better than the crap I’m doing now. And it’s a
film
. I hate TV. Wasn’t it Galbraith who said nobody could compete with us in producing morally depraved TV programs? I want out of the Flanders Cosmetics deal, and I don’t want to do the show at all.”

It was unbelievable. Women all over the country would give their left tit to be in those ads, and she wanted out? And out of the
show?

“Wait a minute. Now you’re not talking about an extension of the hiatus, you’re actually talking about leaving the show altogether?”

“Well, why not? I only signed the one-year contract.”

“Why not? Why not?
Sangra de Cristos!
Because they’ll replace your ass so fast that no one will remember your name one year from now. You’ll become an answer in trivia games.”

“Maybe. But I could use a lot less fame than I’ve got now. And if you don’t agree, perhaps I ought to leave the agency.”

Sy got up from his desk, walked over to the window, and looked out on the glare and dust of the L.A. freeway. Holy jumping Jesus. It wasn’t the Assholes or the Regulars. It was the Talent that would kill him in the end. He began to truly fight for breath. How many times would one of them crucify him, castrate him? Crystal Plenum insisted on doing that
Jack and Jill
bullshit that ruined her career. She was becoming the Zsa Zsa of her generation. Michael makes an ass out of himself and Sy in front of Ricky and Lila Kyle. And now this! Marty would kill him if he lost Jahne. Jahne would leave the agency if she couldn’t do April Irons’ movie. And April would bust his chops over Jahne’s stupid contract.

He was one of the most powerful men in the goddamn Industry, and these empty-headed, loco
putas
tried to tell him that they were smarter. They were always smarter. Until they became yesterday’s news. He turned to Jahne.

“Now, you listen to me. You want to become the Art Garfunkel of the television industry? Never quit a winner. This town eats up pretty girls faster than reporters chew up free lunches. You get your shot, you’re hot, you can make any deal for any money; then along comes someone younger, a different type, and you’re history. You can’t get a fuckin’ guest shot on
L.A. Law
. You’ll be happy to make an appearance on
Hollywood Squares
. And you won’t even get called on by the contestants.”

“Oh, come on. The first film I do is important, but it
is
just one film. I mean, it doesn’t make or break a career. Who was ever ruined by one bad choice?”

“The list is long and distinguished. Suzanne Somers. Sexpot. Beautiful. Quit TV. Couldn’t get a supermarket opening for a decade. Shelley Long. Walked off
Cheers
. Name one of her films. Or Farrah Fawcett. Hottest girl of her decade. One season, leaves TV.
No one
pays to see one of her movies,
ever
, except maybe Ryan O’Neal. Movies are riskier. People pay cash to see movies. Not like a TV series, where people get it free and want to see you every week. Even for a features actress, it’s risky. One bad movie, two the most, and…Look at Michelle Pfeiffer. Ellen Barkin. Or Melanie Griffith, Kathleen Turner. Holly Hunter. They each got to be the hot girl. For a year. Where are they now?”

“They work, Sy. They all work.”

He looked at her, disgust plainly written on his simian face. “You don’t get it, do you? You just don’t get it. Right now you got
heat
. They want you.
Everybody
wants you. You can go anywhere. You can meet anyone. It doesn’t last long, not without good management and luck. And once it’s gone, baby, it’s gone.”