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  He was so drained he returned to his apartment rather than getting blitzed with Steve. In golf his biggest rush was to hit a recovery shot between trees, over a pond, and softly onto the green. That’s what he’d accomplished at William Morris, but he couldn’t enjoy the sensation. Although he had liberally altered Leon Ginsberg’s idea—probably beyond the rabbi’s recognition—AJ knew its origin. Plagiarism was out of the question. He retied his tie and dashed out to attend Friday night services.

  CHAPTER 15

  Stephanie was struggling to button her jeans when Dr. Ray Sturdivant reentered the examination room. Just yesterday she had seen the same hesitant expression on the guy from Deluxe before he’d told her the lab had detected a scratch on the negative of the Gunsmoke dailies. There was no miraculous fix for that mistake—or for the one she and AJ had made. “The rabbit died, didn’t it?”

  “According to the lab results, you’re due in August.” He gently lifted her clammy hand and listened.

  “You’re going to have to count like a cash register to keep pace with my pulse.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Overwhelmed.” That was honest, she thought, as far as it went. And safer than robbed or cheated. New mommies didn’t direct an episode of next season’s show, they didn’t spend a year in Paris or ride wild horses on the beaches of Mexico. Those were her fantasies, not breast-feeding and diapering. But maybe she would change her mind over time. Most girls her age couldn’t have babies fast enough. Screw it—she wasn’t “most girls.” The top button of her Levi’s popped off. Don’t cry—rip out the loose threads and sew it back on.

  “What’s the father like?”

  “Adorable, brilliant, devoted to me, a bit young . . .” She didn’t add that sometimes when she was with AJ, she already felt like a mom. “He’s going to be a big star in Hollywood someday—I know it, even if he doesn’t.”

  “And he’s got excellent taste.”

  “Thank you.”

  The doctor strapped on a blood-pressure cuff. “Do you love him?”

  Steph had asked herself that since their third date this past summer. Her answer was always “I think so.” How could she be sure, since she’d never been in love before? Of course, that didn’t stop AJ—he seemed certain of his feelings for her. And every day between them was better than the last, which was a positive sign.

  Sturdivant studied the dial. “I guess that’s a pressure-filled question.”

  “I love him very much.” It sounded fine. It really did. “He and I need to talk this over, because if AJ flips out . . .”

  The doctor completed his exam. “If you don’t want the baby, Stephanie, I’ll take care of the situation.”

  “Thank you.” The prospect of a back-alley abortion by a guy with a wire hanger had already fueled her imagination. “But I’m also afraid if my boyfriend decides the baby is his responsibility, he could grin and still be miserable inside.”

  “Don’t worry. No guy is that good an actor.”

  AJ hadn’t squirmed in years. But he started again upon entering the rabbi’s study, following services. After confessing his “overeagerness” at William Morris, AJ watched as a poker-faced Ginsberg poured himself a belt of Manischewitz. “Albert, are you familiar with the story of Joseph and his brothers?”

  “Not intimately.” Please, not another parable. In tonight’s sermon AJ had already listened to a Bible story about Saul, son of Kish, who went off to look for his father’s lost asses.

  The rabbi described in excruciating detail how Joseph’s brothers came to him because he possessed a unique ability to interpret their dreams. “Unfortunately, his insights were so personal they felt violated, as if he’d stolen their dreams.”

  “Sir, I’ve already agreed to cancel the meeting with Stan Kamen if you’re uncomfortable.” His words were respectful, his attitude defensive.

  “Don’t patronize me!” Ginsberg’s burst of ungodly anger riveted AJ. “Whatever you actually think of the script that I gave you, it was the story of my life. But somehow ‘Leon Ginsberg’ has become ‘Bret Tanner,’ a goy minister preaching Christ’s advice to the world.”

  “I saw Bret as more secular than religious,” AJ offered lamely. “And with all due respect, no one is going to release a movie or air a television show in America today in which a rabbi is the lead.”

  Ginsberg scowled. “I’ll get back to you when I’ve decided how I wish to handle this matter. Did it occur to you, even for a second, that the Jewish aspect of my story wasn’t a choice, like soup or salad, but its essence?”

  “I didn’t murder anyone.”

  “The Germans who confiscated Jewish property in the 1930s, they also didn’t murder anyone.”

  “That’s bull!” AJ bolted, his apology over. “My action was premature, but it hardly makes me a monster!”

  “It’s a long way to a ‘monster,’ but the journey always starts with a baby step.”

  “We’re lost.”

  “Don’t be a defeatist, Steph.” They had gone hiking in the hills north of downtown searching for Chavez Ravine, where, it was said, the new Los Angeles Dodgers would build their future stadium. But they hadn’t found the site or signs of humanity in over an hour.

  She wiped her forehead on her sleeve. “Why can’t you admit that the vaunted Jastrow sense of direction has failed? They won’t find our bones until the twenty-first century.”

  “They’ll dig this place up to build a shopping center long before the millennium.” Two footpaths lay ahead, both downhill but in opposite directions. He indicated the one to his right.

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you so damn sure we shouldn’t go left?”

  When Steph got ornery, it paid to deflect rather than argue. He pointed to the trails and recited:

  Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

  And sorry I could not travel both

  And be one traveler, long I stood

  And looked down one as far as I could

  To where it bent in the undergrowth.

  “We’re past the poetry readings, AJ.” She looked him directly in the eyes. “I’m pregnant.”

  From his girlfriend’s behavior and bouts of nausea, he knew the answer even as he asked, “Officially?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Are you okay? Is the baby okay?”

  “We’re healthy. What I need to know is how you are.”

  “Me? Me?” A ten-foot wave smacked into him. His mind churned and turned upside down, but when he broke the surface, it was all clear—Steph was going to marry him for sure. That was the good news. As for the bad news . . . there wasn’t any. He smiled. “I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m fine. We intended to get married someday and have kids, so this is just a . . . refinement in our schedule.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Officially and definitely. And you know what else? I’m going to be a great father. I come from world-class stock.” He kissed her. “Jesus, Steph, you shouldn’t be out here hiking.”

  They took the right fork. Climbing down the hill she stumbled a few times, so he held her protectively. Minutes later the city’s skyline appeared like a mirage.

  CHAPTER 16

  In Hollywood the apology had become an art form. Because movie people compulsively hurled insults, then suffered stifling guilt, they had to find innovative and extravagant redress. Mike Todd’s peace offering took the form of a five-foot Christmas present. When AJ slashed open the packing case, he discovered a suit of antique Spanish armor with a note taped to the visor: “Come on, Sancho, we belong together.”

  They lunched at Pink’s, with AJ insisting on picking up the check. Guy Biondi had eventually admitted to screwing up with the Mummers. “He’s a schnook,” Mike explained, “but if I fire him he’s got no place to go.”

  “You fired me.”

  “You quit. What are you doing these days?”

  “Exploring possibilities.” It was his newes
t euphemism.

  “I start shooting in Spain this summer and I want you along.” Todd shifted effortlessly into salesman mode, pitching the possibilities of their renewed relationship. How great would it be for AJ’s reputation when the world found out that Mike Todd had asked him back?

  “ ‘With enough courage, you can do without a reputation.’ ”

  “I like that. It has a ring.”

  “Rhett Butler’s advice to Scarlett O’Hara.” If all decisions were this clear, AJ sensed, he would be as peaceful as a monk. “Mike, it wouldn’t work. We’re two hotheads and we’d walk on eggshells to avoid another blowup. But I’ll be standing in line to see Don Quixote on opening day.” Todd’s quiet sadness left AJ feeling like the one who should apologize. They said good-bye awkwardly—a handshake interrupted with tentative hugs and mumbled promises about keeping in touch. Down the line . . . it was impossible to predict. Relationships in Hollywood continued after the end credits. It’s what sequels were all about.

  The movie industry shuttered for Christmas, when even moguls left their phone lines unmanned. But they always picked pursuits and places—skiing in Davos, tanning in Acapulco—where they would encounter rivals to verify that they weren’t missing the action. For AJ, vacations suggested golf, but his finances hardly suggested a vacation. Instead, he convinced the new pro at Riviera how intimately he knew the course and was soon walking its fairways—albeit as a caddie, not a player.

  Two days before New Year’s he carried a two-bagger for David O. Selznick, the famed producer, and Harry Cohn, president of Columbia Pictures. The nippy afternoon promised a lavish payday and valuable contacts. Selznick was only in his mid-fifties, but a shortness of breath and two packs of Camels kept him wheezing from the third hole to the finish. It amazed AJ how long an ash the man could balance in the midst of hitting a nine-iron. In his late fifties Cohn was in steep physical decline, worn out from tangling with the New York bankers to maintain control of the company he’d founded thirty years ago. His reputation as the meanest man in Hollywood, however, remained vigorous. He never conceded a putt, not even one inside the leather. Selznick desperately pitched projects, but after four hours of hacking, he failed to either sell Cohn or break a hundred.

  As Steph massaged AJ’s shoulders that evening, he mourned the turn in Selznick’s life. “The guy produced Gone with the Wind when he was thirty-seven. To be washed up after his career, to have to dance like that for a deal—I’d slit my throat.”

  “When he had power, he made Mike Todd look like Albert Schweitzer. My friend Mandy knows Selznick’s son—even he can’t stand the guy.”

  “Still—”

  She shrugged. “It’s a die-with-your-boots-on business.”

  Her dispassion dismayed him. When he was growing up, Hollywood had been Camelot, but the knights of that glorious age were dead, dying, or unemployed. He wondered if he could match their achievements in his career—assuming he had a career. It was a year and a half since that fateful telegram from Bing Crosby had started a sequence of events that had lured him into the movie business, and all he had to show were stubs from unemployment checks.

  AJ returned to his Remington and the letter he was composing to his mother. Steph suggested that he call Maggie, but AJ feared he would blow the conversation. Better that she learn their news in private. Now he was in a quandary about whether to announce both marriage and fatherhood or only the former. The phone rang, sparing him the decision.

  “Jastrow?”

  AJ stiffened. He wasn’t in the mood for another sermon. “Hello, Rabbi. Happy New Year.”

  “Same to you,” Ginsberg grunted. “I’ve been mulling over my project, trying to find a suitable middle ground between what I desire and what you see as the commercial realities. Perhaps the answer lies with a King Solomon compromise. How about if it’s a rabbi and a minister—co-leads?”

  The man had been “mulling”? How desperately did Ginsberg long to get on the air that he was willing to be in business with a junior war criminal? Only one thing kept AJ from telling him to forget it—a hit series. “Your idea’s got real promise. It could be a home run if you let me take it a step further.”

  “How big a step?”

  “When you said ‘a rabbi and a minister,’ my initial reaction was to laugh. Not laugh at the notion, but with it. The combination sounds like the lead-in line of a joke. I know you envisioned this as a drama, and that’s what I pitched to Kamen.” AJ hoped Ginsberg wouldn’t hang up. “But I think it would be ten times better as a comedy.”

  “A comedy?”

  “Exactly. We should create a sitcom about a rabbi and a priest—a priest, not a minister, because a Catholic’s a bigger contrast to a Jew than a Protestant. They’ll live together. And though they’re fond of each other, they argue constantly.” The more he talked the more devout a believer AJ became. “It could be funny like Lucy and heartwarming like Father Knows Best.”

  “Hmm. That puts rather a different light on things.” AJ sensed that “different” was desirable. The rabbi was no longer bastardizing his personal experience because the project had traveled so far afield. “Perhaps it would be good for us to meet. Canter’s Deli at noon?”

  “If it’s corned beef you’re after, I suggest the Blarney Stone. You get the cabbage at no extra cost.” AJ heard Ginsberg gag. “I’m kidding. They’d bust our schnozzes in that joint. But that’s the fun of the show. Our characters can argue over where to eat. Noon it is, Rabbi.”

  “I would prefer that you call me Leon. Our relationship is commercial, not religious. I’m afraid you’ll never be part of my flock.”

  Dear Mom,

  I hope things are well in Winnetka. I’ve had lots of part-time work since quitting Mike Todd last fall. As you predicted, the Hollywood economy stinks, and it makes finding the right job difficult. Still, I’ve got prospects and expect to land something soon.

  Maggie closed her eyes after one paragraph. Her son sounded like the thousands of pie-in-the-sky youth that flooded Tinseltown. But AJ wasn’t one of thousands—he was a young man of unlimited potential.

  Mom, I’ve got something far more important to tell you about than work. I have fallen in love with a wonderful girl. Her name is Stephanie Salinger and we’ve decided to get married. The wedding is set for late March.

  A day doesn’t go by that I don’t regret the gulf that’s come between us. I don’t understand it. Perhaps I never will. But I’m hoping that you’ll come to California for the ceremony so that we can put our differences behind us.

  Love, AJ

  A letter? A few crummy lines to announce he was getting married? Maggie crumpled its single page into a tight ball. He was a coward. But even as she contemplated her scathing RSVP, she feared that dialing to deliver it would be as lethal as Russian roulette. Her gamble that stonewalling AJ would quickly force him home had failed. He had built a life—no matter how insignificant—over which she had no influence. If she refused to attend his wedding, she risked losing him forever. And where would that leave her?

  Maggie was never going to remarry, her own mother would probably die of colon cancer within the year . . . then what? Growing old without family by her side . . . Her legs weakened and she had to sit down. Why hadn’t the doctors been able to save Emily? She would be a teenager now. A daughter would have been such a marvelous companion. Maybe they should have adopted a child. Harry had been willing, but it had felt so much like a second choice. There was no use regretting the past.

  Her son was her gravest disappointment—and only hope.

  Stan Kamen’s announcement that the eminent Leon Ginsberg would visit William Morris to pitch a television series drew disbelieving stares from his colleagues but spiked attendance at the presentation. Although the rabbi had spoken in front of thousands of people, he grew cotton-mouthed at the prospect of describing the program to eight blue suits, so he muttered hello and introduced AJ, who took center stage as if he owned it. “Gentlemen, we’d like to introduce th
e two lead characters in our new half-hour comedy, Kelly and Cohen.” He flipped the first page on an oversized sketch pad, revealing a cartoon of a rabbi and a priest cagily eyeing each other. Stephanie had stayed up all night drawing it to capture the irreverence of the idea. Two of the agents laughed out loud.

  AJ described how Rabbi Meyer Cohen and Father Tim Kelly had both recently arrived in a working-class Chicago neighborhood, where their synagogue and church stood catty-corner. Since both clergymen received only small stipends, they decided to save money by sharing an apartment owned by Bessie, a cantankerous black landlady. AJ summarized the pilot and story lines he’d crafted for five future episodes.

  When Kamen asked for a few moments to consult with his colleagues, Rabbi Ginsberg bowed out to prepare for evening services. “Anything you have to say, gentlemen, say it to my partner.” In the lobby Ginsberg shook AJ’s hand. “Mazel tov. You even made me laugh, which is not the easiest of tasks.”

  “Thank you, Rabbi—I mean Leon. I appreciate your confidence.”

  AJ fought against rising expectations, but there was reality to his grandiosity—that’s why show business was so addictive. In five minutes he could be producing a television show for millions of people. He could have a staff of writers and be writing himself. Eight o’clock on Tuesdays would be a perfect slot for Kelly & Cohen. Maybe he could also work on McQueen’s show, given that he’d helped make it happen. If he signed with Morris, they could figure it out. But suppose they passed?

  That prospect was too crushing, so he paced the corridor until discovering a display of weathered photographs of the agency’s earliest clients. He was no different from the vaudevillians, he decided, the guys with the magic acts, kazoos, and trained monkeys. They all had to sing for their supper, which wasn’t so bad if all you really wanted to do was sing anyway. He was studying a picture of the Hilton Sisters, saxophone-playing Siamese twins, when the meeting broke up. There was something mysterious about the crook of Stan’s finger as he motioned for AJ to join him in his office.