9
In the stop-go rush hour traffic heading down into the Valley, Larry Brooker sat in his black Porsche cabriolet. It was a 911 Carrera 4-S, he told anyone who would listen. He needed to make sure people knew he’d bought the 4-S, and not the less expensive 2-S, and that it had the $25k ceramic brake upgrade. Details. He was a detail guy. It wasn’t just the Devil that was in the detail. The gods of success were, too. People needed to know you were one of life’s winners; players in this business had no time for losers.
He was on his cellphone, his veneered teeth flashing brightly in the strong morning sunlight. His eyes, raw from a sleepless night, were shielded by his Ray-Bans, and his shaved dome gleamed with a healthy California tan. He was fifty, short and lean and spoke in a rapid, staccato manner; he was like a video on permanent fast- forward.
To the occupants of other vehicles crawling alongside him, he looked every inch an archetypal successful LA entertainment industry mover and shaker. But inside the plush leather cocoon of the Porsche’s cockpit it was very different. He was squirming in his ripped jeans. The sun might be shining on Ventura Boulevard, and on his exposed dome, but it sure as hell was shady in his heart right now, and sweat was trickling down his neck, sticking his black John Varvatos shirt to the seat-back. Not yet 9 a.m. and he was already perspiring. It was going to be a clammy day – in more ways than one.
Folks called this city Tinseltown because so much here was a glittery illusion where, like the facelifts of fading stars, nothing was permanent. And sure as hell there wasn’t anything permanent in Larry Brooker’s life right now.
He remained in deep conversation on the phone all the way along Universal Boulevard, and continued talking as he reached the security gate at the studios. Even though the guard had seen him a thousand times before, the surly old stalwart still stared at him like he was some dog turd that had floated downstream on the morning tide – which was about how he felt today. The guard went through the ritual of asking his name then checking down his list, before giving him a more respectful nod, and opening the barrier.
Larry pulled up into one of the allotted spaces marked
As any producer who had free offices on a studio lot knew, you were as good as your last few productions, and unless you had the stature of Spielberg, you had zero assurance of permanent tenure.
He hung up and mouthed the words,
But he could hardly blame Zvotnik. They’d delivered three movies in a row that had tanked.
Three previous expensive divorces had taken their toll on his finances. The bank owned most of his house. His vehicle finance company was closing in on his Porsche. His fourth wife’s divorce lawyer was closing in on the kids.
Twenty years back, after his first mega hit,
But there was no need to bother with that here. When you were on your way down in Tinseltown it didn’t matter how nice you once were. You became Dick Shit. You became an unreturned phone call. A scrawled name on a Post-it note that got flicked into the trash can. You became
Movie producers like himself were gamblers. And every gambler believed their luck was going to change on the next throw of the dice or spin of the wheel. Larry Brooker didn’t just believe it right now – he
The damned thing had to work.
King George IV. Gorgeous Brighton, England, locations. Sex, intrigue, scandal. This was a no-brainer. They’d negotiated with Bill Nicholson, who wrote
Suckered into an arranged marriage, George IV’s first words to his best friend, when he saw his betrothed, were, ‘For God’s sake, man, give me a glass of brandy!’
They were already in pre-production, but the entire project was in danger of falling over for the same reason so many productions never got the crucial green light. Cast.
Brooker entered the suite of offices on the first floor of the tired-looking low-rise block. His secretary, Courtney, was bent over the coffee machine like an Anglepoise lamp, with her skirt riding high up her slender legs, revealing her panties. It gave him an instant prick of lust despite his woes. He’d hired her because he fancied her like hell, but so far had got nowhere with her, thanks to the fact she had a hunk of a boyfriend who, like almost everyone in this town, was an actor in search of a break.
He greeted her with a cheery, ‘Hi, babe, could murder a coffee,’ and walked through into his office, which was a large square box with a fusty smell, decorated with a full-size BP petrol pump, a pinball machine, several wilting pot plants, and framed posters of his movies. The window looked out on the parking lot.
He slung his black Armani jacket on a chair and stood at his desk for some minutes, checking his emails and the stack of messages on Post-it notes simultaneously. He was in the Last-Chance Saloon, but what a big chance they had right now! They had their female star but lacked the male lead to complement her. That was all that mattered right now, finding that man, and it was a big problem. They’d had A-lister Matt Duke all lined up and ready to sign, but two nights ago, high on coke, he’d trashed his car on Mulholland Drive and would be spending months in hospital with multiple fractures and internal injuries. Goddamn dickhead!
Now they were in a panic to replace him. Their female lead, Gaia, had a reputation for being difficult and demanding, and a lot of people did not want to work with her. If they didn’t start shooting in three weeks they would lose Gaia’s window and have to wait another ten months for her. That was not an option; they didn’t have the cash to survive ten months.
He sat down just as his partner, Maxim Brody, slouched into the room, reeking as ever of cigar smoke. He looked hung over and was clutching a Starbucks coffee in a container the size of a fire bucket. While Larry Brooker could pass for a decade younger than his fifty years, Brody, who was sixty-two, looked all of ten years older than that. A former lawyer, with thinning hair, watery eyes and a jowly face like a big, droopy bloodhound, he had the air of a man who perpetually carried the troubles of the world on his shoulders.
Dressed in a pink polo shirt, baggy jeans and worn trainers, Maxim peered around suspiciously, in his usual manner, as if he didn’t trust anything or anyone, sat down on the sofa in the middle of the room, and yawned.
‘Tally tiring you out?’ Brooker said, unable to resist the barb.
Brody was on his fifth wife, a twenty-two-year-old with gargantuan breasts and a brain smaller than her nipples, a wannabe actress he’d met waiting tables in a cafe on Sunset.
‘Do you think she could play George’s real wife?’
‘George’s real wife was a dog.’
‘So?’
‘Get real, Max.’
‘Just a thought.’
‘Right now we need our male lead. We need goddamn King George.’
‘Yuh.’
‘Yuh. Are you with us? On planet earth?’
