Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (20 page)

Into this dark-suited and misty (almost everyone was smoking) island of joy, the sudden appearance of stark white fur, and the flash entrance of quilted and spotted purple as Lydia Corfu took off that fur, made an impact not undesirable to my immediate goals. We were noticed by everybody. Which caused a minute slowing of agitated drinking and a momentary diminution of decibels. Once all was normal again, we made our way through the crowd, noise and smoke to a large booth Hamo had assured us would be reserved, even though The Pavilion did not take reservations.

It was a neat trick: The group from Hamo's office, which had been occupying the booth, quickly downed their drinks, said their good-byes and vacated just as we were in claiming distance.

“Very nice,” I said to Hamo.

“English accommodation is the best in the world.”

“I'll recommend you to my friends.”

“Thank you, sir. It has been my pleasure.”

Roee, Lydia and I sat as Hamo, uncomfortable in the coat and tie I had insisted he wear, went to the bar to order our drinks and to talk to the management. Lydia was already in the role, laughing at Roee's witticisms and telling me that she thought my report had been slightly sloppy but adequate. She called us rather loudly by our names of “Henderson” and “Pinsker.” Her unique frequency of voice just added to the spectrum.

Hamo returned with a pint for himself, Bordeaux for Roee, a vodka tonic for me, and scotch rocks for Lydia. He also brought a big bowl of peanuts, which Lydia attacked voraciously, which surprised me. Although it shouldn't have, for she wasn't smoking, a pertinent fact: a European woman of power not smoking? Ah—she was trying to quit. After that reflection, I turned to Hamo. He nodded his head—just slightly. This was the signal that the management had confirmed that the party in the booth just next to us was indeed from Leatherbarrow & Boyle, Ltd., the investment bank that Sara Hutton had secretly (or so she had thought) contracted to quietly search out possible international financing for her management bid to buy Olympic Pictures. What I knew, and Sara Hutton didn't, was that Leatherbarrow and Boyle had “come a cropper” finding few interested institutions willing to back her. They hadn't told her yet. They were still commiserating among themselves over the loss of fees, probably at that very moment.

It was my turn to nod, which I did to Lydia. In an amazing demonstration of quick study memory, she launched into the script.

“So,” she raised her glass, “here's to Olympic Pictures, and its return to Greek ownership.”

Roee and I both looked concerned. I began to speak in a cautionary way. “Well, actually, Ms. Corfu, as you know, George Pangalos was an American citizen.”

“A Greek is always a Greek!” she declared and dismissed. “Besides, today the whole world is practically American. We are all practically American citizens.”

“Ah,” a very uptight “Pinsker” felt compelled to point out, “spiritually, or something, that may be the case, but legally—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. That's why you want me to keep this Sara Hutton.”

“Unless you pull a Engstrand or a Murdoch and become an American citizen,” Roee put on the table.

“That I cannot do. My husband is very patriotic. He is still upset about the ascendancy of Rome. He would divorce me.”

“Do you love him that much?” I asked.

“Ahaa, he satisfies me on alternate Tuesdays, but let's be honest, as Humbolt, Henderson and Pinsker have pointed out to me more than once—he is my collateral.”

“So,” Roee reiterated, “backing Sara Hutton's management bid, letting her side retain majority control so as to comply with FCC rules, allows Olympic Pictures to eventually buy one of the American TV networks. That will then give you an incredible basis for a global media company. Films, television, cable, satellite. All delivering company generated and controlled product. Then you have it all. The medium, the message—”

“And the ability to massage it in,” I said finishing the point.

“First, explain to me again how I control Sara Hutton if Sara Hutton controls the company.”

“Ms. Corfu, there's an old American saying: He who controls the purse strings... Believe me, no one else in the financial community is going to back this woman. You'll give her what she wants today and control the cash flow tomorrow. As for your profits, the salary and bonuses we will negotiate for you will more than make up for any loss on paper. After all, it will not be a public company. Scrutiny will be at a minimum. It will be your company in all but paperwork name. Furthermore, don't discount Sara Hutton's abilities. She has known success, and, on another hand, we hear from one of our sources that she has attitudes you might find yourself comfortable to be around.”

“Attitudes?”

“Of a somewhat—social/economic bent.”

“Okay. So, when do we make the approach?”

“When we get to Los Angeles I will call her. I will set up a meeting.”

“Good.”

Lydia looked down at the bowl. It was empty. “Hamo?” she smiled sweetly at our quiet friend. “Would you be the dear lamb I know you are, and get me some more peanuts?”

~ * ~

Were we overheard? According to Hamo's friend in management, the Leatherbarrow & Boyle group got the message. Their own conversation had ceased twice. Once when we had entered and made our way towards them, boldly claiming the neighboring booth (I confirmed that. I had made a quick scan of them when we passed), and then, later, when the cumulative effect of the words Corfu; Henderson; Pinsker; Hutton and Olympic had had their effect and one of the L&B group hushed the others and they all strained to hear. After we had left, that one, a Robert Pye, had made a not so discreet inquiry of the management as to our identities. As he had been well paid to do, the management was happy to inform him of our particulars, “Henderson” and “Pinsker” being old customers of The Pavilion, especially in the heady days of the “Greed is Good” Eighties. “Haven't seen them much lately, though,” he lamented.

All this we learned by a report the management gave Hamo over his cell phone as we took a limo to Southwark by way of the flamboyantly Victorian Tower Bridge. We were heading towards a new posh and trendy restaurant on the bankside of the Thames, known for its wonderful night view of this bridge, all lit up and shouting: London! Which is usually why tourists mistake it for London Bridge, which it is not—London Bridge, the utilitarian-only bridge just to the West, is about as flamboyant as a plank over a creek.

We sat down to dinner and in hush tones—Lydia was surprisingly good at this—discussed our triumph.

“As slick as picking figs,” she said—and she would know.

“Often the disseminating of information is as rewarding as the gathering of it,” I said as I cut into a near perfect rack of lamb.

“You mean mind-fuck a person?” Lydia asked—or accused?

“Well....”

“Not as much fun as a body-fuck, surely,” Hamo slipped in quietly. We all stopped and stared at him.

“Dissimilar pleasures, to say the least,” Roee finally added.

“But it was fun!” Lydia declared. “Better than acting. Like acting, of course, but better. The audience as victims!”

“That's a positive?” I asked.

Lydia Corfu smiled, deciding to keep her answer behind the smile. Then she asked, “Okay. Now. What did we buy with our little performance?”

“Legitimacy. I expect to be contacted by this Robert Pye. Leatherbarrow & Boyle will ask for an invitation to the party. If we give it to them, their good judgment will probably lapse, and they will convince Sara Hutton that we are sincere prospects. We might have been able to do that on our own, but as our sincerity is anything but, good word of mouth can't hurt. It is, after all, the basis of all marketing.”

“We do this, why? So we can get invited to this Communion of the Golden Arse?”

“Can't get the evidence against them if we don't.”

“Is it going to be dangerous? This Max guy...?”

“Our plan is to get in. Document what we can. See if we can find evidence of Bea Cherbourg having been there, and of her fate. Then we get out. You then take the material and use it as you see fit.”

“Good plan, but....”

“Yes, things don't always go according to plan. There is potential for violence, but I seriously doubt it.”

“Well, if it comes to it, I have used many types of weapons.”

“In movies,” I felt the need to remind her.

“Yes, sadly, only blanks, but I am a method actress. I was always in the moment and always believed. So, I have killed—” she did a quick calculation. “Maybe 200-300 men.”

“Make believe massacre, my sweet I, can never stand besides the real thing.”

She was about to follow with a joke when I'm sure she saw something in my eyes. I hadn't meant for them to reveal, but lamb and vodka often pacifies me. She tried to look deep—a surprising revelation of her own—but I had recovered by then.

~ * ~

The dinner was long and very European, with many courses. Hamo dug in. Roee was not unimpressed. Lydia consumed with visible passion. I savored. After dessert and coffee we all sat back rather pleased with ourselves. A meal much larger than one should consume at a single sitting, and the crammed condition of your insides that follow, is a perverse pleasure, it is essentially a pleasure in avoiding the common hungry fate of much of mankind, but take pleasure in it we did. Guilt and shame could come later. Assuming any of us were susceptible to them.

We left the restaurant and got into our limo. I asked Lydia, “What hotel are you staying at?”

“The Hyde Park.”

“Ah.”

“You know it?”

“Very well. It's very, British Empire.”

“Yes, very Masterpiece Theater. I love it. Do you love it?”

“I am—fond of it.”

“Good. Because you are coming up to my room.”

“Well, that's very kind of you,” Roee said, “but it's late and—”

“Not all of you. Just him,” Lydia said indicating me. “We have more to discuss.”

“Do we?” I asked. “Tomorrow is not soon enough?”

“It is tomorrow.”

Hamo looked at his watch. “She's right, you know.” He had a twinkle in his eyes. Which was fairly disconcerting.

“Even so....”

“You will not refuse my offer of a nightcap.” It was a statement of fact.

“Well, seeing how you would like to take me back into the grand old days of the British Empire, and as you are offering me something so retro as a nightcap, I suppose I shouldn't refuse. It would be much like turning down a free trip to Disneyland.”

“Disney World is more like it,” Roee said.

“No. Euro Disney, definitely,” Hamo had his say.

“You equate my offer to cultural imperialism?” Lydia said with mock offense.

“Are you baring any gifts?”

“You'll see exactly what I'll bare.”

Hamo giggled, which was not very British of him.

We made our way north over Waterloo Bridge, then onto the Strand merging into The Mall. We circled around Buckingham Palace, went along Constitution Hill, then got onto Knightsbridge. When we pulled up in front of the hotel the doorman was right there. Lydia got out of the limo, turned, and stared at me. I turned to Roee and Hamo. “Once more unto the breech, dear friends,” I said pointedly. Roee nodded, and I could see that Hamo was already on his cell phone as I, once out of the limo, turned to say goodnight.

Lydia and I entered the hotel and ascended the immediate, short staircase that brings one up into the Hyde Park's dark marbled entrance hall. The hotel really doesn't have a lobby, having been built in 1892 as “residential chambers for gentlemen,” but this is what gives it its charm of intimacy. A large mirror greets you with yourself as you reach the top of the stairs. The reception area is off in a small room beyond an open arched doorway to the left. The concierge is behind a large built-in desk to the right. Lydia quickly moved passed both, bearing to the left to go down a connecting hallway to the elevators. Soon we were up in her suite.

“Sit,” she said indicating one of two couches that faced each other and which were situated under a sparkling chandelier. I choose the one closest to and facing away from the three tall windows that I knew looked out over Hyde Park. Since it was dark, there was no need to angle for a view. Besides, at the moment, the room itself was the view, eye enchanting with its generous volume provided by a high ceiling; with the antique wing back chairs and other furniture of the Edwardian period; the marble fireplace, and the general warmth exuded by the well placed lamps spreading light against cream colored walls.

Lydia Corfu was a bit of a view herself. She had taken off the fur and draped it over the couch opposite me. She moved in purple grace to the fireplace and turned the control to spark the gas jets into action. Then she moved to the bar. “Vodka tonic seems to be your drink, but may I recommend a quite wonderful brandy I have here?”