The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Read online

  “I’m afraid this is the only weekend I have free,” he said flatly. “And, to be blunt about it, I’m rather disappointed by your attitude, David. I mean, you came out here to work with me, didn’t you?”

  I adopted a calm, reasonable tone of voice.

  “Philip . . . just to set the record straight again. You flew me out here to discuss my script. You also kept me waiting seven days . . . an entire week, during which we could have done a vast amount of work on the script. Instead . . .”

  “You were actually waiting here seven days?”

  Oh God. Back we go into the Twilight Zone.

  “I did mention this at the start of our conversation,” I said.

  “Then why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “I have no idea, Philip. But I was certainly given to believe that you did know I was cooling my heels here.”

  “Sorry,” he said, suddenly all vague and distant again. “I didn’t have a clue . . .”

  What a complete, total liar. I couldn’t believe his ability to suddenly disengage and to act as if he was suffering from memory lapse or a strange interlude . . . to the point where he hardly even acknowledged my presence. It was as if he abruptly blacked you out once you said (or did) something that didn’t fit in with his plan, his worldview. As soon as that happened, he pressed a mental Erase button, and you were consigned to the bin marked “nowhere.”

  “Well,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Are we done here?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  He stood up. “We’re done. Anything else you need to tell me?”

  Yeah—you’re an asshole supreme.

  “I think the next move is yours,” I said. “My agent’s name and number are on the pad. I’m happy to proceed with the rewrite on the terms discussed between us. Since I won’t be starting work on the next season of Selling You until two months from now, this is a good moment to get the work you want done. But, once again, it’s your call.”

  “Fine, fine,” he said, looking over my shoulder at one of his functionaries, who was holding a cellphone in one hand, silently motioning that he needed to take this call. “Listen . . . thanks for coming out. I hope it was useful to you . . .”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I said, a noticeable edge of sarcasm entering my voice. “It was so useful.”

  He gave me a quizzical look. “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Hardly,” I said, sounding even more sarcastic.

  “You know what your problem is, David?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “You can’t take a joke, can you?”

  And he broke into another of his Gotcha! grins.

  “You mean, you do want to work with me?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. And if it means waiting a month, so be it.”

  “Like I said, I can get going whenever . . .”

  “Then let my people talk to your people, and once all the contractual stuff is sorted out, we’ll arrange a free weekend somewhere, during which the two of us can thrash out the entire rewrite. Does that sound good to you?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I said, not knowing what to think anymore.

  “Well, if you’re pleased, I’m pleased,” pumping my hand. “Nice to be in business with you. And I really think we’re going to come up with something truly out there. Something they won’t forget in a hurry.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He patted my shoulder. “Have a good flight back, my friend.”

  And he was gone.

  Meg—standing quietly in a corner of the room—stepped forward and said, “The chopper’s ready when you are, sir. Anything else we can do for you before you go?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” I said, but then thanked her for looking after me.

  “I hope the time here was useful to you, sir,” she said, the smallest flicker of a smile crossing her lips.

  The chopper got me to Antigua. The Gulfstream got me to San Francisco. We landed on schedule just after three p.m. As promised, a limousine was waiting and brought me to Lucy’s house in Sausalito. Caitlin came running down the path and threw herself into my arms. Her mother emerged from the house, glowering at me, glowering at the limousine.

  “Are you trying to impress us?” she asked, handing me Caitlin’s weekend bag.

  “Lucy, when have I ever been able to impress you?” I asked.

  Caitlin looked anxiously at each of us, her eyes imploring us not to start. So I ushered her into the limousine, informed Lucy that we’d be back at six on Sunday evening, and then told the driver to take us to the Mandarin.

  “Why do you have this big car?” Caitlin asked me as we crossed the bridge back into San Francisco.

  “Someone who likes my writing gave it to me for the weekend.”

  “Will you be able to keep it?”

  “No—but we can make the most of it this weekend.”

  Caitlin seriously approved of the penthouse suite at the Mandarin Oriental. So did I. It overlooked the Bay, the two bridges, the lustrous downtown skyline, the entire melodramatic sweep of the city. As we pressed our noses against the suite’s vast windows and peered out, Caitlin asked me, “Can we stay here every weekend you visit me?”

  “I’m afraid this is a one-off.”

  “The rich man again?”

  “The very one.”

  “But if he keeps liking you . . .,” she said hopefully.

  I laughed. “Life doesn’t work that way,” I said, wanting to add: Especially in the movie business.

  Caitlin didn’t want to go out for the evening; she was very content to be in this room with a view. So we ordered up room service. As we waited for it to arrive, the phone rang—and I heard a voice I hadn’t heard for over a week.

  “How’s it hanging?” Bobby Barra said.

  “Well, what a pleasant surprise,” I said. “You still in New York?”

  “Yeah—still trying to fight a rearguard action to save this fucking IPO. But it’s like trying to put a Band-Aid on a sliced jugular vein.”

  “Nice image, Bobby. And let me guess how you found out I was here.”

  “Yeah—Phil’s people told me. But I talked to the man himself. And I’ve got to tell you, guy . . . he loved you.”

  “Really?”

  “Hey, what’s with the quizzical tone?”

  “He kept me waiting a week, Bobby. A week. Then he showed up an hour before I had to leave, and first made like he never knew me, and then made like he wanted to work with me, and then played a variety of other head games. He yanked my chain, and I didn’t like it.”

  “Listen, what can I say? Between ourselves, he’s a little weird. Like there are times when I think the guy is plan nine from outer space. But he’s also twenty billion dollars’ worth of weird, and he told me he really wants to make this movie with you . . .”

  “His creative ideas are shit, you know,” I said, interrupting. “In fact, he’s actually obsessed with shit.”

  “So what? I mean, shit has its own integrity, right? Especially when it comes with a seven-figure price tag. So forget about the guy’s bad manners, enjoy the Mandarin, have a great time with your daughter, and tell that agent of yours to expect a call from Fleck’s people next week.”

  But when I got back to LA late Sunday night and told the whole story to Sally, she said that, in her opinion, there was less than no chance I’d hear from him again.

  “He toyed with you, as if you were last week’s trinket. But at least you got a suntan out of it. You meet anyone else on the island?”

  I decided it was best not to mention my evening with Mrs. Fleck, so I said no and then changed the subject back to the subject Sally wanted to get back to—her triumphant management of the Stu Barker crisis, turning her onetime adversary into her great ally and protector within the course of a week. So much so, in fact, that he was giving her carte blanche with the autumn prime-time lineup and was making it known in top Fox circles that she was the player to watch right now.

  Oh, and somewhere in
the midst of her heroic account of this latest professional conquest, she did mention that she missed me and loved me madly. I kissed her and told her the exact same things.

  “Everyone has their moment,” she said. “This is ours.”

  And, in a way, she was right. Because, to my immense surprise, Fleck’s lawyer did call Alison a week later to discuss the terms and conditions of the contract. It was all very straightforward and businesslike. There was no argument about the $2.5 million tab for my services. There was no argument about a clause allowing me to remove my name from the script.

  Alison said, “Let’s face it, a two-point-five deal would make anyone sit up and salivate . . . me especially. But if he is going to push ahead with all his excrement fantasies, we’re definitely not going to want your name attached to that sort of insanity . . . which is why I insisted on this take-the-money-and-run clause.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy to be getting into this?” I asked her.

  “From what you’ve told me, the guy is from the David Koresh school of mental stability. But as long as you know that—and as long as we’ve got you fixed up with a contractual parachute—the price is right. However, you better keep this job down to a couple of months maximum, because I’ve no doubt that you are about to be in even greater professional demand.”

  Sure enough, Alison was right. When the second season of Selling You hit the small screen a month later, it was an instant hit.

  “If the opening two episodes prove anything,” the New York Times wrote, “it’s that David Armitage isn’t simply a flash in the pan. His brilliantly structured, mordant, corrosive scripts for these first two installments of the new season show that he is one of the great comic writers of our time, with an absurd eye that still manages to grasp the inherent social complexity of the contemporary American workplace.”

  Thank you very much indeed. The reviews—coupled with great word of mouth (and a considerable number of fans from the first season)—guaranteed terrific ratings. So terrific that, after episode three, FRT greenlit a third season, and Alison negotiated a $2.5 million writing-producing package for me. Around the same time, Warner Brothers offered me a cool million-five to write a movie of my choosing. Naturally, I accepted.

  I mentioned this Warners deal to Bobby Barra during a phone call right after the season premiere of Selling You. He congratulated me—and asked if I would like to be one of the privileged few who would be allowed to invest seriously in a surefire IPO for an Asian search engine that was guaranteed to become the number one player in China and all of Southeast Asia.

  “This is like backing Yahoo with slopey eyes,” he told me.

  “How politically correct of you, Bobby.”

  “Listen—we’re talking about the biggest untapped market in the world. And it’s the chance to get in at ground level. But I’ve got to know fast . . . you interested?”

  “You’ve never steered me wrong yet.”

  “Smart guy.”

  Actually, I really did feel like something of a smart guy—because everything was going my way.

  And then there was the little matter of the Emmy Awards, which I attended with both Sally and Caitlin (who everyone thought was charming). When they reached the award for Writing for a Comedy Series, and the envelope was opened, and my name was called, I embraced my two girls and raced to the stage and accepted the award with a short speech in which I thanked “all the far more talented people than myself who brought my scribblings to remarkable televisual life,” while also acknowledging the fact that the only way you ended up winning an award like this was through pure, dumb luck.

  “And so, when I look back on the extraordinary professional experience that was Selling You, I know I’ll think that this was one of those rare, peerless moments in professional life when all the planets were in alignment, when the gods of happenstance smiled, when I learned that Providence wasn’t just a town in Rhode Island . . . or when, in plain English, I simply got lucky.”

  It was the climactic moment to an astonishing two years. That night, falling into bed with Sally, my brain tingling with far too much champagne, I found myself thinking, You once dreamed of a life like this. Now it’s yours.

  Congratulations: you have arrived.

  PART Two

  * * *

  EIGHT

  THE TROUBLE ALL started with a phone call. A very early morning phone call on the Wednesday after the Emmy Awards. Sally had already left the apartment for a breakfast confab with Stu Barker, and I was still deep in Never-Never Land when the phone suddenly sprang into life. As I jolted awake, one thought filled my clouded brain: a phone call at this hour is never good news.

  The phone call was from my producer, Brad Bruce. He sounded tense—producers always do—but from the moment he started talking, I could tell that he wasn’t simply his normal edgy self; something was definitely wrong.

  “Sorry to be calling at this time,” Brad said, “but we’ve got a problem.”

  I sat up in bed. “What sort of problem, Brad?”

  “Are you familiar with a rag called Hollywood Legit?” he asked, mentioning a free, alternative paper that had come on the scene in the last year, in competition with LA Reader—and one that prided itself on its tough investigative reporting and its distaste for all the usual Hollywood overpaid self-importance.

  “Has the season made the pages of the Legit?” I asked.

  “It’s you who’ve made the pages, David.”

  “Me? But I’m just a writer.”

  “A very high-profile writer . . . which makes you a target for all sorts of accusations.”

  “I’ve been accused of something?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “What exactly?”

  I could hear him sucking in his breath, then accompanying the exhalation with one word: “Plagiarism.”

  My heart missed three beats. “What?”

  “You’ve been accused of plagiarism, David.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I don’t plagiarize, Brad.”

  “I’m sure you don’t . . .”

  “So if I don’t plagiarize, why am I being called a plagiarist?”

  “Because this shitbag journalist named Theo McCall wrote something in his this week’s column, which is due to hit the streets tomorrow morning.”

  I knew Theo McCall’s column. It was called “The Inside Dirt”—and it certainly dished it. Week in, week out, this guy dug up all sorts of unpleasant, scandalmongering stuff about the entertainment community. It was the sort of column that I took prurient delight in reading. Because we all love gossip . . . until the moment that we ourselves become the subject matter.

  “I’m not in that column, am I?” I said.

  “The very one. Want me to read you the item? It’s rather long.”

  That didn’t sound promising. “Go on,” I said.

  “Okay, here it is: ‘Congrats are in order to Selling You writer-and-creator David Armitage. Besides scooping up an Emmy last week for Comedy Writing, he’s now basking in a sensational set of reviews for the new season, which, it must be admitted, is even better than its premiere season . . .’”

  I interrupted him.

  “‘It must be admitted’: what a begrudging, petty-assed thing to say.”

  “It gets worse, I’m afraid. ‘Without question, Armitage must be regarded as one of the great discoveries of the past few years . . . not just for his wickedly skewed comic observations, but also for the brilliant stream of one-liners mouthed by his hyper-anxious characters, week after week. But though no one questions Mr. Armitage’s droll originality, one sharp-eared informant enlightened this column last week with the intriguing news that an entire exchange of dialogue from Armitage’s Emmy Award–winning episode is a near-verbatim lift from Ben Hecht and Charles McArthur’s classic journalism comedy, The Front Page.’”

  Once again I interrupted Brad.

  “This is complete bullshit,”
I said. “I haven’t seen The Front Page in—”

  Now Brad interrupted me. “But you have seen it?”

  “Sure—both the Billy Wilder film and the Howard Hawks version with Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. I even acted in a college production of the play at Dartmouth—”

  “Oh, that’s fucking wonderful . . .”

  “We’re talking nearly twenty years ago . . .”

  “Well, you obviously remember something from it. Because the passage you allegedly lifted—”

  “Brad, I lifted nothing—”

  “Hear me out. This is what McCall writes: ‘The repartee in question can be found in the Selling You episode ‘Shtick Happens’—for which Armitage won his Emmy. In it, Joey—the fast-and-loose gofer for Armitage’s fictitious PR agency—runs smack into a police van while driving a big-deal client (a mega-egoistic soul diva) across town for a taping of The Oprah Show. He then comes staggering back into the office to inform Jerome—the company’s founder—that their diva is in the hospital, screaming police brutality. In Armitage’s script, there is the following exchange:

  JEROME

  You actually ran into a cop car?

  JOEY

  What can I say, boss? It was an accident.

  JEROME

  Were any of the cops hurt?

  JOEY

  I didn’t stick around to find out. But you know what happens when you hit a cop car. They all roll out like lemons.

  “‘Now compare and contrast this clever banter with the following dialogue from The Front Page, in which Louis—the henchman of wheeling-dealing editor Walter Burns—races into the newsroom to tell his boss that, in the course of whisking the future mother-in-law of ace reporter Hildy Johnson across town, he’s collided with a van filled with Chicago’s finest:

  WALTER

  You actually ran into a police van?

  LOUIE

  What can I say, boss? It was an accident.

  WALTER

  Were any of the cops hurt?

  LOUIE

  I didn’t stick around to find out. But you know what happens when you hit a cop van. They all roll out like lemons.’”