Songs in the Key of Death (5 page)

“You’d better describe the idea to Lee yourself,” she said. “I wouldn’t do it justice.” It would kill her to approach him with this loony request, as if she thought he owed her something.

“Just mention it. Set it up for me.”

“You’re a big boy, Gary. You know his number. Call him and tell him you’ve got a business proposition. Lee Cosford would rather talk business than anything.”

Lee Cosford, rotund and dynamic, rolled out into the waiting room and took Gary by the arm. “Stranger,” he said laughing, eyeing Prime anxiously, “where’ve you been keeping yourself? Come in and sit down. Stephie, make us a couple of coffees, will you?”

The idea sounded even better to Gary as he described it in Lee Cosford’s panelled office, taking pulls at a huge mug of coffee, squinting against sunlight streaming through the window past the spire of a church on lower Mountain Street. Cosford lay back in his leather recliner, boots on the glass desk, eyes closed like a man in a barber chair. As Gary finished, the bells in the tower across the street began to peal. He thought it was a good omen.

Cosford opened one eye. “Is that it?”

“That’s it Lee.”

The film producer sat up. “I think it’s a sensational idea.”

“Really?”

“Fabulous. And you’ve probably heard Anitra mention I want to get into feature films. You can’t know how soul-destroying it is producing thirty-second pieces of film to sell detergent or sausages. Or maybe you do know. You have the same assignment in print.”

“I know what you mean.” Actually, Gary was proud of the engravings his firm produced.

“The trouble is,” Cosford said, “there are too many good film ideas chasing too little money. You just can’t get the financing.”

“I thought there was this Canadian Film Development Council. Don’t they put up money?”

“That’s right.” Cosford put his knees under the desk and folded his arms precisely on the cold glass. This square individual in the overpressed suit had managed to brief himself. “The CFDC will, on occasion, back a good idea.”

“And this is more than a good idea, Lee. It’s a great idea.”

“Right.” Cosford’s mind was working fast. He was more than ready to see the last of Gary Prime. “But there’s only one way to approach the Council. They have to see a treatment.”

“Treatment?”

“Right.” Cosford picked up his telephone, consulted a page of names and numbers, and began to dial. “A scenario - an outline of what the film is going to be about.”

“Can’t we just put the idea down in a letter?”

“No, it has to be professionally done. And I’ve got just the man to do it.” Cosford straightened up and smiled into the phone. “Hello, Lucas? Did I wake you? Lee Cosford. Fine, how are you? Luke, facing me across my desk is a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed fellow named Gary Prime who happens to have a sensational idea for a feature film. The idea is so good, the only person to do the treatment is Lucas Pennington.”

After Gary Prime went away with an appointment to see Pennington at his apartment that afternoon, Lee Cosford wandered through a maze of corridors till he came to a small room where his film editor was seated at a Steenbeck machine with Anitra Prime at his shoulder. They were peering into the frosted glass screen at the image of a child holding a doll. The editor spun the film backward, then forward again so that the child kissed the doll while Anitra clicked her stopwatch.

“I just had your husband in. Thanks for not warning me.”

“I would have guessed next week. He’s quick off the mark all of a sudden.”

“Never mind. I got rid of him.”

“He’s sincere about the idea.”

“I have twenty-five sincere ideas for feature films. Nine of them are my own.” Cosford opened a window and spat out into a laneway three floors below. He watched the spittle float down to disappear onto grey pavement. “I sent him to Lucas Pennington to get a treatment done.”

The bald-headed man at the editing machine laughed.

“Who’s Lucas Pennington?” Anitra asked.

“Before your era. Once a good copywriter, now a professional drunk. He’s a freelance with loads of free time. Which is another way of saying the agencies are tired of Pennington missing deadlines.”

Anitra said, “It sounds like a dirty trick, Lee.” She frowned at her stopwatch; she was having no end of trouble making the product shot time out properly.

“It’s dirty but effective. It gets Gary off my back while he and poor old Luke use up a year pretending they’re writing a movie.”

It was half past two when Gary showed up at Lucas Pennington’s place on Bleury Street. The apartment was located up a flight of uncarpeted stairs above a tavern and a shop that sold sneezing powder and rubber excrement. When he heard the knock, Pennington put the gin bottle and his glass out of sight--not because he was an inhospitable man, but because there was barely enough for himself. He left magazines, newspapers, open books, soiled clothing, empty food tins and soft-drink bottles where they were and went to the door.

With his guest inside and seated, Pennington performed a humanitarian act; he opened a window.

Gary looked at the man who was supposed to write his Mama Cass treatment. To recommend this one, Lee Cosford had to be crazy. Pennington managed to be gaunt and sloppy at the same time. He seemed somewhere in his fifties—large head, patchy grey hair on a scalp that was scabby in places, apologetic eyes, and a smile that was choreographed to cover bad teeth. He had shaved a couple of days ago and had cut himself doing it.

“O.K. All right now. Right.” He was rummaging around the room, not looking at Gary, sounding like a nervous infielder at the start of his final season. “Tell me about this picture of yours.”

As Gary described his visit to London, his television glimpse of Donna Dean, and the flash of inspiration that led him to cast her in the role of his favorite singer, Pennington, who had discovered a notebook and a pen, lay on the floor with his head and shoulders against the baseboard, his eyes closed.

“So if Dean would agree to do it, and if we could get the right to use the original recordings for her to mime, the way the singers all do on TV these days,” Gary concluded, “I think we could have a good film.”

Pennington rolled sideways onto his elbow cupping his cheek in one hand. He bit the cover off the felt tipped pen he was holding, spat it away, and began flipping the pages of the notebook to find a clean one. They were all filled with indecipherable scrawl. At last he settled for half of the inside back cover. “Brilliant. Solid gold,” he said as he tried to make marks with the pen. “Put me in, coach. Let me work on this one.”

“You mean it?”

The writer turned his eyes up to Gary and they looked different—they looked angry and hungry, the apologetic wetness all gone. Pennington was feeling an old, almost -forgotten sensation, the one he used to experience in his first agency job when the new assignments came in and he couldn’t wait to dazzle the copy chief and the account supervisor and the client with another brilliant idea. Quite often he would deliver a winner. Then it was cover the table with beer and how about a little more money for young Luke before Y&R lures him away with shares.

“I mean it all right,” Pennington said. “You’re onto a sure thing, my son. Mama Cass—that voice, the way she used to raise her hand and give that little half-salute as the song began to swing...I want to weep.” The pen refused to write and, after tearing holes in the cover, he threw pen and notebook against the wall, struggling to his feet like a crippled, pregnant camel.

“The tragedy of her death.” Pennington was pulling magazines and files from a buried tabletop, uncovering a typewriter. He used an ankle to drag a wooden chair into place, sat down, and cranked a crumpled letter around the roller, using two fingers to begin typing on the back of the paper. “What a career she had. Cass Elliott—there has to be a movie about her. And I know what you mean about the English broad to play the role. She’s almost Cass’s double. And she’ll do a hell of a good job—never mind the silly parts they gave her in the sixties. She’s a pro, a trained actress.”

Pennington’s typing was erratic. The keys kept sticking together in bunches and he cursed as he clawed them away from the paper. He squinted at what he had done. “This ribbon is dead. It’s a ghost. Can you read that?”

Gary leaned over his shoulder, holding his breath. “Just barely.”

“Never mind, it’s coming, old son, the words are coming and I’ll hammer the bastards down. Cosford knows my situation. He’ll make a dark photostat of this and enlarge it three times.” Pennington managed to hit several keys without an overlap and he laughed out loud. “The old rhythm,” he said. “Once you’ve got it, you never lose it.”

“Can I do anything to help?’ Gary asked, delighted with this crazy old writer’s reaction to his idea.

“Yes. Get out of here and let me work.”

Two days later, Lucas Pennington showed up in the reception room of Lee Cosford Productions. The girl behind the board blinked at the sight of the very tall man in his dusty suit. It was a three-piece blue serge—not this year’s model, not this dec-ade’s. At the top of it, above the frayed grey collar and badly knotted tie, was a wet, crimson face looking as if the man had just shaved it with a broken bottle. At the bottom, stepping forward awkwardly across the deep-pile carpet, were astonishing leather thong sandals over patterned socks.

Lee Cosford came out to claim his visitor. In the office he offered gin and Pennington accepted, saying, “First since day before yesterday. How about that, temperance fans?”

Cosford knew this had to be about the Gary Prime project. He believed he had heard the end of it but now here was the top writer from a generation ago looking as if he had just seen a vision on the road to Ste. Anne de Beaupré. Cosford reached out and took the glass away from his guest and said, “Tell me, Luke. Before you dive back into the sauce. Is there a feature film in this Mama Cass thing?”

“Academy Awards. Cannes Festival. The idea is solid gold, my dear. I’ve been working for two days on the treatment without anything to drink but coffee and grapefruit juice. It’s in this brown envelope, Lee old buddy, and what you had better do is line up tons of money and hire your cast and your director because somewhere there’s a lucky man who is going to make the film of the year from this here scenario of mine.”

Cosford handed back the drink. “I just wanted to hear you say it.” He took the envelope and went to sit behind his desk. To himself he said, always trust a sober Pennington. He drew a thick sheaf of typewritten pages from the envelope. “Wow, what did you do, write a shooting script?”

“Almost. I had to force myself not to. I even went out and invested in a ribbon and a box of paper.” Pennington drew on the drink, then set it aside and looked out of the window at the church spire.

Cosford studied the title page. It said, “Blues for Mama Cass—a film drama with interpolated music. A Lee Cosford Production written by Lucas Pennington.” The script had weight in Cosford’s hands; it felt crisp and substantial—he knew the heft of valuable work. He flicked the title page over and saw the beginning of the treatment. The writing flowed. It was vintage Pennington.

The producer glanced up, wondering whether he should mention the fact that Gary Prime’s name did not appear on the script. He decided to let it go for the moment.

“Do you want up-front money, Luke,” he asked, “or would you rather take a share of the gross?”

Pennington made growling noises in his throat as he rubbed his hands together. “Some of each, please,” he said and, out in the reception area, Stephie heard through the wall the deep, nasty sounds of her boss and his visitor laughing.

Gary told Anitra how his project was going. He enthused over the meeting with Lucas Pennington, describing what a wash-out the man seemed to be, then how he came alight when the idea was explained. Aware of Pennington’s bad reputation, knowing it was all a ploy to fob Gary off with a loser, Anitra was tempted to warn her husband not to expect too much. But why come on as a pessimist? Let the man have his dream for a while longer. Besides, you never could tell—something might come of it.

It was only by accident that she discovered a few weeks later that something was indeed coming of the Mama Cass project. Anitra encountered Stephie at the photocopy machine and happened to see that she was running off several copies of what looked like a shooting script. A glance at the title page and Anitra was off to see Lee Cosford almost at a run.

Then she slowed down, thinking, and stopped. The film business ground on at a steady pace at the best of times. No mad rush. She would wait and see what was going to happen next.

What happened was that Lee announced he was flying to London on business at the beginning of the week. He asked Stephie to book a couple of seats on the Air Canada flight for Sunday evening. If the other seat was for Gary, Anitra told herself, her husband would have been crowing before now. If it was for her, Lee would have said something. Instead, he was keeping his head down these days, acting as if he had done a lousy job of picking her pocket and hoped she wouldn’t mention it.

Anitra decided to bring up the subject as she sat in the front seat of Lee’s car driving back from the Eastern Townships where they had been filming a butter commercial. She was never so grateful for a safety belt as when she drove with Lee Cosford. The highway was fairly clear and he kept pushing the accelerator. The needle edged past eighty-five, ninety.