I’m Losing You (35 page)

“Oh, and you'll love
this
: Rubidoux's been married three times—”

“And they were all with Donny.”

“
Before
. All three.”

“Sounds like a homo thing.”

“But this is the
best
—this is the part I want to make a movie of. Rubidoux's mother was a sleepwalker. I think she was an epileptic. The husband would wake up in the middle of the night and have to go find her—by the pool, in the kitchen, whatever. One night, Bernie—Donny's father—is driving home. He turns a corner and there's this gorgeous woman walking down the center of the street, in a nightgown! He's got this funny little go-cart English car, a Mini-Cooper, and he slams on the brakes, but not in time. And he
hits
her—”

“Oh my God! She doesn't
die
—”

“Yes! Donny Ribkin's father killed Rubidoux's mother!”

“No!”

“I think that they were sleeping together. That was the implication—Donny's. Bernie was supposedly drunk. But they don't convict because—
newsflash!
—she was walking down the middle of the street at two in the morning and it was dark.”

They pulled onto the Sony lot and rolled toward Joan Crawford's old bungalow. Phylliss was smiling in disbelief.

“Donny's father goes to see a shrink ‘cause he can't get the image of this statuesque woman staring at him as he rolls over her out of his head. So here's how he ‘cures' himself: he raises money and makes this cheap horror film called
The Undead
—”

“Donny's father
produced
that?”

“Yes!”

“
The Walking Dead?
—”

“Yes!”

“Zev, stop it! I do not believe this!”

“He makes
millions
off these movies filled with dead women walking in the middle of the road in their nightgowns! And in the first one—there's, like, three or four—the guy kills them by running over their heads with his little English car! Isn't it fantastic?”

Bernie Ribkin

The old man was nervous about the meeting. No reason to be, he told himself. Either Showtime wanted to make a deal or they didn't. He swallowed a few Halcions, just to take the edge off. Bernie wondered if he should have at least consulted an attorney. He didn't
know any attorneys. There'd be time for that, after the offer. Think positive.

He sat in his den, watching the Range Rover off-road instruction cassette. The car had been trouble-free for a few weeks and Bernie figured it might be a good time to learn how to four-wheel. The guy on the tape looked like George Plimpton. When he came to a creek, he stepped from the car, measuring its depth with a branch. Then he forded—Rover'd—the stream, neat and civilized. The narrator mentioned a driving academy in Aspen where one could master off-road techniques “the rather exceptional way” before caravaning across the Continental Divide. That's what Bernie would do, when Showtime closed the deal. Spend a few weeks in Aspen, learning the art of rough-terrain navigation. Maybe work in a little romance—the rather exceptional way.

As he drove to the Burbank offices, Bernie distracted himself with the diaries. Had Donny found them under a mattress, or had they actually been willed? Serena would have her revenge. The pages chronicled his extramarital dalliances—and her touchingly improbable devotion to the Cantor Krohn, a love that grew unforeseen from platonic to unbridled and undone. The congregant's idyll was cut short when the hangdog producer announced his syphilis. Serena had by then passed the scourge to her lover and Krohn to his wife, who fled in turn to her parents in Queens. The Baritone of Beth-El followed, as did Serena in confused desperation—characters in a Preston Sturges nightmare. And that is where, delirious with guilt, the singer of psalms shot himself through the mouth (temple left intact). His colleagues had much success with a face-saving tale of subway homicide. Those were happier days, when a secret was still a secret.

Aside from Mr. Rubidoux, there were two others present—an in-house lawyer named Fred, a fan of the
Undead
series who'd lingered after an unrelated meeting just to shake the semi-legendary schlock-meister's hand, and Denny, a shiny-faced boy of voting age who Bernie was shocked to learn was a Veepee. Everybody in town was a fuhcocktuh Veepee.

They kvetched about how the business had changed, and Bernie thought that mildly comical, as no one in the room looked over
thirty-five. Nostrils dilating, Pierre rhapsodized about Donny Ribkin. When asked if they were close, Bernie lied—then got a twinge of paranoia. What if the exec decided to call the psychotic, vituperative agent just to shoot the bull about Dad? That didn't really seem to be an issue; in his current state, Bernie doubted his son would be at work, let alone returning calls. Another possibility was that Donny's condition might soon go public. Though there wasn't anything in the papers yet, Bernie had to admit the boy was bound to hurt someone, or himself, unless he found help—fast. He hoped that wouldn't happen. At least, not before a deal was in place.

“Bottom line: Showtime's willing to give you two and a half million for the rights. How does that sound, Bernie?”

The old man smiled, trying to be cool. The muscles around his mouth went into spasm and he coughed, to cover. All he'd expected was an option at a token amount. He was glad to have taken the pills.

“For all three pictures—” He coughed again.

“That is correct. But here's what we need: we need you to come on board, to produce this at a price.”

“You've done this before and you've done it
well
,” said Denny the Boy, self-assuredly.

“The more things change, the more things change,” said Bernie. His Sinatra ring-a-ding mode.

Denny the Boy turned to Fred. “Who said that?”

“Travolta,” said the Attorney. “
Look Who's Talking Too
.”

“What do you think, Bernie?”

Pierre bore in on him, shining the light of a batty grin.

“I think it's a beautiful thing,” said Bernie, smooth as a Hillcrest
macher
. “You know, I was doing this when ‘cable' was something you sent over the wire. What price are we talking?”

“A million-five, with an eighteen- to twenty-day shoot.”

“For each?”

“We only want to make one. A kind of condensed version of the three.”

A million-five and a twenty-day shoot
. Sounded reasonable. Of course, he'd been out of the game awhile…but these men were professionals. They wouldn't be suggesting impossible numbers. Yet the two-and-a-half-million-dollar acquisition-of-rights fee didn't add up, in light of the budget. He asked Pierre to reiterate, and the executive said the money was an advance against distribution, foreign
and domestic. That made sense, but Bernie didn't want to open his mouth too much. He'd sort it out with the lawyers.

“I don't think any of this is going to be a problem, gentlemen. I'm Bernie Ribkin. I like to make movies.”

The sweet rustle of assent; then Pierre grew solemn, like a minister at a sticky theological crossroad. Fred and Denny stared at the floor. “Question, Bernie: do you think you could make it for
under
a million?”

Truth was, Bernie didn't know. “Pierre, tell me,” began the scat and softshoe. “What kind of approach are you going to take? What I'm saying is, how do you…does Showtime have an idea how they might want to approach the property? With this material—”

“Maybe something like
Tales from the Crypt
. Classy, but not taking itself too seriously. Something that can be sexy, funny and gory, all in one.”

“
Creepshow
,” said the Boy. “Remember that? Leslie Nielsen?”

“Did you know Ted Danson was in that?”

“And Adrienne Barbeau.”

“Jesus,” said Pierre. “What ever happened to her?”

“Hunger commercials with Sally Struthers.”

“She had some
very
serious tits,” said Fred the Attorney.

“Well, they're in Ethiopia now.”

“Sally and Adrienne? Or the tits?”

“The tits stayed here. They just signed with Gersh.”

“I think it's important to come up with a franchise-type narrator,” Pierre said. “Someone like the Cryptkeeper to tie it all together—he'd be our link, our tentpole.”

Bernie nodded. He'd seen
Tales
a few times and thought it was cute. “Okay,” he said. “I got it. I got it. That's fun.”

“Now, Bernie,” said Pierre. “I want to ask you something pointblank. You don't even have to respond.”

“I'm seventy-two years old.”

“I was not going to ask your age,” said a smiling Pierre.

“You look fucking
great
,” said Fred. “Doesn't he?”

“I would never have guessed you to be seventy-two,” said the Boy.

“I'll tell you my secret: I like to fuck. I don't fuck too well—but I fuck every day!”

The men laughed.

“Bernie—” Pierre began, “—and remember, you don't have to answer this
now
.” He inhaled deeply. “Do you think you could make our little movie—at least submit a budget—for four hundred thousand? With a ten-day shoot? I mean, down and dirty.”

How could he deliver a budget without a script? They used to shoot 'em in a week and a half, but that was thirty years ago—without unions or permits. If the movie took place in one location, maybe…

“I don't know what four hundred thousand gets you, Pierre. And it depends on the script, we don't have a script! I need to do some investigations.” He turned to Fred the Attorney and smiled cockily. “Four hundred thousand. Does that rent you a honey wagon these days?”

“Here's a hypothetical,” said Pierre. “If you can do this show—because this is the way your two and a half million would be guaranteed
up front
—if you can do this show for a hundred thousand dollars, a three-day shoot, no frills, no bullshit,
bam bam bam
—”

“You're kidding. Are you kidding?”

“I'm not fucking kidding, Bernie. You would not be in this room if I was kidding.”

“You mean like a video thing—”

“Feature film.”

“It's just that—”

“A hundred thousand dollars, Bernie. Three days.”

“Yes!” cried the Boy. “I
love
it. Come on, Bernie. They made
Clerks
for twenty-nine thousand and change.
El Mariachi
was made for
seven
!”

“I have to go,” said Fred, ill at ease. Again he shook Bernie's hand. “I have an appointment.”

The room shrank precipitously when he left. Bernie felt woozy and reprimanded himself for taking the Halcion. “Three days!” He rocked in his chair, sweating and grinning like a hooked grouper.

“It's definitely do-able,” said the Boy. “We'll get you great people. Some killer kids. We'll get you the kids from
Kids
.”

Pierre retreated to his desk. “If you put your mind to it, Bernie, if you work out the logistics, I'm convinced you can shoot this with a Steadicam in forty-eight hours.”

“A one-day shoot would be the ultimate,” added the Boy. “I'd
like to make a string of these—a series—each shot in one day. Film-school style.”

“Think about it. Any way you slice it, we have a deal. Congratulations! Cups of borscht and crackers all around. I'll have business affairs draw the papers and get you half your advance—one-point-two-five, you can buy a lotta kippers with that, Bernie—soon as I see a budget. Cut a check the same day. If you don't think you can do this,
be honest
, huh? Because I'm committed to this project and we'll have to find another way.”

“I know it's rough,” said the Boy, patting the producer's shoulder. “But every picture we do is like this. It's always a nightmare.”

The old man stood and made his way to the door.

“Think it over, you scary old cocksucker,” said Pierre, embracing him. “Mr. Piece of Shit Roadkill.”

“A one-day shoot!” said the Boy, jumping around like the circus had come. “I love it!”

Chet Stoddard

IMMEDIATE CASH FOR THE TERMINALLY ILL

LIVING WELL IS THE BEST REVENGE