Revision of Justice (12 page)

I spent the rest of Tuesday afternoon finishing Gordon Cantwell’s book and making phone calls.

First, to Anne-Judith Kemmerman, whose brassy voice was immediately recognizable as the one I’d heard on Reza JaFari’s answering machine. Unfortunately, the voice came from a tape directing me to leave my name and number, which I did.

Next, to Roberta Brickman at ITA, where a temp informed me that the agent was in a meeting but would return my call as soon as possible.

Then, to Dylan Winchester, whose voice mail told me—once again—that he would get back to me. Everybody in Hollywood, I decided, was busy getting back to everybody else. I made one more call, and when Gordon Cantwell’s recorded message came on, I hung up without leaving one of my own.

Instead, I hopped into the Mustang and drove up Beachwood Canyon uninvited, intending to take a closer look at Cantwell’s house while there was still some light in the sky.

When I turned onto Ridgecrest Drive, it was getting close to seven—roughly the same time Reza JaFari had arrived at Cantwell’s three nights earlier, a few hours before leaving with a coroner’s tag on his toe.

A minute or two later I was crossing the footbridge to Cantwell’s faux castle. A sporty red Mazda convertible sat in the driveway with the top down. A pint-sized surfboard shaped like a shark’s tooth poked up from the backseat.

“Mr. Justice. What a surprise.”

Christine Kapono’s voice was on the cool side, suggesting the surprise wasn’t a happy one.

She emerged on the front steps, looking compact and boyish in bare feet, cutoffs, and a T-shirt with the words Y
EAH
, R
IGHT
printed across the chest. I could now see surfer’s knobs on her knees that matched the ones I’d previously noticed on the upper arches of her feet. Her ducktailed hair was damp.

“I called,” I said. “No one answered.”

“I just got here. Haven’t checked the messages. Probably won’t.”

Her words came rapid-fire, without much feeling except for irritation.

“Gordon gave you the day off?”

“I took the day off. The waves are up at Malibu. I caught a few. What can I do for you?”

“I’d hoped to set up a meeting with Gordon. I’ve joined Alexandra Templeton on her magazine article. I’m doing some of the interviews.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to deal with Gordon’s publicist, Mr. Justice. I’m no longer working for him.”

“Since when?”

“Since the moment he put his hand on my butt yesterday afternoon. No one puts their hand on my butt unless I want them to.”

“I think that’s called sexual harassment.”

“I call it male piggishness.” She wasn’t smiling, not even close. “It was the second time he’s done it. I always give them a second chance.”

“Are you going to file some kind of complaint?”

“I took care of it myself.”

“Mind if I ask how?”

“The first time, I slapped him across the face and asked him politely to respect my body. The second time, I kicked him so hard between the legs that his gonads ended up where his tonsils should have been.”

“Ouch.”

“He reacted a bit more strongly than that.”

“I imagine.”

“You’re not one of the pigs, are you, Mr. Justice?”

“If I am, I’ll try to keep my snout where it belongs.”

She finally smiled a little.

“You want to come in? I’m packing the last of my things. We can talk if you’d like.”

I followed her along the downstairs hallway to the room where I’d first seen Dylan Winchester and Roberta Brickman talking heatedly on Saturday night.

Inside, cardboard boxes filled with papers sat atop a desk. On top of one stack of papers was a circular plastic organizer, loaded with alphabetized index cards.

“The proverbial Rolodex,” I said.

“The key to my future.”

“What is your future, Christine?”

“For now, I’m going to International Talent.”

“ITA? The requisite mailroom job?”

A second or two of hesitation followed.

“Higher up, actually.”

“How high up would that be?”

“I’ll be working as Roberta Brickman’s assistant.”

“Reza JaFari’s old job.”

“That’s right.”

“That worked out well.”

Kapono’s voice grew cool again; the words came briskly.

“Roberta and I are good friends. She needs someone to take JaFari’s place. I’m available.”

“Seems like a big step, going to an agency like ITA.”

She didn’t hesitate this time.

“I’m smart, organized, and know who does what in this town. I’ll be better at it than he was.”

“You’re not lacking in confidence, are you?”

“People who lack confidence don’t survive long in this business, Mr. Justice.”

She placed more files into one of the boxes.

“You feel your time with Gordon Cantwell was worthwhile, then?”

“All I have to say about Gordon for your article is that I worked for him for a year, learned a great deal about the movie business, and then moved on to greener pastures.”

“How about off the record?”

“I’m not sure I trust reporters right now—especially male ones.”

I raised my right hand in a three fingered salute.

“Scout’s honor—it’s off the record until you say otherwise.”

“You don’t look like a Scout to me.”

I lowered my hand, sagging dejectedly.

“You found me out.”

She grinned.

“I never liked Boy Scouts much, anyway.” Her dark eyes suddenly grew mischievous. “Girl Scouts were another matter.”

Her hands got busy again; she talked as she packed.

“Off the record, Gordon Cantwell is a pompous, egotistical jerk—a legend in his own mind.”

She shook her head slowly, tossing papers into a waste can.

“It’s amazing, really, how successful he’s been for someone with so little talent for anything except self-promotion.”

“But according to his bio—”

“Gordon’s bio?” She laughed. “You know that bridge you walked across to get to the house?”

“Sure.”

“Would you believe me if I told you it was the Golden Gate?”

“He exaggerates.”

“Gordon started out as a script reader, Mr. Justice. Someone near the bottom rung who screens submissions for the development executives. He never rose higher than that.”

“But he learned a lot about flawed screenplays in the process.”

“Especially weak story structure, which is one of the most difficult things to grasp, especially by semiliterate writers raised on television. Gordon’s very analytical, meticulous, a problem solver. No one had a systematic approach to teaching screenwriting structure back then. In trying to learn how to write screenplays himself, he devised a model neophytes could understand.”

“With all the plot points figured out for just the right pages.”

“You’ve taken his course.”

“Read his book.”

“So did half a million other readers during the early years. Then other teachers came along, building on what he’d started. When the software programs hit the market, it pretty much finished him.”

“Still, he seems to have a coterie of loyal disciples.”

“A small following of groupies who haven’t seen through his bullshit yet. Gordon lives for that. He likes to believe they hang on his every word, worshiping at the feet of the master.”

She lifted one of the boxes.

“Mind giving me a hand?”

“Not at all.” I glanced at the overflowing waste cans. “What about the rest?”

“Out with tomorrow night’s trash, I guess.”

She grabbed the heavier box; I took the other one and followed her from the room.

We moved through the house to the driveway and hoisted the boxes into the Mazda.

“I’d like to take a look around, if it’s OK.”

“The terrace, you mean. Where JaFari died.”

I nodded. She considered it a moment, looking as if she might be measuring her trust in me.

Finally: “I don’t see why not. Hell, I don’t work here anymore, anyway.”

She led me to the south side of the house and the passage through which Dylan Winchester had made his hasty exit Saturday night. We passed through an unlocked gate, along stepping stones to the rear yard, where the lights were just coming on. I glanced at my watch; it was seven o’clock, straight up.

“Do the lights always switch on at seven?”

“Automatic timer.”

We turned down the brick steps and followed the pagoda-shaped lanterns to the terrace. With the early evening light, I could see the dense brush and deep contours of the canyon below, which appeared nearly inaccessible by foot. A corner of the cottage belonging to old Mrs. Fairbridge peeked out from one of the far bends; I guessed the distance at half a mile, maybe more. An inspection of the patio revealed nothing new, although the odd odor I’d picked up was gone.

Across the canyon, the Hollywood Sign thrust itself proudly into the fleeting light.

“Cantwell must like the idea of sharing the same view Charlie Chaplin once enjoyed.”

Kapono laughed.

“You’re referring to Gordon’s bio again.”

I nodded.

“Charlie Chaplin didn’t own this house, Mr. Justice. It was more like one of the Ritz Brothers.”

“I guess Cantwell has a weakness for hype.”

“He’s a product of Hollywood. What can I tell you?”

“So was Reza JaFari. What can you tell me about him?”

“I’ll leave that to the people who knew him better than I did.”

“Like Roberta Brickman?”

Kapono held my gaze evenly, her face impassive.

“I should finish up my work, Mr. Justice. I’d like to be gone before Gordon gets back. You’re welcome to stay and look around if you’d like.”

A breeze rippled up the canyon, passing like a whisper across the ground where Reza JaFari had recently expelled his last breath.

“Thanks. I’ve seen enough.”

As we climbed, Kapono told me where I could find Cantwell, if I didn’t waste too much time getting there.

“He’s playing in his regular Tuesday night softball game.” She glanced at her watch. “They’d be in the fourth or fifth inning about now. Film industry guys. No girls invited, except in the stands.”

“The old-boy club.”

“In this case, the young-boy club. Except for Gordon and a couple of others.”

“He recruits students on the baseball field?”

“He plays in the industry league because he wants to be a screenwriter, Mr. Justice. And to produce his own scripts, of course. He’s always looking for a new connection, like every other would-be screenwriter in this town.”

“Then he’s not the successful screenwriter he pretends to be.”

“As just about everyone inside this business realizes by now.”

“How badly does he want it?”

“Desperately, like all the others.”

We reached the top step, and she turned. Her eyes swept across the smog-shrouded city, from the downtown skyscrapers west to the ocean.

“Somewhere out there are half a dozen movie studios, Mr. Justice. Two or three more in the Valley. A dozen film-writing schools. Hundreds of talent agencies and production companies. Thousands of women and men working on the script they hope will be their ticket to the big time.”

“What drives them, Christine? Why do they want it so badly?”

When she looked my way, her eyes were thoughtful, keen.

“I think fear is a big part of it.”

“What is it they’re all so afraid of?”

“Not knowing the right people, not getting their foot in the door. Never getting their shot. The fear that their time might run out before they make their dream happen. Bottom line? That they might end up perceived as ordinary, unimportant.”

“And what’s the timetable?”

“If you’re not well established as a screenwriter by the age of forty, Hollywood looks at you as a loser. Someone not worth taking a chance on. They figure there’s always another writer who’s younger, more energetic, more productive, more in tune with the youth market. Somebody who’s easier to sell.”

“After forty-five?”

“Without a track record, it’s tough to get the attention of an agent or producer.”

“And after fifty, like Cantwell?”

“You’re pretty much dead meat.”

A sharp
caw
rent the air above us. We looked up to see a crow soaring across the canyon on broad black wings. It settled watchfully atop the
H
in the Hollywood Sign, where it continued to cry out. It was the same letter from which a failed actress named Peg Entwistle had leaped to her death, in 1932, earning an everlasting place in the Hollywood tourist guides.