announced, handing me a small card from Barry.
“Breaking radio silence, I’ll pick you up at seven. Sorry about last night.”
I sighed and got a small glow. What a pill he was.
“Who’s the john?” Rosemary asked.
“Don’t talk like that.”
The private line blinked. Rosemary announced my boss from Los Angeles. I bounced back to the couch and grabbed the phone.
“How are you?” I asked exuberantly.
I knew what was coming. “Perfect, I’m perfect,” Michael Finley yelled, “much better than anybody who didn’t run six miles this morning.”
I pictured the lush Art Deco office in Burbank on the flat sunstruck movie lot with strolling actors, fancy German cars, and the fake New York streetfront.
“How’s business?” he asked meaningfully.
“The movie’s rolling,” I shouted back.
He laughed harshly. Something was up. Something bad. “I’m trying to get a hold of Paul Riley,” Michael said casually. “I need him to budget out a Clint Eastwood script.”
“Fine, but he’s wandering the desert with a Polaroid looking for the master shot of the Sermon on the Mount.”
“Tell him to give me a call.”
“Sure will,” I lied.
“He happy with Jack?”
“Ecstatic.”
“And Anita?”
“He thinks she’s going to get nominated and come in two weeks under schedule.”
He paused. “I need you to see some play in the Village, a midnight revue from England, homosexual.”
I was panicky. He had changed the subject too fast. He was planning something.
“Somebody big interested?” I asked blithely.
“Just judge the material,” he snarled. Michael Finley hated homosexuals. This meant that someone bankable wanted to get studio money to buy it.
“You flying in?” I asked brightly.
“I’ll be in New York in a few days. I’m stuck here for now. Oh, and let’s sit down and look at all of Anita’s dailies when I arrive.”
I gripped the phone. “But you’ve already seen them and an assembly.”
“Yeah,” and he laughed. I didn’t like the new menace in his voice. “Get a dozen Zabar’s water bagels to my hotel and make sure they got a toaster in my suite.”
He was the studio president and he liked the Carlyle’s rough towels and glitzy suites but he and his wife believed the bagels were stale.
“Bagels for Michael,” I passed down the order to Rosemary, “next week at the hotel.”
Then I heard a crackle over the phone like a loudspeaker in the background. It sounded to me like he was in an airport about to get on a plane. “Where are you?” I asked.
“In the office,” he snapped. “Get it? Hang on.”
I got it. Michael Finley was on the warpath. Michael Finley was tough. He was a legend in Hollywood, hanging in year after year despite rumors he was about to be fired. The studio refused to give him an employment contract for more than one year at a time and he was up for contract renewal this month. He was capable of doing anything to me to try and impress them.
Ambition kept Michael working. His father wrote jokes and sold instant coffee door to door. When his dad drove Michael to Beverly Hills High in their old Chevy, Michael hid on the seat and swore he’d someday drive a Rolls. His negative personality kept him working too. As head of production, he never made a movie because he liked it; he refused to considera film unless it was the sequel to a smash hit or a vehicle for a star.
“Why are you flying in next week?” I raised my voice over the sound of a departing airplane motor.
“The awards dinner,” he said smugly.
He was getting a statue for being the humanitarian of the year at a fancy black-tie dinner-dance at the Waldorf.
“What else?”
“Problems.” The airplane faded. I steeled myself. It was a sneak attack. I bet he was on his way here to wrestle the movie away from me. It was ironic, since he’d always hated it. “How’s your business?” he asked before he hung up.
“Smooth.”
Rosemary handed me my heavy raccoon coat.
“Breaking radio silence, I’ll pick you up at seven. Sorry about last night.”
I sighed and got a small glow. What a pill he was.
“Who’s the john?” Rosemary asked.
“Don’t talk like that.”
The private line blinked. Rosemary announced my boss from Los Angeles. I bounced back to the couch and grabbed the phone.
“How are you?” I asked exuberantly.
I knew what was coming. “Perfect, I’m perfect,” Michael Finley yelled, “much better than anybody who didn’t run six miles this morning.”
I pictured the lush Art Deco office in Burbank on the flat sunstruck movie lot with strolling actors, fancy German cars, and the fake New York streetfront.
“How’s business?” he asked meaningfully.
“The movie’s rolling,” I shouted back.
He laughed harshly. Something was up. Something bad. “I’m trying to get a hold of Paul Riley,” Michael said casually. “I need him to budget out a Clint Eastwood script.”
“Fine, but he’s wandering the desert with a Polaroid looking for the master shot of the Sermon on the Mount.”
“Tell him to give me a call.”
“Sure will,” I lied.
“He happy with Jack?”
“Ecstatic.”
“And Anita?”
“He thinks she’s going to get nominated and come in two weeks under schedule.”
He paused. “I need you to see some play in the Village, a midnight revue from England, homosexual.”
I was panicky. He had changed the subject too fast. He was planning something.
“Somebody big interested?” I asked blithely.
“Just judge the material,” he snarled. Michael Finley hated homosexuals. This meant that someone bankable wanted to get studio money to buy it.
“You flying in?” I asked brightly.
“I’ll be in New York in a few days. I’m stuck here for now. Oh, and let’s sit down and look at all of Anita’s dailies when I arrive.”
I gripped the phone. “But you’ve already seen them and an assembly.”
“Yeah,” and he laughed. I didn’t like the new menace in his voice. “Get a dozen Zabar’s water bagels to my hotel and make sure they got a toaster in my suite.”
He was the studio president and he liked the Carlyle’s rough towels and glitzy suites but he and his wife believed the bagels were stale.
“Bagels for Michael,” I passed down the order to Rosemary, “next week at the hotel.”
Then I heard a crackle over the phone like a loudspeaker in the background. It sounded to me like he was in an airport about to get on a plane. “Where are you?” I asked.
“In the office,” he snapped. “Get it? Hang on.”
I got it. Michael Finley was on the warpath. Michael Finley was tough. He was a legend in Hollywood, hanging in year after year despite rumors he was about to be fired. The studio refused to give him an employment contract for more than one year at a time and he was up for contract renewal this month. He was capable of doing anything to me to try and impress them.
Ambition kept Michael working. His father wrote jokes and sold instant coffee door to door. When his dad drove Michael to Beverly Hills High in their old Chevy, Michael hid on the seat and swore he’d someday drive a Rolls. His negative personality kept him working too. As head of production, he never made a movie because he liked it; he refused to considera film unless it was the sequel to a smash hit or a vehicle for a star.
“Why are you flying in next week?” I raised my voice over the sound of a departing airplane motor.
“The awards dinner,” he said smugly.
He was getting a statue for being the humanitarian of the year at a fancy black-tie dinner-dance at the Waldorf.
“What else?”
“Problems.” The airplane faded. I steeled myself. It was a sneak attack. I bet he was on his way here to wrestle the movie away from me. It was ironic, since he’d always hated it. “How’s your business?” he asked before he hung up.
“Smooth.”
Rosemary handed me my heavy raccoon coat.
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