Authors: Douglas Kennedy
‘Fine by me – but I can’t do anything for the next two weeks.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I’m working out my notice at the bookshop.’
‘David, stop talking like a goof.’
‘Hey, I promised the guy . . . ’
Suddenly the door opened and Philip Fleck walked in.
‘Got to go, Alison,’ I said. ‘Catch you later.’ And I hung up.
Fleck sat down in the chair next to mine. A make-up woman approached him, jar of cold cream at the ready, but Fleck stopped her by saying, ‘Could you give us a moment, please?’
She left the room, closing the door behind her. We were alone now. Fleck said nothing for several moments. Then:
‘You know, I’m never making any of those scripts of yours.
Never.
’
‘That’s your prerogative.’
‘I’m even pulling the plug on
We Three Grunts
.’
‘That’s your prerogative too . . . though you might end up pissing off Mr Fonda, Mr Hopper, and Mr Nicholson.’
‘As long as they get their money, they won’t give a damn. It’s the movie business, after all. No one cares about anything as long as the contract is honored, and the check ends up in the bank. So, fear not, you will get your $12 million. It is a
pay-or-play
deal, after all. And $12 million . . . to me it’s pocket money.’
‘I don’t care if you pay me or not.’
‘Yes, you do. You care very much. Because, thanks to this $12 million deal, you’re back to Hollywood Golden Boy status. So you have much to thank me for. Just as, in the
process, you’ve done wonders for my public image. Made me seem like a great humanitarian . . . not to mention a writer’s best friend. In other words, this has been a mutually beneficial experience.’
‘You really need to control everything, don’t you?’
‘I don’t follow your line of thought here . . . ’
‘Yes, you do. Because it was you who set out to shatter everything in my life, to demolish . . . ’
He cut me off.
‘I
what
?’ he said.
‘You decided to stage manage my downfall . . . ’
‘Really?’ he said, sounding amused. ‘You actually think that?’
‘I know it.’
‘How very flattering. But let me ask you this, David. Did I tell you to leave your wife and child? Did I force you to come to my island? Did I put a gun to your head to sell me your script . . . even though you hated every idea I had about it? And when that odious McCall fellow pointed out that you had inadvertently lifted a few lines from some old play, did I tell you to go on the offensive against him?’
‘That’s not the point here. You put the whole plot against me in motion . . . ’
‘No, David . . . you did that yourself. You ran off with Ms Birmingham. You accepted my hospitality. You were willing to pocket the $2.5 million I offered you for the movie. You came out swinging against that ghastly journalist. And you also fell in love with my wife. I didn’t have a hand in any of that, David. You made all those decisions yourself. I played no games with you, David. You simply became a victim of your own choices. Life’s like that, you
know. We make choices, and our circumstances alter because of those choices. It’s called
cause-and-effect
. And when bad things happen in the wake of the bad decisions we make, we like to blame outside forces, and the malevolent hand of others. Whereas, ultimately, we have no one but ourselves to blame.’
‘I admire your amorality, Mr Fleck. It is truly breathtaking.’
‘Just as I admire your refusal to acknowledge the truth of the situation.’
‘Which is
what
?’
‘You set yourself up. You walked right into . . . ’
‘The trap you laid?’
‘No, David . . . the trap you laid for yourself. Which, of course, makes you most human. Because we’re always laying traps for ourselves. I think it’s called
doubt
. And the thing we most doubt in life is the person we are.’
‘What do you know about doubt?’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised. Money doesn’t end doubt. In fact, it often heightens it.’
He stood up. ‘And now, I must . . . ’
I interrupted him.
‘I love your wife.’
‘Congratulations. I love her too.’
Then he turned and walked towards the door. As he opened it, he turned back to me and said, ‘See you at the movies, David.’
And he was gone.
On my way to JFK that afternoon, I left two messages on Martha’s cellphone, asking her to call me. When I reached Los Angeles seven hours later, there were a dozen or so
messages from assorted one-time colleagues and friends, congratulating me on my television appearance. But the one message I craved –
her
message – wasn’t there.
I picked up my car and drove up the coast. The next morning, I opened the
LA Times
and discovered an extended piece in their Arts section, entitled:
Theo McCall and the Art of Vendetta Journalism
. The story was very well researched, very well sourced . . . and essentially amounted to a complete exposé of McCall’s Stalinist methods; his love affair with character assassination; his need to destroy careers. There were also some interesting personal details: like the fact that he went around telling everyone that he was a graduate of Trinity College Dublin, whereas he barely finished high school. Or the way he walked out on two different women after getting both of them pregnant – and then refusing to pay a penny of child support. All the stuff about him being fired from his one proper writing job at NBC got dredged up again – as did a little known fact: a year or so before
Selling You
hit the screens, he actually pitched an idea (which went nowhere) about a sit-com set in an advertising agency. The conclusion: no wonder he had a thing against David Armitage and his wildly successful show.
Within a day of this story appearing, Theo McCall went to ground.
Hollywood Legit
announced that his column would no longer appear – and though many a fellow journalist tried to unearth him (in an attempt to get his response to the
LA Times
story), he was nowhere to be found.
‘Rumor has it that the guy has vanished back to England,’ Alison told me on the phone. ‘Or, at least, that’s what my PI tells me. You know what else he told me? According to
McCall’s bank statements, he got paid a cool million last week from Lubitsch Holdings. And you can guess exactly what kind of deal Fleck cut with him: you take the fall, you get your reputation trashed, you leave town in a hurry and don’t show up again, you collect one million dollars.’
‘How does your guy find all this stuff out?’
‘I don’t ask. And he’s not my guy any more. As of today, he’s off the case. Because the case is closed. Oh, and by the way, the contracts for all four scripts arrived today from Fleck Films. $12 mil. Pay-or-play . . . ’
‘Even though he’ll never make any of them.’
‘With the exception of
We Three Grunts
.’
‘But he told me he was killing it.’
‘Yeah, but he said that right after you trumped him on
Today
. I think his wife has convinced him otherwise.’
‘By which you mean . . . ?’
‘There’s a story on page three of this morning’s
Daily Variety
, announcing that
We Three Grunts
will start shooting in six weeks’ time, and that Fleck’s wife Martha is now the movie’s producer. So obviously, you’ve got a real fan in Martha Fleck.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘Hey, who cares if the dame likes you or not? They’re making the movie. It’s good news.’
And the good news kept rolling in. A week later, I got a call from Brad Bruce.
‘I hope you’re still willing to talk with me?’ he asked.
‘I don’t blame you for anything, Brad.’
‘That’s more generous than I’d be under the circumstances. But thank you. How’s it going, David?’
‘Compared to the last six months, somewhat better.’
‘And you’re still up the coast in that little place Alison said you were living?’
‘Yep. Working out my notice in the local bookshop.’
‘You’ve been working in a bookshop?’
‘Hey, I had to eat.’
‘I hear you. But now that you’ve scored that $12 million deal with Phil Fleck . . . ’
‘I’m still working in the bookshop for the next five days.’
‘Fine, fine. Very admirable, in fact . . . but you
are
planning to come back to LA, aren’t you?’
‘It’s where the money is, right?’
He laughed.
‘How’s the new series shaping up?’ I asked.
‘Well . . . that’s what I’m calling you about. After you left, we put Dick LaTouche in charge as overall script editor. And we’ve got six of next season’s episodes in. But I have to tell you: the powers-that-be are less-than-pleased. They lack all the sharpness, the edge, the manic wit that you brought to the series.’
I said nothing.
‘And so, we were wondering . . . ’
A week later, I signed a deal with FRT to return to
Selling You
. I would write four of the last eight episodes. I was back in charge of overall script supervision (and agreed that my first order of business was to sharpen up the first six scripts for the new season). And the debt I allegedly owed for the disputed episode in the previous season was instantly cancelled. I was given back my ‘Created By . . . ’ bonus, not to mention my office, my parking space, my medical insurance, and – most of all – my street cred. Because as soon as the new FRT deal – worth just over $2 million – was
announced in the trades, everyone really wanted to be my friend again. Warners rang Alison to say that they planned to get
Breaking and Entering
back on the development track (and –
naturally
– that silly business about the first half of the first draft fee . . . please tell Mr Armitage to keep the change). Old business acquaintances phoned me up. A couple of industry pals asked me out to lunch. And no, I didn’t think to myself:
where were they when I needed them
? Because that’s not how it works out here. You’re in, you’re out. You’re up, you’re down. You’re hot, you’re not. In this sense, Hollywood was a purely Darwinian construct. Unlike other towns – which veiled the same merciless streak under elaborate layers of politesse and intellectual affectation – this place operated on a simple premise:
I’m interested as long as you can do something for me
. To a lot of people, that was LA superficiality writ large. But I admired the ruthless practicality of this world-view. You understood exactly what you were dealing with. You knew the rules of the game.
The same week I signed the FRT contract, I moved back into town. Though I could have easily started house hunting, a new elemental caution kicked in. No snap decisions. No grabbing the first glossy thing on offer. No more belief in the red-hot incandescence of success. So – instead of the big minimalist loft or some hyper-nouveau-riche Brentwood pile – I rented a pleasant, modern town house in a pleasant, modern development in Santa Monica. $3000 a month. Two bedrooms. Nice and airy. Well within my means. Sensible.
And when it came time to choose that essential LA symbol – a car – I decided to keep my battered VW Golf. The first day I showed up back at FRT for work, I arrived just behind
Brad Bruce in his Mercedes SR convertible. He eyed my jalopy with amusement.
‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘It’s a retro college thing . . . and you’ve got a glove compartment full of Crosby, Stills and Nash tapes.’
‘Hey, it got me from A to B up in Meredith. So I figure it can get me from A to B around here for a while.’
Brad Bruce smiled knowingly, as if to say: ‘Okay, do the sackcloth and ashes routine for a while . . . but you’ll upgrade soon enough. Because that’s what will be expected of you.’
I knew he was right. I would get rid of the jalopy eventually. But only when it didn’t start one morning.
‘Ready for the big welcome back?’ Brad asked me.
‘Yeah, right,’ I said. But when I entered the
Selling You
production office, the entire staff stood up and applauded me. I gulped and felt my eyes sting. But when this little ovation died down, I did what was anticipated of me. I made a quip:
‘I should get fired more often. Thank you for that extraordinarily nice greeting. None of you belong in this business, you know. You’re all too damn decent.’
Then I retreated to my old office. My desk was still there. So too my Herman Miller chair. I pulled it out. I sat down. I adjusted the height. I leaned back. I thought: this is a place I never expected to see again.
After a moment, my old assistant Jennifer knocked on the door.
‘Well, hello there,’ I said pleasantly.
‘May I come in?’ she said, all anxiety.
‘You work here. Of course, you can come in.’
‘David . . . Mr Armitage . . . ?’
‘Stick with David. And I’m glad to see they didn’t fire you, after all.’
‘I got a last minute reprieve when one of the other assistants decided to leave. But David, will you ever forgive me for the way I . . . ?’
‘That was then. This is now. And I’d love a double espresso, please.’
‘No problem,’ she said, the relief showing. ‘And I’ll also be back with your call sheet in a moment.’
Same as it ever was. Prominent on that call sheet were two names: Sally Birmingham and Bobby Barra. Sally had called once late last week. Bobby, on the other hand, had phoned twice every day for the past four days. According to Jennifer, he’d all but pleaded for my home number. And he kept giving her the same message: ‘Tell him I’ve got good news.’
And when she told me that, I knew that Fleck’s hand was behind whatever good news Bobby was going to give me.
But I still refused to take his calls for a week – just to let it be known that I wasn’t going to be won over that easily.
Finally I capitulated. ‘All right,’ I said to Jennifer when she told me that Bobby was on line one for the third time that day. ‘Put him through.’
As soon as I said hello, Bobby was off-and-running.
‘You really know how to make a guy suffer,’ he said.
‘That’s rich, coming from you.’
‘Hey, you were the putz who went ballistic . . . ’