Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (33 page)

It was now near noon. Pinsker suggested we go for a swim. I protested, saying there was some paperwork. Pinsker insisted. So we got into bathing trunks, went to the pool, swam, then gratefully fell asleep on the lounge chairs by the oval pool.

Not wanting to disturb us, the staff of the hotel quietly covered us with thick, long terrycloth robes. For it was just a little bit cool.

We met with Sara Hutton's lawyer on Wednesday. Anne Barnett was a humorless professional who took seriously the fact that her job was to look after the interests of her clients. She was not a Hollywood lawyer. She was a corporate lawyer with many dealings in the international world of finance. Her office had been decorator designed and was attractive and comfortable, but void of personality. Her desk was organized and uncluttered. She spoke to her staff with courtesy, but each request was obviously a demand. She asked very tough questions and probed intensely the deal we were offering. I believe we satisfied her—just.

As the meeting was wrapping up a call came in from Sara Hutton for all of us. Anne Barnett put it on the speakerphone.

“So you've worked it all out, all the deal points are set, and we're ready to roll, right?”

Everybody laughed for everybody knew she expected it.

“Pretty near, Sara, pretty near, but you know how these things are,” Anne Barnett said. “We have more discussions and some due diligence to do yet. On both our sides, I would think.”

“Yes, I agree,” Pinsker said.

“But, in the main,” Anne Barnett continued, “the basis is there for negotiations.”

“Good, good, but we all know how long that's going to take, don't we? I hope, Anne, you're not going to tie Lydia up too long. She's got a TV station to run back in Athens, you know.”

“Well, certainly, the attorneys can handle most things, but I would like for Lydia to meet my partners, who will also be heavily involved. Unfortunately, they won't be back until next week. Can you extend your stay until then?” she asked Lydia.

“Well—” Lydia started

“Oh, sure she can. Look, Lydia, I'll keep you entertained, in fact we should spend some time together. We're contemplating a marriage here. We shouldn't just leave it up to the yentas. Let's get to know each other. Got any plans for this weekend?”

“I haven't seen my husband for a while. I was going to go home to Athens and jump into our conjugal bed.”

“Oh. Well, would he be disappointed if you didn't?”

“Wouldn't you be?”

“Well....”

“But, business is business. I can stay.”

“Good. Uh, Anne, I don't want to take up your precious time or bore you with the mundane here. Perhaps you have something to do while I finish up talking with Lydia?”

Anne was happy to take the hint, and excused herself. Once the door had shut, Sara spoke:

“Lydia, do you like flying?”

“It depends whether you're talking a private jet or commercial. If commercial, then whether you're talking First Class, Middle Management or Steerage.”

“No, no, I mean, do you like airplanes; the history of flight?”

“Not particularly. Why should I? Unless I owned an airline, of course. Even then, what's the past got to do with shipping bodies today? The boys here seem to, though, they were bothering me about some old planes they saw just the other day.”

“Ah. Mr. Henderson and Mr. Pinsker. I almost forgot you were there.”

“A good lawyer knows when not to be a mouthpiece,” I said.

“Really? Like negative space in art, I suppose. But, you're into airplanes, uh?”

“We both fly, yes,” Pinsker said, “and we have quite a collection of Aviation Art.”

“Well then, you should be excited about this, and, Lydia, believe me, you'll enjoy this. I'm a pilot also, have been since I was a teenager, and I have a real passion for old classic airplanes. It's the romantic in me, I guess. Got introduced to them while I was at college by a man who has become a particularly good friend of mine. Well, he's now operating the San Simeon Air Museum and we try to get together there about once a month to do some flying of these old warbirds from World War II. We're doing that again this weekend. Now what I like to do, is invite some people from the industry up, executives both here at Olympic and from other companies around town, give them a bit of an air show, then that night we get together for some general discussion about the state of our industry. Sort of like a retreat.”

Lydia was aghast. “Sara, you get together with your competitors?”

“Sure, Lydia, it's a small industry, as you know, we hardly have secrets from each other anyway. So why not foster a communal spirit? That said, I must say, I very carefully handpick the participants. It's considered quite an honor, among the know, to attend one of my retreats.”

“Really? Then, of course, I must go.”

“Good, good, I think you will find it illuminating, Lydia. We get pretty—well—deep in our discussions about the industry. It's not all just glamour and glitz for some of us, you know, we're very serious about this business, and we all seem to share a particular outlook about it. In getting to know you, I get the feeling that you may think along the same lines.”

“If the lines lead to money I do.”

“Lydia, you're a deeper thinker on the subject than you're giving yourself credit for, I'm sure of that, but we are all so used to portraying the Bottom Line as the only line, because we think that's what's expected of us. Among the groups I put together, we can be comfortable and drop that—let's face it, Lydia—stupidly macho stance, and concentrate on the true social aspects of what we do. It's refreshing. I'm sure you'll find it so as well, and, in any case, if we have a marriage, you'll need to know where I'm coming from. It would be unethical of me not to reveal it to you.”

“Sure, sure, I appreciate that.”

“And bring along the boys. I hate for them to miss the planes.”

“That's very kind of you Ms. Hutton,” Pinsker said.

“Think nothing of it. Now, I can provide a limo if you would like.”

“Well, where is this place?” Lydia asked.

“Uh,” I broke in. “It's up the coast. About halfway between here and San Francisco.”

“You know it then?”

“Oh, yes. Quite well. I was going to suggest to Ms. Corfu that if we had the time we should drive up that way. I thought she would enjoy seeing the coast.”

“Henderson, I grew up on an island, I've seen a lot of coast.”

“Oh, but he's right. The California coast is special.”

“I think what I would like to suggest, Lydia, is that we drive up the day before in the Town Car. That way I can show you some of the highlights. There are some perfectly comfortable motels in San Simeon to stay at that night.”

“Motels?” Lydia said, wondering if their walls would be slimy to the touch.

“Oh, come on, Lydia, don't be such a snob. Sounds like fun, and don't worry about a motel for Saturday night. You'll be my guests at a very special place I'm sure you'll like. I'll have my office fax all the details to your hotel. The Bel-Air, right?”

“That's right,” Pinsker confirmed.

“Fine. Lydia, this is going to be a great deal of fun, you'll see. I've got to run now; I've got New York on the other line. Bye.”

The line clicked off. We all looked at each other. Lydia took a deep breath then let it out. I think she had just, for the first time, truly realized that the game was going forward, but then she smiled. To reassure us. Which was more than I could do for her.

~ * ~

Around nine thirty the next morning we received a visit from Mike at the Hotel Bel-Air. He came in wearing some old, faded, slightly torn jeans; a sweatshirt extolling the virtues of Prescott, Arizona; an old Army fatigue jacket and his well soiled Sherman Oaks Newsstand baseball cap. He went to the front desk and asked for Henderson and Pinsker in a voice not subtle. The more-than-subtle desk clerk directed him to the white house phones. Mike went to them, gaping at the lobby as he had been instructed to, and called us.

Pinsker went out to collect him and escort him to our garden suite. The previous Monday Roee had thoroughly briefed Mike on the plan; on who Henderson and Pinsker were, and what was to be expected of him. When he arrived in our suite he was definitely, “in the moment,” looking furtive and giving furtive glances.

“This is Mr. Henderson,” Pinsker introduced me. I also was in the moment. I stood ramrod straight in the middle of the living room on the thick, florid rug that defined the area and that laid on the highly polished wood floor of the suite. Mike headed toward me with his hand stretched out but stopped as he reached the rug, wondering if he should tramp on it with his much scuffed, probably not well wiped work shoes. As I made no move, he had no choice but to suffer the pang of trespass and slam his thick, heavy soles onto the delicate pale pink flowers weaved into the rug. None of this could be heard through the small microphones of the well-placed bugs, of course, but the atmosphere all this generated, I was betting, could be felt.

“Uh, hello, Mr. Henderson. I'm Mike—”

“No last name!” I sharply cut him off. “I don't care to know it. Is Mike your real first name?”

“Yes.”

“A pity.”

“Sorry.”

“It wasn't your fault, I'm sure. Sit down. Help yourself to coffee if you wish, or juice or Coke, if you want.” I pointed to a tray of the refreshments laid out on the glass top table before the couch.

Mike looked around. “Got any beer?”

“It's a bit early, isn't it?”

“Not when someone else is paying.”

“If you must then. In the refrigerator.”

Pinsker directed Mike to the refrigerator in the kitchen area. He opened it up and was delighted to see bottles of Corona. He grabbed one, twisted off the top, and came back into the living room.

“Sit.” I commanded, sitting myself in an ornate armchair with a back straight enough to keep my posture formidable.

Mike sat dead center on the fat and luxurious couch, somewhat sinking into it. He took a long drawl of the beer, and then let out a breath of pleasure, as if to say, “Thanks.” He looked around the suite while he waited for me to speak. Which I didn't do immediately, so he finally spoke.

“This is really a nice hotel room.”

“Oh. Do you really think so?”

“Yeah, sure.” There was a tinge of surprise in his answer, as if he had not expected me to continue the small talk.

“I find it too feminine,” I said. “I find the decoration of most hotel rooms, especially the costlier ones, to lean far too much to the feminine. Don't you?”

“Well....”

“That painting behind you, for example.”

Mike twisted to look up at a tapestry-like painting of five stylized swans on stylized water.

“Is that something any man—you for example—would ever choose to look at if it wasn't forced upon you?”

“Uh, no I guess not, but then, you know, my idea of art is movie posters.”

“Movie posters?”

“I like movies.”

“Well, yes. Who doesn't?”

“No, I mean, I really like movies. Anybody can tell you that about me.”

“Anybody?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Say, the Pope for example?”

“Well....”

“Or the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff?”

“No, you know, what I—”

“Or any one of the stars of any one of your favorite movies of the last five years? Could they tell me that you really like movies? Or would they answer any inquiry by me with a, ‘Mike who?' indicating that they not only can't tell me that about you, but that, to them, there is no you. You do not exist to them even to the extent of insignificance. Do you think possibly that could be the case?”

“Uh, well—”

“From now on, Mike, speak when spoken to and do not intrude your personal biography into the proceedings. Okay?”

“O—okay.”

“Mike, friends of ours here in L.A. tell me that you're usually willing to do odd jobs for cash, no questions asked.”

“Yeah, sure! You don't earn much money working a—”

“Mike!”

“Oh, okay, sorry.”

“Would $5,000 for three days work be sufficient?”

“Yeah, sure! I mean, just barely, but okay.”

“Do you mind an element of danger?”

“Fuck no! Makes life more interesting.”

“It could make life more dead.”

“Well,” Mike said with a nonchalance obviously rehearsed, “it's not like I have a family who would grieve.”