“it’s just not fair . . . and even worse, it’s . . . it’s insulting”—he glanced at the large portrait—“. . . especially to Dad. After all he’s done for her, the cunt. I swear to God, Eddie, if we weren’t eight weeks into the picture, and her in every goddamn shot, I’d fire her ass! Right off the picture! I don’t care how much she’s worth at the box office! Right off the picture! I swear to God!”
He paused, touching at his eyes with a Kleenex, shaking his head slowly, like an old man in unspeakable grief, listening to Eddie.
“Yes, Eddie, I know, I know,” he said quietly. “She’s got us by the nuts, the cunt.”
8
11777 S UNSET B OULEVARD , a gigantic stucco edifice of lavender and antique gold, surrounded by a spiked twelve-foot wall and an actual moat, was the home of Angela Sterling—beloved sex-goddess of silver screen and living color—whose last three times out had each grossed more than previous all-time champ at the box, big GWTW.
So incredible was her public appeal that it was literally not possible to open a magazine or newspaper without being confronted by yet another elaborately footnoted chapter of her rather imaginary life—imaginary in the sense that it was almost totally fabricated by the studio publicity department. And a grand job they did, too; her “page-count-index,” by which such matters are judged, was twice as high as that of Jackie Kennedy during the latter’s climax, exposure-wise.
Approaching the house was like approaching a major studio: Impasseville at the gate. Unless you were expected, the big iron doors of the wall simply remained shut come what might. If and when they did open, it was necessary to pass a gatehouse occupied by two uniformed and armed attendants, who, after ascertaining the guest’s identity, would cause the drawbridge over the moat to lower. It was generally believed that the natural security afforded by the moat was augmented by the fact that its dark waters were seething with flesh-eating piranha fish—but this was just more “studio bullshit,” as it was sometimes called by the two men with the guns, resenting as they did the implication that they alone were not enough to protect their movie-land princess, “without a bunch of goddamn fish stinking up the joint!”
It was through these portals, and past this boss-freak vigilance, that Boris and Sid had made their way, two hours earlier. And at almost precisely the moment when the perfect Miss Sterling should have been launching a battleship, she was delightedly signing a letter of agreement to play “one of the romantic leads,” as Sid had described it, “in a film, as yet untitled and unscripted, to be directed by Boris Adrian, and to be shot in and around Vaduz, Liechtenstein, principal photography to commence within three weeks of this agreement, dated May 2, 1970.
Boris had also signed, and then Sid had been quick to add, with a flourish, his own signature following “witnessed by . . .”
“Gosh,” said the girl, all smiling radiance, clasping her hands and raising them to her throat as though to trap the ecstasy before it could flutter out and away, bluebird of happiness style, “I just never thought it could happen! I still can’t believe it!”
Sid was beaming fanatically as he folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Oh, it’s happened all right,” he said, nodding, “yessiree bob!”
“Well,” she said breathlessly, “let’s have some champagne or something!” And she rang for the maid.
If it was curious that Angela’s pleasure about these unexpected developments was equal even to gross Sid’s, it was also understandable. Despite her monstro wealth, her incredible boss beauty, her outlandish power—or, by way of summary, her fantastic “success”—she was truly a girl bereft. Two years previous she had undergone a fast and furious affair with a New York writer who had turned her on to certain phenomena variés, existence of which she
He paused, touching at his eyes with a Kleenex, shaking his head slowly, like an old man in unspeakable grief, listening to Eddie.
“Yes, Eddie, I know, I know,” he said quietly. “She’s got us by the nuts, the cunt.”
8
11777 S UNSET B OULEVARD , a gigantic stucco edifice of lavender and antique gold, surrounded by a spiked twelve-foot wall and an actual moat, was the home of Angela Sterling—beloved sex-goddess of silver screen and living color—whose last three times out had each grossed more than previous all-time champ at the box, big GWTW.
So incredible was her public appeal that it was literally not possible to open a magazine or newspaper without being confronted by yet another elaborately footnoted chapter of her rather imaginary life—imaginary in the sense that it was almost totally fabricated by the studio publicity department. And a grand job they did, too; her “page-count-index,” by which such matters are judged, was twice as high as that of Jackie Kennedy during the latter’s climax, exposure-wise.
Approaching the house was like approaching a major studio: Impasseville at the gate. Unless you were expected, the big iron doors of the wall simply remained shut come what might. If and when they did open, it was necessary to pass a gatehouse occupied by two uniformed and armed attendants, who, after ascertaining the guest’s identity, would cause the drawbridge over the moat to lower. It was generally believed that the natural security afforded by the moat was augmented by the fact that its dark waters were seething with flesh-eating piranha fish—but this was just more “studio bullshit,” as it was sometimes called by the two men with the guns, resenting as they did the implication that they alone were not enough to protect their movie-land princess, “without a bunch of goddamn fish stinking up the joint!”
It was through these portals, and past this boss-freak vigilance, that Boris and Sid had made their way, two hours earlier. And at almost precisely the moment when the perfect Miss Sterling should have been launching a battleship, she was delightedly signing a letter of agreement to play “one of the romantic leads,” as Sid had described it, “in a film, as yet untitled and unscripted, to be directed by Boris Adrian, and to be shot in and around Vaduz, Liechtenstein, principal photography to commence within three weeks of this agreement, dated May 2, 1970.
Boris had also signed, and then Sid had been quick to add, with a flourish, his own signature following “witnessed by . . .”
“Gosh,” said the girl, all smiling radiance, clasping her hands and raising them to her throat as though to trap the ecstasy before it could flutter out and away, bluebird of happiness style, “I just never thought it could happen! I still can’t believe it!”
Sid was beaming fanatically as he folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Oh, it’s happened all right,” he said, nodding, “yessiree bob!”
“Well,” she said breathlessly, “let’s have some champagne or something!” And she rang for the maid.
If it was curious that Angela’s pleasure about these unexpected developments was equal even to gross Sid’s, it was also understandable. Despite her monstro wealth, her incredible boss beauty, her outlandish power—or, by way of summary, her fantastic “success”—she was truly a girl bereft. Two years previous she had undergone a fast and furious affair with a New York writer who had turned her on to certain phenomena variés, existence of which she
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