It was rather an unfavorable seating arrangement, I remember—a small two-person table adjacent to the door where the waitstaff entered and exited the kitchen. It was not the kind of table at which men like Normandy and I were accustomed to being seated. The restaurant did not serve alcohol, this being Prohibition, and unlike some other diners who pulled bottles from under their tables, neither of us had secreted in any wine. But by this point I was so hungry that these inconveniences did not deter me. Gerard, for his part, didn’t seem to notice. Nor did he notice the less than adequate service, which was perfunctory almost to the point of being rude.
We had a satisfactory lunch—I ordered fish and Gerard ate a large, rare steak, which I remember thinking would be good for his general vigor—and had moved on to coffee and apple pie when Gerard wiped his mouth with a napkin and cleared his throat. “Look here, Jun,” he said. “I’d like to talk some business.”
I had been anticipating something of this sort, for my three-year contract was due to expire the following March. It was not unusual for Normandy to broach the subject so early; it behooved both myself and the studio to settle terms for the next contract as quickly as possible. “Ah, yes,” I said, “the unromantic side of our business. I’m disappointed in you, Gerard. When we’ve done this before, it’s always been over port and cigars.”
Normandy grimaced, as if smiling through a toothache. “Jun, we’re friends and you know how much I admire you. I first signed you, after all, took you right away from poor William Moran. But, well, I think we both realize that things have changed these last couple of years.”
“Yes they have. Perennial’s been doing very well. I’ve heard people say it’s now the most powerful studio in Hollywood.” It was true. With hugely successful films like One Hundred Sins and Love Among the Ruins—and with the rise of stars like Gideon West, Lily Dawson, and Nathaniel Moore—Perennial seemed unstoppable, the nexus of creative and financial power in the motion picture industry.
“Well, who’s really to say as far as those things go? But you’re right, it’s been a good time for the studio.” He paused, picked up his fork, and moved a piece of apple around on the plate. “The thing is, Jun, we haven’t had much luck with your pictures lately.”
I had been smiling when Normandy started to speak, and now I took care to preserve my expression. “Perhaps you’re stating things a little too strongly, Gerard. Both Geronimo and The Cat’s Last Laugh did well.”
“Yes, fairly well. Which is say, they broke even. But the fact is, Jun, you haven’t had a bona fide hit in almost two years, really since The Patron. And it’s making Stillman and the others nervous. Very nervous.”
Now the smile had faded from my lips, and the pieces of apple on my plate could not have been less appealing if they were riddled with worms. “It may be true that I’ve experienced a bit of a dry spell,” I allowed, “but you must admit the material I’ve had recently hasn’t been first-rate. Match me up with a good script and good costar, let me work with Tyler again, and I’m sure the next film will do better.”
Normandy looked even more pained now, and waved the waiter off when he came to freshen up our coffee. “I’m afraid it’s not so simple, Jun. There’s a history here. Not everyone’s been happy about you being with the studio, but they were willing to go along with it as long as your pictures made money. But the mood in the country is different now, especially here in California. Jun, you must feel it. If the studio were to sign you to another multiyear contract, why, it wouldn’t do either of us any good.”
I sat still for a moment as I absorbed the implications of this last statement. “Are you saying that the studio isn’t planning to re-sign me?”
Normandy was shifting in his seat. “I’m not saying that anything is certain yet, Jun. I’m just saying be prepared. Stillman is nervous, very nervous—and if we have any more scenes like we did during the filming of Geronimo, that will just about seal the deal. There’s no margin of error these next few months.”
“But that incident was highly unusual,” I protested. “You can hardly judge my entire career by one unfortunate event. I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, Gerard, but my films are among Perennial’s biggest hits!”
Normandy sighed. “I realize that, Jun. But that was yesterday. This business only cares about tomorrow. I’m sorry, you know I’m your friend; that’s why I asked you to lunch. The best I can tell you is to make your last few pictures under this contract, and we’ll see what we can do. I’ll try to pair you with Tyler or someone comparable. In the meantime, just keep your head down.”
This is, to say the least, not a comfortable memory. Gerard had—as he indicated—met me out of friendship; a less
