When Doran drove into the Tri-Culture Studios lot, it was hate at second sight. The buildings were concrete, the grounds landscaped like those industrial parks that make Long Island look like benign concentration camps for robots. When we went through the gates, the guards didn’t have a special parking spot for us, and we had to use the metered lot with its red-and-white-striped wooden arm that raised automatically. I didn’t notice that I would need a quarter coin to get out through the exit arm.
I thought this was an accident, a secretarial slipup, but Doran said it was part of the Moses Wartberg technique to put talent like me in its place. A star would have driven right back off the lot. They would never put it over with directors or even a big featured player. But they wanted writers to know that they were not to get delusions of grandeur. I thought Doran was paranoid and I laughed, but I guess it irritated me, just a little.
In the main building our identities were checked by a security guard, who then made a call to make sure we were expected. A secretary came down and took us up in the elevator to the top floor. And that top floor was pretty spooky. Classy but spooky.
Despite all this, I have to admit I was impressed with Jeff Wagon’s charm and movie business bottom line. I knew he was a phony and hustler, but that seemed natural somehow. As it is not unnatural to find an exotic- looking inedible fruit on a tropical island. We sat down in front of his desk, my agent and I, and Wagon told his secretary to stop all calls. Very flattering. But he obviously had not given the secret code word really to stop all calls because he took at least three during our conference.
We still had a half hour to wait for Wartberg before the conference would start. Jeff Wagon told some funny stories, even the one about how the Oregon girl took a slice out of his balls. “If she’d done a better job,” Wagon said, “she would have saved me a lot of money and trouble these past years.”
Wagon’s phone buzzed, and he led me and Doran down the hail to a luxurious conference room that could serve as a movie set.
At the long conference table sat Ugo Kellino, Houlinan and Moses Wartberg chatting easily. Farther down the table was a middle-aged guy with a head of fuzzy white hair. Wagon introduced him as the new director for the picture. His name was Simon Beilfort, a name I recognized. Twenty years ago he had made a great war film. Right afterward he had signed a long-term contract with Tri-Culture and become the ace schlockmaster for Jeff Wagon.
The young guy with him was introduced as Frank Richetti. He had a sharp, cunning face and was dressed in a combo Polo Lounge-rock star-California hippie style. The effect was stunning to my eyes. He fitted perfectly Janelle’s description of the attractive men who roamed Beverly Hills as Don Juan-hustler-semipimps. She called them Slime City. But maybe she just said that to cheer me up. I didn’t see how any girl could resist a guy like Frank Richetti. He was Simon Beilfort’s executive producer on the film.
Moses Wartberg wasted no time on any bullshit. His voice laden with power, he put everything right on the line.
“I’m not happy with the script Malomar left us,” he said. “The approach is all wrong. It’s not a Tri-Culture film. Malomar was a genius, he could have shot this picture. We don’t have anybody on this lot in his class.”
Frank Richetti broke in, suave, charming. “I don’t know, Mr. Wartberg. You have some fine directors here.” He smiled fondly at Simon Bellfort.
Wartberg gave him a very cold look. We would hear no more from Richetti. And Beilfort blushed a little and looked away.
“We have a lot of money budgeted for this picture,” Wartberg went on. ‘We have to insure that investment. But we don’t want the critics jumping all over us, that we ruined Malomar’s work. We want to use his reputation for the picture. Houlinan is going to issue a press release signed by all of us here that the picture will be made as Malomar wanted it to be made. That it will be Malomar’s picture, a final tribute to his greatness and his contribution to the industry.”
Wartberg paused as Houlinan handed out copies of the press release. Beautiful letterhead, I noticed, with the Tri-Culture logo in slashing red and black.
Kellino said easily, “Moses, old boy, I think you’d better mention that Merlyn and Simon will be working with me on the new script.”
“OK, it’s mentioned,” Wartberg said. “And, Ugo, let me remind you that you can’t fuck with the production or the directing. That’s part of our deal.”
“Sure,” Kellino said.
Jeff Wagon smiled and leaned back in his chair. “The press release is our official position,” he said, “but, Merlyn, I must tell you that Malomar was very sick when he helped you with this script. It’s terrible. We’ll have to rewrite it, I have some ideas. There’s a lot of work to be done. Right now we fill up the media with Malomar. Is that OK with you, Jack?” he asked Houlinan. And Houlinan nodded.
Kellino said to me very sincerely, “I hope you’ll work with me on this picture to make it the great movie that Malomar wanted it to be.”
“No,” I said. “ I can’t do that. I worked on the script with Malomar, I think it’s fine. So I can’t agree to any changes or rewriting, and I won’t sign any press release to that effect.”
Houlinan broke in smoothly. “We all know how you feel. You were very close to Malomar in this picture. I approve of what you just said, I think it’s marvelous. It’s rare that there’s such loyalty in Hollywood, but remember, you have a percentage in the film. It’s in your interest to make the film a success. If you are not a friend of the picture, if you are an enemy of the picture, you’re taking money out of your pocket.”
I really had to laugh when he said that line. “I’m a friend of the picture. That’s why I don’t want to rewrite it. You’re the guys that are the enemy of this picture.”
Kellino said abruptly, harshly, “Fuck him. Let him go. We don’t need him.”
For the first time I looked directly at Kellino, and I remembered Osano’s description of him. As usual, Kellino was dressed beautifully, perfectly cut suit, a marvelous shirt, silky brown shoes, He looked beautiful, and I remembered Osano’s use of the Italian peasant word
And looking at Kellino, I thought how perfectly he fitted this definition.
Wartberg said to Wagon, “Straighten this out,” and he left the room. He couldn’t be bothered fucking around with some half-assed writer. He had come to the meeting as a courtesy to Kellino.
Wagon said smoothly, “Merlyn is essential to this project, Ugo. I’m sure when he thinks it over, he’ll join us. Doran, why don’t we all meet again in a few days?”
“Sure,” Doran said. “I’ll call you.”
We got up to leave. I handed my copy of the press release to Kellino. “There’s something on your shoe,” I said. “Use this to wipe it off.”
When we left Tri-Culture Studios, Doran told me not to worry. He told me he could get everything straightened out within the week, that Wartberg and Wagon could not afford to have me as an enemy of the picture. They would corn-promise. And not to forget my percentage.
I told him that I didn’t give a shit and I told him to drive faster. I knew that Janelle would be waiting for me at the hotel, and it seemed as if the thing I wanted most in the world was to see her again. To touch her body and kiss her mouth and lie with her and hear her tell me stories.
I was glad to have an excuse to stay in Los Angeles for a week to be with her for six or seven days. I really didn’t give a shit about the picture. With Malomar dead I knew it would just be another piece of schlock from Tri- Culture Studios.
When Doran left me off at the Beverly Hills Hotel, he put his hand on my arm and said, “Wait a minute. There’s something I have to talk to you about.”
“OK,” I said impatiently.
Doran said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time, but I felt maybe it wasn’t my business.”
“Jesus,” I said. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m in a hurry.”
Donan smiled a little sadly, “Yeah, I know. Janelle is waiting for you, right? It’s Janelle I want to talk to you about.”
