The Player (10 page)

Back in his office, Griffin told Jan to call the commissary to have lunch, a salad, delivered. She wanted to know about Joe Gillis.

“I forgot all about it. He's a tax planner my business manager put me on to, he's got a shelter he wants me to buy into.”

“I don't think so. I think you're looking for a job at another studio. And I think this Joe Gillis is someone big at another studio, and he's using a code name, and you forgot the code name. Don't give me this line about a tax planner. Would you invest in a tax shelter that was sold to you over drinks at ten o'clock? Why are you lying to me?”

“You're half right. I'm sorry, I shouldn't be playing with you. I don't know any Joe Gillises, it was probably a wrong number.”

“I answered the phone saying it was your office, didn't he hear me?”

“Obviously not.”

“I don't like the way you're treating me,” she said.

“What am I doing wrong?”

“Do you want me to quit? Do you want me to go?”

“Yes, to lunch. Have a glass of wine. Take the afternoon off, get a massage, I'll pay for it. Come back tomorrow.”

“I don't want a glass of wine, and I don't need a massage.”

“I just get the feeling that you're out of sorts today, and I want to make you feel better.” He knew he sounded ridiculous. What was she thinking?

She didn't give in. “So you can treat me badly tomorrow? I'm sorry, but I don't want to sweep this under the carpet.”

“Sweep what?”

“Your tone of voice changes every time I come into the room. You sound like you're forcing yourself to be nice to me.”

“Maybe you need to take a week off.”

“No. I'm fine. I don't know if you understand that, but there's nothing wrong with me. There's something wrong with you.”

“Whoa.” He held up his hand, to tell her she was pressing too hard, that she was forgetting her place. He waited for her to hide behind a personal excuse.

“It's just that I'd hate to see you crash, that's all.” So her tactic was to pretend to be out of control because she was so concerned for him. “I don't want to quit, I like this job. I want you to do well. If you do well, that's good for me.”

“Ignore me, then. Don't pay attention to the way my voice
sounds. I'm under a lot of pressure, and if I'm taking it out on you, I'm sorry. And I still want you to have a vacation this afternoon.” Then he called a salon in Beverly Hills and ordered a facial and massage for her. He charged it to the studio. “Now get out of here.”

She stood at the door, and he watched her give in. “I'll have all calls transferred to Celia.” She winked and was gone.

He called Bonnie Sherow.

“You can't make it tonight, can you?” she asked.

“Why are we in this business?” he tried to sound weary, like a foreign correspondent, jaded, addicted to bad pay and loneliness.

“Is it over?”

“Not unless you want it to be.”

“I don't know.”

“What are you doing Sunday morning?”

“What are you doing Saturday night?” she asked, but there wasn't any seduction in the voice; she was puzzled and threatened.

“That's what I meant.”

“In that case, Griffin, call me Saturday afternoon.” Now she sounded impatient, and annoyed with him. “I don't want to make a date.”

“You just have.”

“Call me, we'll take it from there.”

It was time for a funeral.

He parked a block away from the funeral home and walked toward it on the other side of the street. A stocky, gray-haired man in a blue blazer and gray pants stood in front. Griffin guessed he worked for the mortuary, something about his eyebrows, brought tightly together, and the way he looked up and down the street like a shirt salesman outside his failing store, waiting for a customer. The man studied Griffin for a moment, and Griffin expected him to call out, “Are you here for the funeral?” but the man just looked at his
watch and went inside. Griffin looked at his own watch. Two-fifteen. He told himself he didn't have to go in. Then he told himself he did.

The parking lot beside the mortuary was almost empty. He counted fourteen cars. He was surprised to see David Kahane's new Saab; had June Mercator driven to her lover's funeral alone? A few white limousines were parked in the lot, next to the black hearse. And all because of me, he thought. Now he crossed the street.

Griffin slowly opened the door to the chapel, a long beige room. The heavy carpet in the mortuary brought back an old boredom to him, the dull confusion of following his mother through department stores when he was seven. What do they say boredom is, nothing but frustration? Why am I frustrated in here? he asked himself.

The first two rows were full; behind them a few people sat on the aisle. A Japanese family sat in the back. So Kahane's death had brought thirty mourners. Griffin felt himself hating Kahane for wasting June Mercator's time; she deserved a bigger crowd. How could Kahane have expected to make massively successful movies if he had such little charisma? No wonder he'd never had a movie made. No wonder he died so easily.

The door opened behind him and a man in a suit excused himself as he brushed against Griffin's shoulder. He walked slowly down the aisle to the front row and quietly offered his condolences. Two women who might have been June Mercator, mid- to late-twenties, sat next to each other, with an older man, possibly Kahane's father, beside them on the aisle. One of the women had the same thin nose and blond hair as a college-age boy in the row. Griffin figured them for brother and sister and doubted that all of June Mercator's family would be here, making her the single, but then why wouldn't they? If her parents were alive and they lived in Los Angeles and their daughter's mate died, they'd go to the funeral. Would they cross the
country for the funeral if Kahane and June Mercator hadn't been married? Probably only one of them would come. The sister could just as easily be June Mercator as the single. Which would he prefer, the sister or the single? Tonight he would have to make the same kind of choice, looking around the Polo Lounge and guessing who was Joe Gillis. He supposed that would be simple; the Writer would be whoever was alone and most self-conscious.

The sister turned and looked back to see the small crowd. She had the bright, functional good looks of a woman who worked in something technical at a studio, a film editor or special-effects artist, with an athlete's haircut, center-parted and longer in back than on the sides, and clear, pale skin. The single glanced back, automatically, to see what caught the sister's attention. Her hair was longer and loose. She had bags under her eyes and she was fleshy. Like me, thought Griffin. She looked tired. From mourning? From her job? He couldn't tell the difference between grief and worry. He pegged her for a lawyer, which made the other woman June Mercator, and that made sense, didn't she do pasteup for a bank's brochures? That's technical. Besides, she was crying.

He let their eyes meet, and he wondered who she thought he was; with so few people there, she was sure to know everyone. His picture had been published a few dozen times, on the front pages of
Variety
and
The Hollywood Reporter,
there had a been a profile in the
Times,
articles in
Newsweek
and
Time,
a picture of him in
Rolling Stone.
Maybe she didn't read those pages. He waited for the small shock when she realized who he was, but it didn't come; she looked past him, then turned back to face the lectern, when a man in a blue suit—Griffin supposed he was the rabbi—stood up to speak.

He talked first about the city, about the horror of daily life, about fear. He referred to physics, to Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, and to Einstein, who'd said that God doesn't play dice. Then he said
he didn't mean that we should console ourselves that in God's plan David Kahane's death was necessary for the universe to unfold its majestic design, because he knew that David Kahane would laugh at such mindless faith. He said we all had to find meaning in each moment; otherwise, we'd fall into despair. Then he sat down and the college-age boy took his place. He had a sheet of typed notes. He was skinny and clean-shaven, and he looked smart, like a musician, like a bass player, the one who stands to the side.

“My brother,” he began, “died after seeing a movie, which I guess is sort of fitting. I hope you don't take this wrong, but I'm glad that he didn't die on his way in, you know, before he saw it. I guess that would hurt me more than this does, and this hurts a lot.”

A cascade of disappointment. Kahane's brother looked just like the film editor, so the lawyer with the bags under her eyes was June Mercator. He didn't want to hear any more.

Griffin turned away from the brother and left the chapel. He closed the door as softly as he could. What would the brother think was the reason he left? A surplus of emotion? Or that this stranger had wandered into the wrong memorial service? Maybe he wouldn't notice. Maybe he would think that Griffin worked for the mortuary. You're delivering a eulogy and someone you don't know leaves the room. Disrespect or business? Business. Yes, that was the logical conclusion. And June? What would she think? Now he was sorry he had not stayed in the chapel, and heard the eulogies, learned more about Kahane. He thought of the woman with the bags under her eyes. Could he apologize to her? He would have to be her friend. Was that possible?

He wished he hadn't sent Jan to Beverly Hills. If he called in for messages, Celia would answer and she would tell Levison that he was away for the afternoon. She probably would, anyway. He called Mary Netter, who took the call, and told her that if she and Drew
were free, he could see them at five. She muffled the phone with her hand and then came back and said, yes, they were free at five, for half an hour.

When he got back to the studio, he called Celia, and she gave him a message from Mary and Drew that they would not be able to see him. There was no explanation.

He reminded himself that he had a goal: to stop the postcard Writer, to make peace with him. Maybe I should make a deal with one of the other writers I've forgotten. Finish the idea I started with Kahane. Call one of them in, hear what he has to say, and then commit to a first draft. Whatever the story. A small deal, fifty thousand for a first with a set of revisions. He opened last year's date book and found a few names. Danny Ross; the name meant nothing but gave him a thrill. He went to Jan's desk and found Ross's number. He left a message on Ross's machine. What have I set in motion? he wondered. Will Ross sleep tonight? He'll call before Jan arrives, before nine-thirty in the morning.

There were hours before the Polo Lounge meeting. He tried to read a few scripts, gave up, returned some calls, and went home.

Griffin drove to the Beverly Hills Hotel. He wanted to tell the Writer, “This is probably the most creative thing you've ever done, and I applaud the effort.” Had the Writer left his car with the valet, under the pink-and-green roof, or had he taken the cheap way out and parked on the street? Wouldn't the Writer want to avoid a grand entrance? Griffin left the car with the valet, passed a knot of men in dark suits, and recognized a few television executives whose names he'd forgotten. He walked up the long path to the lobby and felt like a millionaire, felt beyond the touch of anxiety.

In the lobby he heard his name called, and turned quickly, in fear, to greet Andy Civella, a rock-and-roll manager, heavy, with a beard, thick hair, and sunglasses. Griffin liked Civella. The manager was a pirate, and after an hour with him Griffin always felt like he did when he'd seen a James Bond film. He was contagiously bold. Civella made Griffin feel invincible and rich. Standing a little behind Civella was Tom Oakley, an English director who had been famous three years ago, that year's boy genius, but two fifteen-million-dollar movies had died, and now he looked tired, a little whipped. Still, he hadn't lost the odor of success. He had the shamelessness Griffin respected; he was in the club. Admire the Writer's strategy, he must have known that Griffin's solitary appearance at the Beverly Hills
Hotel at ten o'clock would draw attention. Griffin started an introduction, but they were old friends. He wished they weren't, he was jealous of them, they made each other laugh.

“Join us for a drink?” asked the director.

“I have to meet someone, sorry.”

“Another time.”

“I'll call you.”

“Three twenty,” said Oakley.

“What?” said Griffin.

“Room three twenty,” he said. “I'll be here for another week.”

“Paramount is paying the bill,” said Civella with a delivery meant to bring on a laugh and gracefully finish the lobby conference. It worked. Hands were shaken, and Griffin followed the hall to the Polo Lounge.

The maître d' nodded. “Mr. Mill,” he said, “how many?”

“There'll be two of us, but I'm a little early.”

“Would you like a booth in the back and I'll bring your guest?”

“Give me one in front.” And he pointed to a booth against the far wall. The waiter came immediately. Griffin ordered a shrimp cocktail and a Pimm's Cup, a teenager's idea of sophistication, he knew, but he needed something sweet. Why was he apologizing to himself? Two women at the bar returned his smile. The waiter brought his order.

If he lost the job, what would he miss? He had a lot of his own money, but he wasn't used to spending it, except for clothing, furniture, a few toys. Even his stereo was paid for, a gift of the studio's record company. His expense account was almost unlimited. Every flight was first-class. Limousines brought him to airports and limousines met him. If he didn't know the drivers, there was always a chauffeur with MR. MILL scrawled on a little cardboard sign. In New York he took over the studio's suite at the Sherry
Netherland, with his jackets in the closet, shirts in a dresser. He'd flown the
Concorde
ten times. The forty-thousand-dollar car was a gift from the studio. Half his mortgage was paid by the company. An interest-free loan had covered the down payment. When he paid for a meal himself, there was a feeling of novelty, almost of petty theft. But who was he stealing from? How much of the food he'd eaten in five years had he paid for himself? Fifty dinners altogether? Lunches on Sunday? How many plane tickets had he paid for? A few. Cabo San Lucas with Bonnie Sherow. Then he had been a little in love and wanted the hours to be nonreimbursible, non-deductible. So purity had come to this, paying your own way? No. He admitted to himself that this need to pay for his own time went beyond not wanting to turn love into a write-off. It was about privacy. He'd taken no vacations for the first five years he worked at the studio, a record that was even mentioned in
Time
magazine. Well, it wasn't strictly true, on a trip to visit a location in Morocco he stopped in Agadir for three days. He went skiing when a shoot in Colorado was closed by a storm for a week. Two intermissions. In those days he'd thought of vacations as a sign of weakness, a way to recuperate from hatred of the job, from a frustration that came with failure, a compensation. He didn't need compensation. He didn't need weekends.