The Player (18 page)

“We'll talk about this later,” he said, watching Griffin, and he hung up. “Griffin, what was I in my last life that I deserve to manage songwriters? What was I? Was I that much of a monster? All the talent in the world and no taste.”

“Talking about youself again, are you?” said Tom Oakley.

“The English are the meanest people in the world,” said Civella. “Just on a simple human conversational level, they're the meanest.”

Griffin didn't want the banter to continue. “Have you worked out the story?”

Civella pressed back into his chair. “When we tell you the story, are you prepared to commit within eighteen hours?”

Griffin understood that he was being challenged to make the deal before they took the story someplace else. “Why not twenty-four?”

“Because that would give you until five o'clock tomorrow, and I don't want to lose a full day. I have meetings scheduled at two other studios. We think it's good, we think we can set it up, if not here, you know we can get a deal with someone else, and you did tell us
not to pitch it anywhere else. In consideration of which, we want the answer within eighteen hours.”

“What if it took me three days to say yes?”

“Then you'd lose it.”

“And if you were turned down everywhere else? And I still wanted it? Then I could tell Business Affairs to see how hungry you were.”

“You just saw me yelling at someone who made five million dollars last year, and I get twenty percent, and he's not my biggest client.”

“But you've never produced a movie. So it doesn't really matter how much money you've made. You want this and you're hungry.”

“I've produced three movies.”

“You put the sound tracks together for three movies and you got to call yourself an Executive Producer. I won't hold that against you. I told you I liked this idea when I heard it in the Polo Lounge, and I haven't heard anything yet to change my mind. And yes, I'll let you know by eleven tomorrow.”

Griffin knew he was going to say yes. He wanted to pass this project off to Larry Levy. Civella and Oakley, who was silent, and probably depressed, mad at his producer for putting at risk a deal he needed, not just for the movie but for the money, would never be able to pull off
Habeas Corpus,
but it sounded good. Someone would bite. Death row, a beautiful woman on the stand for her life, a D.A. with a mission, the capital punishment debate against the background of a steamy murder, the project sounded like it was sure to attract movie stars. It may have been their idea, but Civella and Oakley were the wrong people for this story, which needed someone who had proven his skill with difficult material. If Levy could be persuaded that
Habeas Corpus
was the next movie in the line of
Body Heat, Jagged Edge,
and
Fatal Attraction,
he would want it for himself, but Levy could
never stand up to Civella, and Civella would hate Levy. Civella would tell Levy how the story should go, and Civella would never be able to wring the best story out of Oakley, who looked too tired for the job.

“I want to introduce you to someone,” said Griffin. “Larry Levy, he's new here, do you know him?”

“I've met him a couple of times,” said Civella. Oakley knew the name.

Griffin asked Jan to get Larry for him. She came back in ten seconds. “He's not here. He just left for a doctor's appointment.” Griffin wondered if that would be his analyst.

“So he's in his car. Perfect. Do you have the number?”

“I'll connect,” she said.

Griffin turned on the speakerphone. Jan came on. “I got him.”

Levy said, “Hello?”

“Hello, Larry,” said Griffin. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“About ten. I've got a meeting at CAA, I'm on my way there.”

So it is his shrink. Griffin was glad that Levy was lying. Oakley and Civella hadn't heard he was supposed to be going to a doctor. “Larry, I'd like you to hear an idea. I've got Andy Civella and Tom Oakley with me. It's a good idea.”

“Welcome to the modern world,” said Levy. “And of course you've got me on the speakerphone, too?”

“Yes, Larry, you are.”

“Hello, Larry this is Andy Civella.”

“And this is Tom Oakley.”

“What's new?”

Oakley knew how to pitch. If he'd been selling a cathedral, he wouldn't have talked about size or height, he would have quickly run through the dimensions and then, as though assuming that the cardinal to whom he was speaking knew that dimension was the
ace card that all the other, the ordinary architects would play, he would dispense with measurement, take a deep breath, and say, “But it's really about the doors.” Then he'd talk about light, and what you see when you first enter, throw in a few descriptions of the rose windows, maybe describe the nave, and where he'd put the baptismal fonts, and then sit down. Oakley, whose depression lifted as he talked, did not mind that he was telling his story to a speakerphone on a desk. He understood that this was business, and in business you save your energy for the deal, for closing the deal. Griffin wondered if this small sign of dignity meant that Oakley would get along with Levy and turn in a script that Levison would make. In that case Griffin would have been handing a gun to Levy with permission to shoot him. Oakley told a good story about a man who believed in justice but who now feels that there's a flaw in the notion of justice, unless even the rich get the chair. He told a good story about a bad marriage, and when he came to the husband's missing corpse, Levy interrupted him and said he felt a chill. He shouldn't have said anything, thought Griffin. It would be harder to negotiate with Civella if he knew the studio really wanted the project. Oakley skipped to the end of the story and cut between the woman in the gas chamber and the man forcing his way into the prison to save her life.

Civella smiled proudly at Griffin while Oakley plunged ahead. Of course, the story still hadn't been worked out, and the architect was still pointing to the windows instead of the supports that would hold up the walls that would contain the windows. The cardinal was hooked, though. Only later would he find out that the flying buttress needed to be invented, and if the windows were finally blessed, that service would be performed by another cardinal, in another lifetime. Oakley's story still lacked a flying buttress. But the windows were pretty.

“Griffin, take me off the speakerphone.” Civella patted Oakley's hand. Griffin wanted that touch for himself. He picked up the receiver.

“What time are you coming back?” he asked Levy.

“About six o'clock. How late are you staying?”

“I'll be around.”

“Has anyone else heard this?”

“No.”

“It's good. You know it's good.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“We should make a deal now. Tomorrow will be too late. It's guaranteed they've got other meetings on this.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I'll see you when I come back.”

“If I need to call you, who are you seeing?”

“What?”

“At CAA?”

“You won't need to call me.”

Griffin hung up the phone. Levy thought he was playing hardball by refusing to answer. Pathetic.

“Well,” said Civella, “he said yes.”

“Don't open the champagne until you hear from me.”

“By tomorrow morning?”

“That's what I promised.”

“I don't understand,” said Oakley. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes,” said the manager. The three of them walked slowly to the door.

“Not yet,” said Griffin. “But it looks good.”

Griffin watched as Civella and Oakley passed Jan's desk without looking at her. They went into the hall and stopped at the photograph
of Glenn Ford in a Western. Oakley tapped it with his knuckles—for luck, Griffin supposed. Civella wrapped an arm around Oakley's shoulders and gave him a wonderful, friendly hug. Griffin heard Civella say, “You did good. That was a very difficult situation. You did just great.” Then they were gone.

“You said yes, huh?” asked Jan.

“Probably.”

“Good idea?”

“I think so. It is a good idea. It is.”

“Buyer's remorse?”

“Maybe a little.” He was telling her the truth. He felt the way he did whenever he bought something to wear. Was this the right choice? He wasn't even thinking about Larry Levy, or the Writer, or the Pasadena Police. There was comfort in this. He was having a natural reaction. Anyone in his position would feel some trepidation over committing to a new project, even people who hadn't killed. He went back into his office.

Bonnie Sherow called from New York. “Griffin, I'm sorry. I know we're supposed to go to the Motion Picture Home thing tonight, but I couldn't get out of here. I thought I was going to get a ride on the company jet, but there wasn't room.”

“Did you get the book?”

“We'll know tomorrow.”

“That's all that matters.”

“But this dinner. You know, I wanted to see you.”

“Business before pleasure.” He wasn't sure why he said that.

“I know, I know.” She believed it. She tried to live it.

“Where are you staying?”

“Essex House. Why?”

“Don't ask.”

“See you in a few days.”

“Absolutely.”

She hung up. First he called a florist, who promised immediate delivery of a seventy-dollar arrangement to Bonnie's room in New York. It was after seven there, and he had to pay a thirty-dollar premium. A hundred dollars. He charged it to the studio.

Then he called June Mercator, to invite her to the ball.

“When is it?” she asked.

“Tonight. Eight o'clock.”

“But that's in three hours.”

“I know, I know.”

“Your first choice canceled.”

“She's in New York.”

“Will you tell her you took me?”

“She'll find out.”

“This is one of these things where the company buys a table and we'll sit with all the people you work with?”

“Something like that.”

“How will you introduce me?”

“I'll say, ‘This is June Mercator.'”

“You'll pick me up?”

She gave him her address. She lived in the Hollywood Hills, on Outpost. The address was familiar, the same block as Levison's old house, before Levison moved to Brentwood. There were beautiful houses up there, with backyards and views of the city. They cost half a million dollars, at least. Again he wondered how Kahane afforded his life. Kahane was lucky to have had this woman, to have known her. It would be easy to say she was cool, but she was better than that. She was calm. Was she still in mourning? Had she really mourned Kahane? Had Griffin relieved her of the hard job of breaking up? Had she hated Kahane, and did she now love Griffin for all the things
lacking in her old lover? The house must be hers, Griffin thought. If it was Kahane's, wouldn't she be worrying about where to live next? They weren't married, after all, so the house would go to his family, unless he'd left a will. Would he have left a will? I should make a will, thought Griffin. I own my own house and I don't have a will. Maybe they owned it together. Maybe it belongs to her.

Larry Levy came back from his doctor's appointment. He called Griffin into his office.

“Can Oakley do it?” he asked.

“I think so,” said Griffin.

“Have you ever worked with him?”

“No.”

“I checked him out. He's supposed to be okay.”

“Good. I'll tell Levison.”

“We'll tell him together.”

Levison was on the phone when Celia let them pass into his office. It sounded like he was talking to his wife. When he finished, he looked to Levy for the meeting's reason.

“Griffin had me listen to a pitch from Tom Oakley and Andy Civella.” Good, thought Griffin. He's already assuming responsibility for this one.

“Not Tom Oakley,” said Levison. “He had some real promise for a while, but he's turning into a hack.”

“I figured you might say that, but I think the idea is pretty good, and that's why I asked Larry to hear it.”

“It's good,” said Levy. “It's real good.”

“Tell me,” said Levison.

“Dustin Hoffman sends Kathleen Turner to the gas chamber, but when he finds out she's innocent, he has to break into the prison to save her life.” Levy was sharper than Oakley, thought Griffin; he had the pitch down to twenty-five words.

Levison was quiet for almost a minute. “Do they fuck?”

“We'll get there,” said Levy.

“And Tom Oakley wants to write this? What's it called?”

“Habeas Corpus,”
said Griffin.

“Will he be expensive?”

“He thinks he will,” said Levy, “but we'll make him humble.”

“A hundred for the first draft, including two sets of revisions.”

“Against what?” asked Griffin.

“Against whatever. Two-fifty, three-fifty. And, Larry, I think you should work with them on it. Is that okay with you, Griffin? Will they mind?”

“I don't know. They might.”

“Make the deal first.”

“Fine,” said Griffin. “Just let me tell them the good news.”

On their way back down the hall, Levy told Griffin he felt awkward getting a project that started with him.

“No,” said Griffin, “don't worry about it. If the movie works, we'll all look good.”

It was six-thirty. He called the Beverly Hills Hotel. Civella was out. He started to leave the one-word message, “Yes,” but stopped. This was not the time to be cute. “Just tell him to check in with Griffin Mill.” He might send champagne to be gracious. Oakley would be happy, and probably a little scared of the responsibility. Civella would be triumphant. Griffin wished he could join their celebration.