The Player (22 page)

A producer came in with two writers, brothers. They'd written a few dozen television episodes and then a screenplay, which Levison had read; as a favor he'd read the script and not the coverage. The story they pitched to Griffin was not fully worked out, and the producer kept jumping in to assure Griffin that filling in the holes was merely technical.

They all knew that Griffin was passing on it. The writers were happy, though; they had a lot of money from their television work and they were learning how to make the transition to movies. The producer looked unhappy. Griffin wondered how the writers' agent had connected them with this producer, who needed them more than they needed him; his last movie had been awful, had destroyed the career of the star, an actress who proved herself so inept in light comedy, so ungainly, that no one would consider her for the romantic parts for which she had earned her stripes. As they left the room, the producer looked to Griffin. “Well, what do you think?”

“I'll get back to you,” he said.

The phone rang. It was Bonnie Sherow. “How are you?” she asked.

“When did you get back?”

“This morning. What are you doing this weekend?”

“The weekend isn't good.”

“I wanted to go away with you.” She didn't even question what he was doing, it was unreasonable to expect him to be free on short notice.

He had to clear himself completely. He pretended to be looking at his calendar. “How about dinner on Saturday? No, shit, I've got this distributor from Australia coming in, I'm supposed to talk about a deal with him. Maybe the weekend after.”

“No, my mother's coming into town.”

“The weekend after that, then.”

“Let's try it.”

“How did it go with the book?”

“We got it.”

“Congratulations.” He was jealous. He had expected her to lose the book. Why hadn't he told her that he was going to Mexico with another woman? Why couldn't he just stop it with Bonnie? He was so used to lying that he had lied without thinking. For once the truth would help, it could release him from this dead love affair. He could tell her, but then she'd ask too many questions about June. Someone would probably tell her that Griffin had been with June at the ball the night before. He couldn't say anything vague to Bonnie, she wouldn't let him say that June had been introduced by a friend, she'd want to know which friend and how did the friend know June.

Levy called to say that the deal was closed with Oakley and Civella. Oakley was getting eighty thousand for a first draft and a set of revisions, against three hundred and seventy-five thousand if he
directed the picture, and two hundred thousand if he didn't. Oakley's agent had demanded that he be pay or play, that the studio pay him the full two hundred whether or not the studio made the movie, but he caved in when told that this was a deal breaker. If Oakley believed so much in the script, he could write it at home and put it up for auction when he finished. Civella would get twenty thousand to supervise the writing, and both would be given offices.

Susan Avery returned the call as Griffin was on his way to lunch. As he took the phone, he considered that he could still go to Mexico with June without the police knowing about it.

“Hello, Miss Avery. Have you found him yet?”

“I can't really discuss an ongoing investigation, Mr. Mill.”

“Well, if I can be of any help …”

“How long have you known June Mercator?”

“About a month.”

“Since you went to Pasadena.”

“Since David Kahane died, yes.”

“You didn't know her before that date?”

“We met over the phone, actually. We started talking and felt very comfortable together. We talked about that feeling, and then one conversation led to another. She thought that I might have special information, that you might tell me more than you'd tell her, because of my position.”

“You've been out with her.”

“Yes, we've been out.”

“You don't think it's a little too soon for her to go out in public?”

“This isn't Iran, Miss Avery. I don't think women are bound by a special set of rules. She hasn't recovered from the loss of the man she loved. I'm there for her as a friend, that's all. Actually, well, there is a special feeling between us. I think both of us feel that we're
on to something real.” He hoped this made him sound too dumb to have planned a crime of passion. “Of course, you can call her. I'm sure she'll be happy to pick over the horror of what happened to her. I'm sure that's what she needs.” Now his outrage felt appropriate. This is what an innocent man would do.

What would happen if he hung up on her, if he slammed the phone down? No one did that to the police. Would such an over-reaction, such indignation, prove his guilt? The risk was too great, the calculations had already taken too long, Avery's three seconds of silence meant that her conscience had checked her ambition and found it a little keen. She didn't want to make a widow cry. The pause meant she wouldn't call June.

“You have to understand,” said Avery, “that a murder investigation is sometimes, and necessarily, unpleasant. The bad guys don't do us favors.”

“Look, I'm sorry if I sound impatient, but all I did was see a man a little while before he was mugged and murdered, and I've helped you as much as I could, and I'll help you as much as I can, but I don't feel that I'm getting any thanks, and I guess I should know, considering the business I'm in, that someone as overworked as you doesn't have time to hold everyone's hand any more than I do.” Griffin wasn't sure what he had said or why, but he thought he was letting them both off the hook.

“And we appreciate that help, Griffin.”

As soon as she said good-bye, he wanted to erase the entire conversation. He'd made a terrible mistake. By telling him that she knew he had been out with June, she was letting him know they'd been tailed. He hadn't said anything to her about the cop who had tagged after him through the hotel, which would suggest to Avery that he wasn't surprised at being followed, which would mean only
one thing, that he was expecting the tail. And why would he expect to be followed if he wasn't guilty? But what could he have said? Avery hadn't mentioned it. He might have said, “By the way, Susan, something strange happened last night, and maybe it's related.” No. She didn't know for sure that he knew he had been followed by the Pasadena Police. So he had done the right thing by not bringing it up. Should he have asked her how she had known that he had been out with June? It was impossible to know.

And still he wanted to take June Mercator to Mexico? Griffin thought, for the first time, that perhaps he was insane. He opened a drawer and looked at the small pile of postcards from the Writer. The Writer was probably a loner, didn't have many friends, and those he did surely thought of him as crazy. No one who sends anonymous postcards with death threats, who shoots to kill in alleys, who leaves obscure messages on ballroom tables can walk through life without a trail of shattered friendships. Rage, long ruminations, little insults, or teases mulled over during hours of fruitless labor at the typewriter or at the computer, staring at the cursor as it demands the next letter, the next word; of course the Writer chewed through affection.

He drove to Beverly Hills and lunched with Dick Mellen at The Grill. He wanted to ask him if he knew a good criminal lawyer, thought of asking him as though he were researching something for a movie but held back. He told him he was going to Mexico for a few days.

“That's a good idea, you look like you could use the rest.”

“Really?” Griffin wanted to know if the strain showed. “Well, work's been frantic the last few weeks.” This was a standard lament, meaning nothing. Everyone in the restaurant was under pressure, the work wasn't easy for anyone, they were all veterans of the long day, and yet here they were, smiling, sitting up nicely in their
booths and at their tables, shoulders relaxed, eyes keeping contact, except to scan the room for friends or celebrities, or better still, celebrities who were friends. The eager friendliness shined from every corner of the room. Why? Because no one was paying for their meals, everyone was on an expense allowance? Or because everyone made so much money? There were a few writers and directors sitting with studio executives, Griffin's rank or one notch below at other companies, and even these were caught in the mood of the room. Everyone wore cotton, or cotton and silk, or linen. Everyone was clean. It would be different in prison. Would Griffin make a joke of calling the dining hall the commissary? Would his cell mates think he was funny if he pretended that he was still on the outside? He hoped there would be a place in prison where the men with power met, only the brightest and coolest, some corner of the yard where the air was thin and the posture was sharp. Will they respect my crime? he wondered.

He shook some hands on his way out of the restaurant and drove back to the studio slowly, taking Laurel Canyon instead of the freeway; he was lingering. If the police arrested him, he might be denied bail, now that he held tickets for Mexico. He might never see Laurel Canyon again. He stopped on Mulholland Drive and looked at the Valley. He felt a gush of stupid sentimentality for a section of the world he usually despised. It wasn't their fault, everyone who lived on this plain; they had to live somewhere. And they chose a place that everyone made fun of, so perhaps they were pioneers, deserving respect. If these minor people read about Griffin's trial in the paper, or saw it on television, they would condemn him.

Last night's bad dream came back to him, and he wished he hadn't killed David Kahane. If he went to prison, he knew he would think about the murder every day until they gassed him. He started the car and drove back to the studio, staying away from the boulevards; he
didn't want to look at people shopping, he wanted to pass through residential neighborhoods. He wanted to look at houses. He saw mothers and babies, people watering their lawns. At a stoplight he saw the driver of the car beside him staring at him. Why not? Griffin was crying.

Levison formally introduced Larry Levy to the production team. Everyone grinned, and Levy was the most satisfied in the group. Griffin watched the faces of the others, but no one betrayed their suspicion of the new boy, or fear for their jobs. Perhaps their lawyers were already searching around town for new jobs, but if their lawyers were smart—and Griffin knew most of their lawyers—they had cautioned their clients not to bolt, or even to appear to bolt. So what were they telling themselves, that Levy had little power yet, that he had not been hired with a mandate to clean house? The company had been through a bloodletting four years ago; Levison and then Levison and Mill had made money for the company. Did they really believe that Levy was there to help out, not to take over? Of course he was there to take over, and yes, their jobs were all in danger. There would be no verdict on him for another three months, when the scripts he had developed began coming in, but before then there would be meetings to talk about what to start up, there would be long arguments about directors, there would be story conferences where someone could always frighten the others with brilliance, make them scared to speak out, if he was properly caustic, confident, and right. Did Griffin have the energy anymore to beat back that kind of personality?

Everyone spoke about their projects. Now the fear showed itself. Even Levison was left to one side while the vice presidents and the story editors told Levy the status of their scripts. Levy had nothing to say about the two films that were in production. There were fifty-five different scripts being written for the studio as of the meeting, with two deals closed in the last week, including Tom Oakley's. Levison had recently assigned Alison Kelly, the story editor, the job of reading all the coverage written for each executive each week, and she described her job and her criteria. Levy asked a few simple questions during the presentations; obviously he'd thought about this meeting and had decided not to grandstand. Of course, Levy was scared, too, and didn't want to commit himself to a strong opinion about anything at this first meeting. He asked to read a few scripts, but with each request he added, “If you don't mind” or, “I'm curious to see what they're doing with the material.” It became obvious to Griffin, if not to the others, that Levy would not personally attack anyone. He would go to Levison over the next two months and tell him that Alison was useless, or that someone's eight scripts were all dreadful, or that someone else didn't have the line to such and such a director and that the studio was heading toward a repeat of the previous year, only two hits, one a sequel, and one with Spielberg; nothing developed in-house had done well.

The meeting, which began at two-thirty, ended at seven. Griffin checked his office. Jan was gone, she'd left his message list, she'd told everyone he would be away for a few days and that he'd call after the weekend. The tickets and the hotel reservation slip were in her desk. He looked around the office, thinking that if they arrested him at the airport, he might not see this place again.

In the parking lot he said good night to Alison Kelly. She was going back to Beverly Hills for a screening at the Academy Theater.
Griffin said he'd be there, but going over the canyon, he changed his mind and went home.

He called Jacopo's for a pizza and then called them back and canceled the order. He opened a can of smoked oysters and a box of Triscuits and ate the oysters one at a time on a Triscuit, making a sandwich of two oysters between two Triscuits when the can was almost finished. He drank a large Perrier from the bottle. His brain had stopped, he realized. There was no grand plan working away, his fear had either subsided or had frozen him, he couldn't say. If this was depression, he'd never felt it before. He thought that if someone put a pin in his hand, he wouldn't know about it for a day. He couldn't imagine bleeding.