Palmer had come in the house and turned the TV on and Harry had to go downstairs being the man, but without a gun, ’cause there wasn’t a gun in the house, was there?
It took Harry about two minutes to decide on the Norwegian salmon—anxious to talk, get things going—and another Scotch. Chili kept reading the menu while Michael told them about the curious negative influence his father became in motivating his career. Harry was willing to bet Chili, after all the time he spent on the menu, would order a steak; and he did, the filet rare, baked potato, house salad, the soup, a half-dozen bluepoints and, yeah, another Scotch. But Michael wasn’t finished telling about his dad, this tyrant who manufactured hairpieces and wanted his sonny to follow him in the rug trade, the headwaiter standing by. Then Michael had to look at the menu for a while, Harry willing to bet anything he wouldn’t order from it. It was an unwritten rule in Hollywood, actors never ordered straight from the menu; they’d think of something they had to have that wasn’t on it, or they’d tell exactly how they wanted the entree prepared, the way their mother back in Queens used to fix it. The seven-million-dollar actor in the jacket a bum wouldn’t wear told the headwaiter he felt like an omelet, hesitant about it, almost apologetic. Could he have a cheese omelet with shallots, but with the shallots only slightly browned? The headwaiter said yes, of course. Then could he have some kind of light tomato sauce over it with just a hint of garlic but, please, no oregano? Of course. And fresh peas in the tomato sauce? Harry wanted to tell him, Michael, you can have any fucking thing you want. You want boiled goat? They’ll send out for it if they don’t have one. Jesus, what you had to go through with actors. The ideal situation would be if you could make movies without them.
“What fascinates me about this one,” Michael said, “is the chance to play an essentially cliche-type character in a way that’s never been done before, against his accepted image.”
Harry liked the sound of that. He wished he could light up, so he could enjoy it more. Chili, busy eating ice cream, might or might not be paying attention.
“It’s not unlike the way I saw Bonaparte in
Harry thinking,
As Michael said, “What I did was separate the man from the historic figure, visualize a dichotomy, imagine him offstage making love, getting drunk, generally kicking back . . .” Michael grinned. “No pun intended.”
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Harry didn’t get it.
“And you know what? I saw him rather impish in his off moments. Maybe because he was a little guy and I had to play him that way. I saw him childlike with a love of life, a mischievous glow. I have him telling jokes, mimicking his generals, I do one like a French Howard Cosell. I drink wine, smoke hash and giggle, I moon Josephine a couple of times in the film . . . Anyway it’s this human side that my grenadiers sense, the reason they love
“Sure,” Harry said, “you bring out that human side you’ve got the audience empathizing with you.”
Chili said, “Why’d he put his hand in his coat like that?”
“It was a fashionable way to pose,” Michael said. “And that’s what I’m talking about. There’s the pose of the character, as most people see him, and there’s the real person who laughs and cries and makes love. I think the romance angle in our story is critically important, that it isn’t simply a jump in the sack for either of them. These two become deeply in love. There’s even a certain reverence about it, the way they fuck. Do you know what I mean? And it’s totally in contrast to the guy’s accepted character.”
“From the way he appears in the beginning,” Harry said.
Michael didn’t even glance over. He went on saying to Chili—no doubt because Chili had spoken to him about it that other time—”Once their lives are in danger and you have the mob guy coming after them, it not only heightens tension, it adds a wistful element to their love. Now, because they have more to live for, they also have more to lose.”
Harry said, “The mob guy?”
Michael, the typical actor, onstage, ignored that one too. A simple, honest question, for Christ sake.
“I also have to consider, I mean as the character, this is another man’s wife I’m sleeping with. I know the guy’s a schmuck, he’s a sneak . . . By the way, what does he do?”
“He’s an agent,” Chili said, “and his wife, he handles, is a rock-and-roll singer.”
Michael nodded. “Like Nicki. I like that. I don’t mean for the part, but a character like her.”
Harry stared at Chili now, Chili eating his ice cream and refusing to look over this way, Chili telling Michael, “We’re still working on the ending.
Michael said, “You are?” sounding surprised. “I thought you were bringing the script.”
“You have the first draft,” Harry said, wanting to start over, make some sense out of this. “The one you read I sent to your house?”
He saw Michael shaking his head with that surprised look and Chili saying right away, “Basically it’s the ending has to be fixed, but there some other parts too.” The hell was be talking about? Now Michael was looking at his watch.
“Elaine wants us to come by tomorrow, sometime in the afternoon. How does that sound?”
Harry saw Chili nodding, so he nodded.
“I have to run,” Michael said. “But what I hope to see, they begin to have misgivings about wanting the money. It becomes their moral dilemma and they try to rationalize keeping it, but in the end they can’t.” Looking at Chili the whole time. “Can they?”
“Which money,” Harry said, “are we talking about?”
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That got Michael’s attention, finally, but with a kind of bewildered look on his face. “The three hundred large. What other money is there? I’m not being facetious, I’m asking, since I haven’t read the script. I think their idea, ultimately, would be to let the husband keep it, knowing he’ll get caught sooner or later. No, wait.” Michael paused. “The mob guy gets to the husband first, the agent, and whacks him, knocks him off. But he doesn’t have the money. Somehow the lovers have gotten hold of it. We see it piled on a bed. Make it a million—why not? The mob guy, who scares hell out of the audience, is closing in but the lovers don’t know it. So now you’ve got the big scene coming up. But just before it happens . . . Well, it could be after, either way, but it’s the shylock who makes the decision, they can’t keep it.”
Harry said, “The
Michael turned to him saying, “Look at me, Harry.”
Harry was already looking at him.
Now Chili was saying, “That’s not bad. I think you got it down.”
Harry turned to Chili and back to Michael again.
“Jesus Christ, you mean all this time . . .”
But Michael wasn’t listening. He was getting up from the table saying, “I should keep quiet, I know, till I’ve read the script, but I’ve got a feeling about this one. I’m that shylock. Really, it scares me how well I know him. I could do this one tomorrow, no further preparation.”
“What am I thinking?” Chili said.
Michael grinned at him. “Well, I might need a week to get ready. But I’ll see you tomorrow, right? At Tower.” He started to go, paused and said, “Chil, work on that moral dilemma. Harry? Remember that time you turned me down for
Michael table-hopped and touched hands all the
way out. Harry watched him before turning to Chili. “All that time he’s talking about your movie.” Chili nodded. “That’s what we came for?” Chili nodded. “You told Michael about your movie when you
saw him that time? You never talked about
Chili finished his ice cream. He said, “Harry,” getting his cigarettes out, “let’s light up and have an after- dinner drink. What do you say?”
26 
Karen was waiting for him. He saw her coming away from the front steps in a heavy-knit white sweater as he
