Loser's Town (17 page)

A PA knocked on the door and stuck her head in. ‘It’s time.’

‘Yeah, yeah . . .’

The PA left. Bobby said to Spandau, ‘So you want to come to dinner tonight? With me and Irina?’

Spandau looked at Ginger, then back at Bobby.

Bobby said to Ginger, ‘Go tell them I’m coming.’

Ginger rolled his eyes but he left.

‘You heard anything from Stella?’ Spandau asked him.

‘Nothing, not a word. You think maybe he’s given up?’

‘No. He’s not in a hurry.’

‘Look,’ said Bobby. ‘Come to dinner. I’ll feel better.’

‘Sure. No Heidi.’

‘No Heidi,’ Bobby repeated. He stood up. ‘Off we go. You want to come and watch me emote?’

The
Wildfire
set was in fact a series of smaller sets inside a cavernous soundstage. They were to shoot here and complete the interior shots, and in two weeks move to Wyoming for the exteriors. The shoot was on schedule so far and the producers and the director were anxious to keep it that way. The weather in Wyoming was tricky and everyone suspected they’d lose time there but no one was stupid enough to actually mention it. Meanwhile it was important they stay on schedule or under schedule if they could manage it.

It was particularly important to Mark Sterling, the director. Sterling was English and had made a name for himself with a series of moderate-budget Britcom films. This was his first large budget film, his first that wasn’t a comedy, his first using mainly American actors, and his first shot in the States. And it was, for God’s sake, a Western. In fact nobody wanted him for this film and he knew damned well he got it only because the previous director quit at the last minute, and Sterling’s agent practically offered him up as an indentured servant. He was working for half the salary of his last picture, and even if the film did well (God be with us!) Sterling’s cut was going to be virtually nil. Its success, though, would mean that Sterling had made it to the A-List at last and the option of never having to film again in the damp, dismal and asthma-inducing studios of Shepperton. Hollywood was better, and Hollywood is where Mark Sterling wanted to stay if he could manage it.

They’d been shooting for two weeks already and things had gone well, though the studio bean-counters were still hovering around, waiting to pull the plug at a moment’s notice. Nobody trusted him. The bastards hung about in corners of the set like Battersea wharf rats, forever at the edge of his vision, whispering to each other. Sterling was anxious to make everyone happy, or at least happy enough to cut him some slack if things went slightly pear-shaped in Wyoming. There were, however, distant rumblings that all was not well.

Today’s set was the living room in the large ranch cabin of a successful Wyoming land baron circa 1900. The carefully authenticated room sat in a pool of heavenly light from above, as if it were being beamed by God into the middle of an aircraft factory. Around it were the clumsy but inescapable accoutrements of filmmaking: cameras, giant lights, sound booms, endless snaking cables, technicians, hangers-on, money-people, nervous staff, and, of course, actors. Between takes everyone ran around and tried not to trip or knock anything over. This took up far more time than one might imagine.

Bobby and Spandau walked onto the set. Bobby’d been shooting since 6 a.m. already and his hair hurt. He walked over to his chair and sat down. Spandau stood next to him and looked around. All this was familiar to him and he missed it a little. When you worked on a movie everyone became family for a time, and whether it was functional or dysfunctional, it was still family. Then the film was done and everyone scattered to the four winds until time to do it again with a different family. It was better for him, working with Beau and his crew, always having that thread no matter what film you worked on. But even if he wanted to go back he was too goddamned old now, too brittle inside and out. And Beau was gone. It would never be the same without Beau. Beau was the last of the old-timers, the real cowboys, the ones who’d stand up to a director or the Suits if a stunt was too dangerous or they tried to rush him. Every gag was all about risk, but Beau knew when the risk
was worth it and when it wasn’t. When it wasn’t Beau had no qualms about walking his boys off the set. Beau never yelled, Beau never argued, Beau never told anybody to kiss his ass. Beau just said no and walked away like the last of the gentlemen. ‘It ain’t a pissing contest,’ Beau once told him. ‘It’s either shit or get off the pot. Simple as that. Most things are.’ But Beau was dead, and these days you’d likely find yourself working with some hotshot who’d cave-in to an under-the-table bonus, or had an eye on his own shot at directing. Your ability to keep people from getting killed had less value than who you lunched with. Nowadays everything was a goddamn career move, even falling off a goddamn building. Spandau missed the days when people just worked for a living.

Bobby looked nervous and bored. The assistant director came over.

‘We’re waiting for Sir Ian,’ said the AD.

Bobby nodded. The AD walked off.

‘We’re always waiting for Sir Ian,’ Bobby said to Spandau. ‘Sir Ian likes to be the last one on the set. Sir Ian likes to make a fucking Entry. Man, thank God I never did theatre. You think movie actors got egos.’

Bobby absent-mindedly lit a cigarette. The AD scurried over again.

‘Bob, um, we talked about the cigarettes. The whole safety thing, and the fucking union thing, you know.’

‘Right,’ said Bobby.

‘Sorry, it’s not me.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

Bobby threw the cigarette on the ground, and made a show of stomping it out.

‘See?’ he said to the AD. ‘Bobby make all dead.’

‘Thank you,’ said the AD and went away.

‘Prick.’

‘He’s just doing his job.’

‘He enjoys the power. He’s fucking dreaming of the day when all this will be his.’ Then impatiently to himself, ‘Come on, come on . . . Jesus, somebody flush the old bastard out of his trailer.’ Then he said, out of the blue, ‘I want you to move in with me.’

‘A bit sudden, isn’t it?’ said Spandau. ‘I mean, we’ve never even kissed.’

‘Fuck you,’ said Bobby. ‘I mean it. I got lots of room, you seen the place.’

‘Why?’ said Spandau. ‘Do you know something I don’t know?’

‘It would make me feel better. I got a weird feeling. I feel like something’s about to happen. If some shit comes down I want you there.’

‘Like what?’

‘How the fuck do I know? Maybe Richie decides to off me. Who knows?’

‘You’re his meal ticket. Richie would sooner off his own mother. Richie loves you.’

‘Richie’s a fucking pernicious little cockroach. Who knows how his fucking mind works?’

At that moment there was a flurry of activity on the other side of the set. Sir Ian Whateley had arrived.

‘His Grace has arrived,’ Bobby said.

Sir Ian and a few members of his entourage stopped at the edge of the pool of light bathing the stage, as if it were indeed a pond and they weren’t sure of the water. Sir Ian, and his entourage, waited.

‘You see that?’ said Bobby. ‘He won’t go over to Mark, he’s waiting for Mark to come to him. Fucking power play.’

‘What about you?’ said Spandau.

‘Hell, there’s no way I can walk over there first now.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Hell no. Look, this is a fucking major scene. This is the shit that Oscars are made of. The father and the son, hammering at each other, trying to break each other down. Fucking gorgeous scene. Well, the old bastard knows I’m going to fight to hold my own with him. He’s going to try to walk away with it, but he knows I’m going to fight him, and he wants every advantage he can get. He’ll fucking try to take it over the top the way he does, and I’m going to play my own game and he knows it. It’s fucking war, man. Now look at Mark, he’s shitting himself, trying to figure out which one of us to talk to first.’

Mark went over to Sir Ian. It was like a meeting with Prince Albert. They talked. Or, rather, Mark talked. Sir Ian just nodded. Sir Ian went over and took his place on the set.

Mark crossed the set to Bobby.

‘Do I need a Border collie for you two?’ Mark asked him.

‘I have no clue what you’re talking about,’ said Bobby.

‘Of course you don’t. Look, he’s going to try to eat the scenery on this. I don’t want you to follow him. I want you to set the pace. If he starts to go off, I want you to play it nice and slow and reel him in.’

‘That is not my job. You’re the director.’

‘You know as well as I do it’s like directing a stampede of elephants. I need your help. I want you to take the moral high ground on this one.’

‘Moral high ground,’ repeated Bobby. ‘Right, got it.’

‘Will you help me on this, please? And maybe we can get out of here before the senile dementia kicks in. Mine, I mean.’

Bobby nods. Mark patted him on the shoulder and went back to Sir Ian.

‘Makes you wonder what he said to Sir Ian about me, doesn’t it?’ Bobby said to Spandau, and walked over to the set.

Spandau wandered back over to Bobby’s trailer. Ginger was there, brewing tea.

‘Couldn’t stand it, could you?’ he said to Spandau. ‘People always think of movie sets as such romantic places. My impression is that, except for about two minutes once an hour, everybody is generally bored, and sweltering or freezing their asses off. I’ll take Cabo, thank you. Want a cuppa?’

‘Sure.’

Ginger set out two china cups and poured tea from what looked to Spandau like an old low-fired Staffordshire teapot.

‘Biscuit?’

‘Thanks.’

‘As long as one can have a civilized cup of tea, the Empire will never die.’ He sipped his tea and rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘I need this. Young Master Robert is going to come through that door a little bit angry as hell.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because,’ said Ginger, ‘Sir Ian has fallen off the wagon and he’s going to be impossible to work with. Inside information. Us personal assistants are like nannies, we get together in the park and talk about our wee bairns. In this case, news has arrived via the
Sun
that Sir Ian’s nubile young wife has been seen catting around all over London with a certain young actor who shall remain nameless. Sir Ian is not a happy camper, and he’s been at the Macallan’s. A refuge for which he is somewhat infamous, though he’s supposed to be clean and sober these days. That’s what young love will do.’

As if on cue, a quarreling Bobby was heard approaching the trailer. The door flew open and Bobby stormed inside and slammed the door several times, hard, until it caught. Ginger and Spandau looked at each other and Ginger closed his eyes and took a last sip of tea.

‘Fuck him, fuck this whole piece of shit!’

‘What’s wrong, darling?’

‘He’s fucking drunk! Like those fucking breath mints are going to hide about half a quart of scotch. His fucking eyes are like swimming around. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? How am I supposed to act to that?’

‘Calm down, you’ll give yourself a stroke. Anyway, it’s not your problem, it’s Mark’s problem. Let him deal with it.’

‘Who the fuck are you?’ said Bobby, suddenly turning on him. ‘Lee fucking Strasberg, you know so much about acting? Go clean the toilet or something.’

‘Well, pardon me.’

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ chanted Bobby. ‘I’m going to go home, I’m going to get so fucking shitfaced, I’m going to puke and pass out and I’m fucking going into a coma until this all disappears.’

‘That’s the mature way to handle it,’ said Ginger.

‘Are you fucking still here?’ Bobby said to him. ‘Go earn your money. Go do something. Pretend you fucking work for a living.’

‘Have a cup of tea.’

‘I don’t want any fucking tea. I want a fucking six-foot heroin needle. I want death.’

Ginger handed him a cup of tea. Bobby took a sip from it. And another. He put the cup down. He closed his eyes. He leaned his head back.

‘Fuck. Fuck me, fuck me . . .’

‘You want a hot towel? I can put one in the microwave,’ said Ginger.

‘I’m still in makeup. I actually have to go back out there. Can you believe that?’

Annie knocked at the door.

‘What is this?’ Bobby asked her as she came in. ‘Fucking Macy’s Thanksgiving parade?’

‘Did I come at a bad time?’ she said, looking around for help. None came.

‘Whatever it is it can wait,’ said Bobby.

‘I heard he was drunk,’ Annie said. ‘Is that true?’

‘His eyes are sort of rolling around,’ said Bobby.

‘I’ll talk to Mark,’ said Annie.

‘No, don’t fucking talk to Mark.’

‘Well how are you supposed to work like this?’

‘All I need is Mark pissed at me.’

‘Sweetie, Mark is supposed to be doing his job.’

‘Just fucking leave it alone. We’re going to be here all fucking night.’ To Ginger he said, ‘Call Irina. Tell her I’m going to be fucking late. No, screw that, shit, tell her I don’t know when I’ll be there, tell her just to go and have dinner without me.’

‘You don’t want me to talk to Mark?’ Annie said again.

‘No.’

‘Look, there’s something else . . .’

Bobby closed his eyes and threw back his head, moaning at the ceiling. ‘Oh fuck me, fuck me, fuck me . . .’

‘It’s nothing major,’ Annie continued, ‘it’s just that
Jurado is coming over here in a minute and he wants you to do him a favor.’

‘Tell him it will cost him,’ Bobby said with a demented gleam in his eye. ‘Tell him I want an arm and a leg, I want to be paid for it, I want a fucking villa in Tuscany . . .’

‘It’s the head of the local Teamsters union. His daughter wants to meet you. She’s a huge fan.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘You make nice to her for thirty seconds, they take a picture, it’s all done.’

‘No,’ said Bobby. ‘And by the way, you’re fired.’

‘Look, Jurado’s having union problems, he needs this.’

‘Fuck Jurado. And fuck that smegma-stained little girl.’

‘She may be legal and gorgeous for all you know.’

‘I’m dating a supermodel. I’m not interested in the daughter of some fat guinea gangster.’

‘Jesus,’ said Annie. ‘You didn’t say that. Tell me you didn’t say that, please. You want us all never to work again? Or dead? These are not the people to piss off.’