The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Read online

  “How did you know about Book Soup?” I asked, interrupting her.

  “I read your file.”

  “My file? You have a file on me?”

  “Not exactly. More of a dossier—which Philip’s people put together when you agreed to come out here.”

  “And what exactly was in this file?”

  “Just press clippings, and an up-to-date biography, and a list of all your credits, and a bit of background information that Philip’s people gleaned here and there . . .”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, you know—basic need-to-know stuff like what you prefer to drink, the kind of movies you like to watch, the state of your bank accounts, your investment portfolio, the name of your therapist . . .”

  “I am not in therapy,” I said angrily.

  “But you were. Right after you left Lucy and moved in with Sally, you spent six months talking with a doctor—what was his name again?—Tarbuck, perhaps? A Donald Tarbuck who practices right off Victory Avenue in West LA. Sorry . . . am I talking out of turn?”

  I suddenly felt very uneasy. “Who told you all that?” I asked.

  “No one told me anything. I just read it . . .”

  “But somebody must have told your people all this. So who was it?”

  “Honestly I haven’t a clue.”

  “I bet it was that little bastard, Barra.”

  “I’ve obviously upset you, which certainly wasn’t my intention. But let me assure you that Bobby’s no stool pigeon, and you haven’t landed yourself in the former East Germany. My husband simply happens to be a very thorough guy who wants to have a very thorough rundown on anyone he’s thinking of hiring.”

  “I didn’t apply for any job.”

  “Point taken. Philip was simply interested in working with you and thought he should find out a few basic details . . . as everyone does these days. End of story. Okay?”

  “I’m not being paranoid . . .”

  “Of course not,” she said, pouring us both another shot. “Now get that down you.”

  We clinked glasses again and drank. This time the vodka slipped down with ease—a hint that my throat and my brain had both started to go numb.

  “Happier now?” she asked gently.

  “It’s good vodka.”

  “Do you consider yourself a happy type, David?”

  “What?”

  “I was just wondering if, deep down, you doubt your success and wonder if you really deserve it?”

  I laughed. “Do you always play the agent provocateur?”

  “Only with people I like. But I’m right, am I not? Because I sense that you don’t believe in your accomplishments and you secretly rue leaving your wife and child.”

  A long silence, during which I reached for the vodka bottle and poured two fresh shots.

  “I think I ask too many questions,” she finally said.

  I lifted my drink and threw it back.

  “But may I be permitted to ask you one more?” she said.

  “Which is what?”

  “Tell me what you really thought of Philip’s movie.”

  “I did tell you . . .”

  “No, what you said was, ‘It’s pretentious crap.’ What you didn’t explain was why you considered it pretentious crap.”

  “You really want to know?” I asked. She downed her drink and nodded. So I told her exactly why it was the worst film I’d ever seen, taking it apart scene by scene, explaining why the characters were fundamentally absurd, why the dialogue gave new meaning to the word “artificial,” and why the entire enterprise was nothing short of ludicrous. The vodka must have triggered some garrulous switch in my brain, because I talked nonstop for around ten minutes, pausing only to accept two additional refills from Martha. When I finally finished, there was a massively long silence.

  “Well . . . you did ask me for my opinion,” I said, the words slightly slurring.

  “And you certainly gave it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Why apologize? Everything you said is absolutely right. In fact, what you just said is exactly what I told Philip before the film went into production.”

  “But I thought you worked closely with him on the script?”

  “I did—and, believe me, compared to the original draft, the final shooting script was a vast improvement . . . which is not saying much, as the film itself was such a disaster.”

  “Didn’t you have any sway with him?”

  “When does a lowly script editor ever have sway with a director? I mean, if ninety-nine-point-five percent of all writers in Hollywood are treated like the hired help, then the script editor is considered virtually subhuman.”

  “Even by the guy who’s fallen for you?”

  “Oh, that didn’t happen until way after the movie.”

  She then explained how Fleck showed up one day at the theater he’d built in Milwaukee for a little meet-and-greet with the staff . . . his staff to be specific, as his annual subsidy was meeting the wage bill. Anyway, during the course of this royal walkabout, the theater’s artistic director whisked him into the small cubbyhole that Martha called her office for a fast “Hello, nice to meet you.” When they were introduced—and Fleck heard that she was the theater’s script editor—he mentioned that he’d just finished writing a movie and could use a professional’s advice about its alleged strengths and weaknesses.

  “Of course I instantly told him I would be honored to read it—because what else was I going to say? I mean, he was our patron saint, our Man Upstairs. Secretly, I thought, Oh God, a vanity script, written by Joe Super Rich. But I also really didn’t think that he’d actually ever send the script around . . . because as the gentleman had so much money, he could probably buy script advice from Robert Towne or William Goldman. But the next morning, bang—the script landed on my desk. There was a Post-it attached to the front page: ‘I’d greatly appreciate it if you give me your honest appraisal of this by tomorrow morning.’ And it was signed P.F.”

  So Martha had no choice but to spend the rest of the day reading the damn thing, and then spend the entire night in a state of ever-heightening anxiety, as she realized that though Fleck’s script was, without question, garbage, if she wrote exactly what she thought, she could kiss her job good-bye.

  “I was up until five in the morning, trying to fashion a report that somehow got the message across that this was hopeless but managed to do so in as neutral a way as possible. But the fact was I just couldn’t think of a single good thing to say about it. Eventually, with the sun coming up, I ripped up my fourth attempt at an impartial report, and thought: I’m going to treat the guy like any other bad aspiring writer and tell him exactly why he’s gotten it so wrong.”

  So she sat down and wrote a killer of a report, had it messengered over to the theater, and went to bed, thinking that when she woke up, she’d have to start looking for a new job.

  But instead, the phone rang at her apartment at five that afternoon. It was one of “Fleck’s people”—telling her that Mr. Fleck himself wanted to see her and the Gulfstream would be taking her to San Francisco that evening. Oh . . . and the theater had been informed that she wouldn’t be in for the next few days.

  “Now, up until this point, I had never flown anything but coach, so the limo to the airport and flight on the Gulfstream were just a little out of the ordinary. So too was Philip’s town house in Pacific Heights, with the staff of five and the screening room in the basement. Of course, all the way to San Francisco, I was wondering why he wanted to see me—and wondering whether he was flying me out west as a sort of power trip: ‘I’m bringing you here by private jet so I can have the luxury of firing you face to face.’

  “But when I reached his house, he couldn’t have been more charming . . . which, given Philip’s natural taciturnity, is something of a stretch. Holding up my report, he said: ‘You certainly don’t kiss ass, do you?’ Then he asked me to spend the next seven days working with him to improve the script. And he asked me
to name my price. I told him I was already getting paid by the theater in Milwaukee, so I didn’t expect anything from him . . . except hard work. ‘To me, you’re just another writer, and one with a script that needs a major overhaul. So if you’re willing to listen, I’m willing to help you.’

  “So we spent the next seven days pulling the thing apart and putting it back together again. Philip placed his entire life on hold to work with me—and he really did listen. He also seemed to be responding to my criticisms—because, by the time the week was over, we’d managed to cut most of the bilge from the screenplay, tighten up the structure, and make the characters semi-believable. I told him I still thought that the entire enterprise was far too highfalutin. But there’s no doubt that it was a better script than before.

  “And there was also no doubt that there was an unspoken thing between us. Philip may be preternaturally reticent . . . but once he gets to know you, he can be quite funny. And I really liked his smarts. For a guy who’d built up a multibillion-dollar empire, he knew so much about movies and books, and he really was determined to throw a lot of money at the arts. Anyway, on our last night together, we got into a marathon drinking session . . .”

  “Vodka?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said, raising her eyebrows playfully. “My poison of choice.”

  I met her stare. “And let me guess what happened next.”

  “Yes. Only when I woke the next morning, Philip was gone . . . though there was a really romantic note on the pillow: ‘I’ll be in touch.’ At least he didn’t sign it P.F.

  “So back I went to Milwaukee, and I never heard a damn word from him. Six months later, I read somewhere that The Last Chance had gone into production in Ireland. Eight months later, it opened at the only art house in Milwaukee—and, naturally, I went to see it, and couldn’t believe what Mr. Fleck had done. Not only had he thrown out eighty percent of the changes we made, but he’d also put back half the bad dialogue we’d managed to cut. Of course, I wasn’t the only person who thought he’d made the wrong choices, as the papers were full of truly derogatory stuff about the movie and how Philip had just broken up with a supermodel whom he’d been seeing for the last year . . . which immediately explained why I hadn’t heard from the gentleman after that one night in his bed.

  “Anyway, I was so disgruntled—both by the way he’d undermined all the work we’d done, and the fact that he’d never called me again—that I sat down and punched out a tough letter that expressed considerable displeasure at his professional and personal ill-treatment of me. I really didn’t expect to get a reply. But then, about a week later, he showed up on my doorstep one night. And the first words out of his mouth were: ‘I was wrong about everything. Especially you.’”

  “And after that?”

  “We were married within six months.”

  “How very romantic,” I said.

  Another of her little smiles as she poured us the final two shots from the bottle.

  “So the moral of this story is . . . what?” I asked. “You’re not to blame for your husband’s lousy movie?”

  “Touché, again.”

  I threw back the shot. Now I didn’t even feel it trickle down my throat. Because I was feeling nothing at all.

  “Let me let you in on a secret. The reason my husband is keeping you waiting here is that he can’t stand being around anyone who’s talented.”

  “I think anyone who’s made as much money as he has deserves to be called talented.”

  “Perhaps. But the talent he craves—the gift he dreams about having—is the talent you have. I hugely admire it too. Why do you think I flew back here tonight? It was the chance to meet you. I really think Selling You is a landmark show.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She looked directly at me and smiled again. I glanced at my watch. She said: “If it’s way after your bedtime, don’t let me keep you up. I can get Gary to bring you in some warm milk and cookies. And I’m sure we have a spare teddy bear around here somewhere, in case you need companionship.”

  She arched her eyebrows slightly, more amused than amorous. Or maybe more amorous than amused. Or maybe she was just raising her eyebrows for no reason whatsoever. Hell, I couldn’t tell anything anymore, as I was now dead drunk.

  “I think I just need to see my bed,” I said. “Thank you for the vodka.”

  “All part of the service,” she said. “Sweet dreams.”

  I said good-bye and staggered toward my room.

  I don’t remember how I got there. Nor do I remember passing out, fully clothed, on the bed. But I certainly do remember jolting awake around four in the morning, and just about making it to the toilet, and retching nonstop for around five minutes, and stripping off all my clothes and standing under a hot shower, and eventually staggering back to bed, still dripping wet, and sliding under the covers, and thinking about my conversation with Martha Fleck, and eventually passing out again, and not waking up until sometime around midday, and thinking that my brain was now suffering from near-nuclear meltdown, and also trying to make sense of everything that happened the night before: from being force-fed Salo in all its shit-eating glory, to that flirty booze-fueled conversation with Martha.

  But as I struggled to reassemble the skewed jigsaw that was last night, I also reached a decision: I was going to leave the island today. I’d been kept waiting around for too long, and for no particular reason, and I didn’t want to indulge a rich man’s whims any longer. So I picked up the phone and rang Gary and asked him if it was possible to arrange my transfer to Antigua this afternoon, with an onward connection to Los Angeles. He said he’d get back to me. Then, five minutes later, the phone rang. It was Martha.

  “Have you ever made the acquaintance of something called Berocca?”

  “Hello, Martha.”

  “Good morning, David. You sound a little shell-shocked.”

  “I wonder why. But you sound amazingly awake.”

  “That’s because of the wonderful restorative properties of Berocca. It’s a soluble vitamin, with a horse-size dose of Vitamin B and C—and it’s the only known cure for a hangover I’ve ever encountered. They make them in Australia, where they know about hangovers.”

  “Please send two over right away.”

  “They’re en route as we speak. Just don’t chop them up with a credit card and snort them up a rolled fifty-dollar bill.”

  “I don’t do that sort of thing,” I said, sounding defensive.

  “That was a joke, David. Lighten up, please.”

  “Sorry . . . and, by the way, I really did enjoy the evening.”

  “Then why do you want to leave us this afternoon?”

  “News obviously travels fast.”

  “I hope this decision wasn’t prompted by anything I said.”

  “Hardly. I think it’s more to do with the fact that your husband has kept me waiting here for just over a week. And I have a life to be getting on with . . . and a daughter I need to visit in San Francisco this Friday.”

  “That’s easily taken care of. I’ll have the Gulfstream booked to fly you direct on Friday morning. With the time change in your favor, you’ll get there by mid-afternoon, no problem.”

  “But that means cooling my heels here for another two days.”

  “Look, I understand why you’re peeved at my husband. As I said last night, he is playing a game with you . . . like he plays games with everybody. And I feel very bad about all this, because it was me who suggested that he should try to work with you. I’m such a great fan of yours. Besides Selling You, I’ve actually read all your early theater stuff . . .”

  “Really?” I said, trying not to sound flattered, but failing.

  “Yes, I got one of my assistants at the foundation to track down all your play scripts . . .”

  That must have taken some work, I thought, considering that none of those plays were ever published. But if there was one thing I now knew about the Flecks, it
was this: if they wanted something, they got it.

  “ . . . and I also really want to talk with you about the rewrite you’ve just done on the movie for Philip.”

  Which, evidently, Joan had slipped to her.

  “You’ve read it already?”

  “First thing this morning.”

  “How about your husband?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “We haven’t talked for a few days.”

  I was about to ask why but thought better of it. So instead I said, “Did you really come back from New York to meet me?”

  “It’s not very often that we have a writer I admire staying on the island.”

  “And you really like the new version of the script?”

  She let out a dark laugh. “Searching for reassurance?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “Well, I think the job you’ve done is terrific.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Believe me, I’d tell you otherwise.”

  “I’ve no doubt about that.”

  “And if you do stay, I promise not to force vodka down your throat again . . . unless, of course, you want it forced down your throat.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Then we’ll be alcohol-free Mormons all day. In fact, I’ll even call you Elder David if you wish . . .”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “All right, all right. I’ll stay one more day. But if he’s not here tomorrow, I’m gone.”

  “It’s a deal,” she said.

  The Berocca arrived a few minutes later—and much to my surprise, it actually did lessen my hangover agony. But so too did the afternoon I spent with Martha. Given the amount of Stoli she’d thrown back the night before, she looked damnably alert, almost radiant. She arranged lunch on the main balcony of the house. The sun was high, but a light breeze tempered the heat. We ate cold lobster and drank Virgin Marys and talked our heads off. Martha had dropped the coquettish tone that had characterized the previous night, and revealed herself to be funny, erudite, and someone who could talk about a dozen different subjects with great intensity and brio. More tellingly, she really knew her stuff when it came to the business of playwriting—and she had a lot of smart, intelligent points to make about the new version of We Three Grunts. Much to my amazement, she really had read the entire David Armitage oeuvre . . . including two forgotten plays of the early 1990s, which had been given one-off readings by obscure off-off-Broadway companies and had been gathering dust in their script archives since then.