“And June Lincoln was the toast of Hollywood that night. She was the Arab princess in the film. Those days, Arabs meant passion and lust. These days . . . well, things change.
“I don’t know what started it all. I heard it was a dare or a bet; maybe she was just drunk. I thought she was drunk. Anyhow, she got up, and the band was playing soft and slow. And she walked over here, where I’m standing right now, and she plunged her hands right into this pool. She was laughing, and laughing, and laughing . . .
“Miss Lincoln picked up the fish—reached in and took it, both hands she took it in—and she picked it up from the water, and then she held it in front of her face.
“Now, I was worried, because they’d just brought these fish in from China and they cost two hundred dollars apiece. That was before I was looking after the fish, of course. Wasn’t me that’d lose it from my wages. But still, two hundred dollars was a whole lot of money in those days.
“Then she smiled at all of us, and she leaned down and she kissed it, slow like, on its back. It didn’t wriggle or nothin’, it just lay in her hand, and she kissed it with her lips like red coral, and the people at the party laughed and cheered.
“She put the fish back in the pool, and for a moment it was as if it didn’t want to leave her—it stayed by her, nuzzling her fingers. And then the first of the fireworks went off, and it swum away.
“Her lipstick was red as red as red, and she left the shape of her lips on the fish’s back. —There. Do you see?”
Princess, the white carp with the coral red mark on her back, flicked a fin and continued on her eternal series of thirty-second journeys around the pool. The red mark did look like a lip print.
He sprinkled a handful of fish food on the water, and the three fish bobbed and gulped to the surface.
I walked back in to my chalet, carrying my books on old illusions. The phone was ringing: it was someone from the studio. They wanted to talk about the treatment. A car would be there for me in thirty minutes.
“Will Jacob be there?”
But the line was already dead.
THE MEETING WAS with the Australian Someone and his assistant, a bespectacled man in a suit. His was the first suit I’d seen so far, and his spectacles were a vivid blue. He seemed nervous.
“Where are you staying?” asked the Someone. I told him.
“Isn’t that where Belushi . . . ? ”
“So I’ve been told.”
He nodded. “He wasn’t alone, when he died.”
“No?”
He rubbed one finger along the side of his pointy nose. “There were a couple of other people at the party. They were both directors, both as big as you could get at that point. You don’t need names. I found out about it when I was making the last Indiana Jones film.”
An uneasy silence. We were at a huge round table, just the three of us, and we each had a copy of the treatment I had written in front of us. Finally I said:
“What did you think of it?”
They both nodded, more or less in unison.
And then they tried, as hard as they could, to tell me they hated it while never saying anything that might conceivably upset me. It was a very odd conversation.
“We have a problem with the third act,” they’d say, implying vaguely that the fault lay neither with me nor with the treatment, nor even with the third act, but with them.
They wanted the people to be more sympathetic. They wanted sharp lights and shadows, not shades of gray. They wanted the heroine to be a hero. And I nodded and took notes.
At the end of the meeting I shook hands with the Someone, and the assistant in the blue-rimmed spectacles took me off through the corridor maze to find the outside world and my car and my driver.
As we walked, I asked if the studio had a picture anywhere of June Lincoln.
“Who?” His name, it turned out, was Greg. He pulled out a small notebook and wrote something down in it with a pencil.
“She was a silent screen star. Famous in 1926.”
“Was she with the studio?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted. “But she was famous. Even more famous than Marie Prevost.”
“Who?”
“ ‘A winner who became a doggie’s dinner.’ One of the biggest stars of the silent screen. Died in poverty when the talkies came in and was eaten by her dachshund. Nick Lowe wrote a song about her.”
“Who?”
“ ‘I knew the bride when she used to rock and roll.’ Anyway, June Lincoln. Can someone find me a photo?”
He wrote something more down on his pad. Stared at it for a moment. Then wrote down something else. Then he nodded.
We had reached the daylight, and my car was waiting.
“By the way,” he said, “you should know that he’s full of shit.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Full of shit. It wasn’t Spielberg and Lucas who were with Belushi. It was Bette Midler and Linda Ronstadt. It was a coke orgy. Everybody knows that. He’s full of shit. And he was just a junior studio accountant for chrissakes on the Indiana Jones movie. Like it was his movie. Asshole.”
We shook hands. I got in the car and went back to the hotel.
THE TIME DIFFERENCE caught up with me that night, and I woke, utterly and irrevocably, at 4 A.M.
I got up, peed, then I pulled on a pair of jeans (I sleep in a T-shirt) and walked outside.
I wanted to see the stars, but the lights of
