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  “I knew it! I knew you’d do it!” Steph’s delight caught the attention of diners at Chasen’s. “My fiancé sold a TV pilot to William Morris.”

  “Honey, come on. That’s hardly big news in Hollywood. And all Kamen did was agree to represent the show and package it. The agency still has to convince the networks.”

  “With all its talent and clout? You should start thinking up ideas for movies, because the Morris office can help get those set up.”

  “What if I don’t have any other ideas? Kelly and Cohen was Leon’s notion . . . sort of. Maybe I’m a one-shot wonder.”

  “You’ve got a wonderful imagination. That guy we met last month who went to summer camp with you said you were famous for your stories and—”

  “The competition’s tougher in Hollywood.” Sometimes her optimism grated on his nerves. Why couldn’t she acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a creative genius? Was it because that’s the kind of man she really wanted to marry? AJ’s mouth was dry, but reaching for his water, he knocked over the glass.

  “Take it easy.”

  He mopped up with his napkin. “The good news is, I don’t have to worry about it. After Stan Kamen finished outlining the deal on the series, he offered me a job.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “As his executive assistant. It’s almost eight grand a year plus health insurance. Within two years I could become a junior agent in the motion picture division.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I wanted to talk to you and think about it. He gave me till Monday.”

  They nibbled at their dinners until Steph looked up and smiled. “You were so happy last week when you were working out the pitch.”

  “If Kelly and Cohen doesn’t make it on air—and only one show in ten does—we wind up with nothing. I’ll have to look for a job again, and as a family man, that’s unacceptable.”

  “I could keep working until something turned up.”

  “Come on, Steph, that’s not feasible. We have to behave like grown-ups.”

  She reached for the leftovers of his hanger steak. “I never thought you wanted to be an agent.”

  “It’s not like I grew up thinking about it, like a fireman or a test pilot.”

  “Or a producer.”

  “On the plus side, you know how powerful the agencies have become in Hollywood.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “It’s a great foundation. I’ll meet lots of people. And I like giving advice.” AJ stoked his smoldering enthusiasm. “Convincing Steve to do the pilot made me feel useful. And when you told me we were having a baby, all I thought was how much fun it would be to guide our child.”

  “Split-level houses are fine, but in the family there’s no room for split-level thinking.”

  He stared. “Where’d you come up with that one?”

  “Better Homes and Gardens. There was a copy in the doctor’s office. It sounds silly, but maybe it’s true. In Elysian Park that day, you chose the ‘right’ fork and the wolves didn’t eat us. We both need to trust your sense of direction.” Steph smiled. “I’m having the lemon meringue pie. How about you?”

  CHAPTER 17

  “Stan Kamen’s office . . . Yes, Mr. Sinatra, I’ll get him for you right away.” AJ connected his boss—for the sixtieth time that day. Although he had been on the job for a month, he remained starstruck by the procession of celebrities. Caller sixty-one was Red Skelton, a carrot-topped comedian whose fame in Hollywood had soared as a result of a whispered one-liner. At the funeral of Harry Cohn, who’d died two months after AJ had caddied for him, the crowd had exceeded expectations. “If you give people what they want, they’ll come,” Skelton had commented to a fellow mourner, who’d turned out to be a Variety columnist. AJ promised Red that his boss would call back. “Stan Kamen’s office, how—”

  “AJ, is that you?”

  “Mom? Where are you?” It sounded like she was around the corner.

  “In your apartment. The superintendent gave me the key.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re not due until tomorrow.”

  “I came a day early so we could spend more time.” AJ checked his watch. If he left now he could still beat Steph home. But Kamen aborted that plan, announcing that Sinatra and his pal Sammy Davis Jr. were coming in for an impromptu meeting and AJ needed to run out to buy a cheesecake. Filling out the voucher, he flirted with the idea of using the petty cash for a getaway.

  Maggie sat on the dilapidated corduroy sofa in AJ’s studio apartment and stared at her future daughter-in-law with the spreading belly and plastered smile. It was clear what had transpired. AJ knew nothing about women. He had met a girl who’d trapped him. Anger cracked Maggie’s resolve to be positive. “Is this your first pregnancy?”

  “Yes, it is,” Steph replied with exaggerated politeness. “I hope you’re thrilled at becoming a grandmother.”

  Was that a sign of spunk? She’d determine soon enough. “I relished the idea from the first time I read AJ was getting married. Naively, I thought it might be more than nine months after the ceremony.”

  “Mrs. Jastrow, I can understand your shock. I had no idea that AJ hadn’t said anything.”

  “I’m sure this is hardly his proudest moment.”

  “I love your son.”

  “So do I.”

  “I’m sure you do. He couldn’t have become the terrific man he is without a great mother. Your approval would mean so much to him.”

  “Miss Salinger, the two of you are getting married in six days and having a baby in five months. No objection from me means much. But you have my congratulations. My son is a catch—though it would have been sporting of you to throw him back.” The girl blinked back tears, which answered Maggie’s question. “I’m wondering if you have any aspirin. I’ve got a headache.”

  Stephanie returned from checking the medicine cabinet. “My fiancé is so damn healthy, there’s no Bayer. But there’s a store on the corner. I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time.” Maggie surveyed the surroundings. No two items matched. Had AJ picked up nothing of her taste over the years?

  AJ motored up just as Steph was heading back into the lobby of the Ravenswood. “Honey!” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Am I glad I was able to catch you.”

  “You didn’t catch me—and I certainly didn’t catch you.” She started to punch him with fists too small to do damage. “How could you do this? Do you know how cheap I felt when I had to tell her about the baby?”

  “I’m sorry. When I didn’t let Mom know in the letter, it got worse and worse . . . like an unreturned phone call.”

  “An ‘unreturned phone call’?” Steph smacked him again. “Lying—”

  “I didn’t lie. I never told you I told her.”

  Steph shoved the bag from the pharmacy into his hands. “If you want to see me on Saturday, straighten out this mess!”

  AJ opened the aspirin and swallowed two. Even as he unlocked the door, he hadn’t a clue how to handle the situation.

  “And Daddy makes three.”

  It was as nasty a welcome as their last good-bye. “I should have let you know we were expecting when I wrote about the wedding. I guess I wasn’t prepared to deal with your criticism.”

  “But you’re willing to deal with it now?”

  “If it concerns me, yes, but don’t take it out on Steph. She’s fabulous, and you’ll grow to love her like I do.”

  His mother laughed bitterly. “And suppose I don’t? Suppose I don’t even like her? Suppose I hate the idea that she’s forced my son into a premature marriage?”

  “No one forced me into anything! I’m becoming a husband and a father because it’s what I want to do. Whether you approve or not!”

  She said nothing but walked over to the window and stared at the Hollywood sign. He was breathing hard, ready to continue the fight if necessary.

  “Hopefully my granddaughter will have more sense than you do
.”

  She blinked. And was that a grin lurking behind her deadpan? He went for it, throwing his arms around her. “Did you say ‘granddaughter’?”

  “Yes. I feel it . . . in my bones.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Mr. & Mrs. Theodore Salinger

  request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their daughter,

  Stephanie Joan

  to

  Mr. AJ Jastrow

  Saturday, March 29, 1958, at six o’clock p.m.

  Ceremony and reception to follow at the home of Mr. & Mrs. Ray Stark

  A week before his wedding day, AJ’s phone rang at six-thirty A.M. His Pavlovian response was “What’s up, Mike?”

  The voice was a Todd’s, but not the one he expected. “AJ, my dad’s not going to make the wedding,” Junior announced.

  His heart sank—he’d promised everyone they were going to meet Elizabeth Taylor. “Can’t he stop by for an hour or so?”

  “He’s dead. His plane crashed in New Mexico last night. Art Cohn was with him. I’m leaving in an hour to identify the remains.”

  The words, the flat tone, the despair—AJ understood Junior’s heart and mind. He knew how useless sympathy was, but that was all he could offer. “My God. I’m sorry.”

  “He read me the toast he wrote for you. It was so funny . . . and touching. He claimed you were more like him than I was.”

  What had Art said about Mike—“He never believes he’ll fall, no matter how many times he’s chewed concrete”? AJ pulled a blanket around his neck and stared mutely at the phone.

  “What’s wrong?” Sensing bad news, his mother emerged from the bedroom.

  AJ recounted the tragedy. “I wish Dad were here.” He instantly cursed himself for the admission.

  “You can talk to me.”

  “I know I can.” He couldn’t—and from his tone of voice, he knew she knew.

  AJ was hiding in the Starks’ library, perusing one of Ray’s first editions, when a tap on his shoulder caused him to slam shut the book. It was his best man. McQueen appeared the old-fashioned movie star in the monkey suit he hadn’t wanted to wear. “You look smart,” AJ observed.

  “Screw you.” The actor was going to have to get used to prosperity, because CBS had announced his pilot on its fall schedule. Everyone who saw “The Bounty Hunter” concurred—Steve made the character a sympathetic enigma. Josh Randall did a necessary job in which he took little pleasure—precisely what McQueen was doing in playing the part.

  “I’m looking for a few moments of privacy,” AJ said defiantly.

  “What for?” McQueen grabbed the book. “Shit, I thought you were jerking off to high-class porno. ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.’ ” He read the ending so gracefully that AJ wondered if his friend might make a memorable Sydney Carton. He would surely look romantic marching to the guillotine. “Time to face the music, my friend.”

  Stepping under the chuppah at one end of the football field–sized living room, AJ shook hands with Leon Ginsberg, who would perform the ceremony. Last week ABC had ordered twenty-six episodes of Kelly & Cohen, making Ginsberg a unique Hollywood hyphenate—the rabbi-producer. The timing was ironic because under the conflict-of-interest rules at William Morris, AJ had already forsaken ownership in the project. His share of the producing fee would have earned him fifty thousand dollars—more than five times his current salary. When he’d learned the news, AJ had gotten roaring drunk. Now he only thought about it once a day. The saving grace was that the rabbi had generously given Steph and him five thousand dollars as a wedding gift.

  He saw his new mother-in-law, Audrey Salinger, in the first row on the left. The woman was a dead ringer for Donna Reed, with a temperament to match the character in her TV show. Audrey’s initial trip to Hollywood was proving Oz-like. In Cincinnati pregnant girls rarely married in white, never amid the grandeur of the Stark residence. She blinked as the photographer from the Hollywood Reporter clicked her picture. Ray had hired him to memorialize the occasion in the trades. AJ got along well with his new in-laws, although they couldn’t grasp what he did for a living.

  He waved to three of his new buddies from the training program at William Morris. Although he was only a rookie, AJ felt an integral part of the William Morris team, thanks to the man seated next to them. In Stan, AJ had found a sane and honorable mentor. For his part, Kamen bragged that his new assistant was destined to be a star at the agency.

  As Neile Adams played the opening chords of “The Wedding March,” Stephanie appeared at the end of the aisle, arm in arm with her father. The hair and makeup people from Gunsmoke had styled a regal look by creating a dramatic bouffant and highlighting her eyes with more shadow than she would have dared to use. With her empire gown concealing her pregnancy, she had a bride’s radiance and the glow of an expectant mom. “Grace Kelly” passed everyone’s lips.

  AJ nodded to his mother. Her smile seemed only slightly forced; that counted as a moral victory. She had behaved well after their showdown, graciously calling Steph and patching up their quarrel by agreeing that the fault lay with him. After all, what could one expect of a man? This morning she’d toured Brentwood with a real estate agent, scouting potential houses. Her decision to move back to Los Angeles rather than deal with another Chicago winter had surprised him. Though Steph was apprehensive at her living in the same state, he liked the idea of a baby-sitter they could afford.

  Steph bade her father good-bye and arrived at the altar. AJ could tell she was as happy as he was. Lifting her veil, he kissed her before the rules allowed. “Leon, let’s get this show on the road.”

  Moments later, Ginsberg pronounced them man and wife.

  1965–1966

  THE

  REBEL

  CHAPTER 19

  In Hollywood, guilt was the last refuge of scoundrels desperate to close a deal. And no scoundrel was more conniving—or fatter—than Bernie Marcus. Paramount’s chief of business affairs was all wagging chins, tumbling jowls, and puffing cheeks, but it was his eyes, anchored deep in their sockets, that menaced AJ. “If your father were here right now, he’d be sorely disappointed in you.”

  The more personal the attack, the more anxious the man. “Weren’t you an office boy when Harry worked at the studio?”

  “Well, I was . . . I was more than that—”

  “Because people who actually knew my father said he respected an agent who championed his client’s interests. Steve McQueen wants to do Nevada Smith but not for two seventy-five. That’s only twenty-five grand more than you paid him on Love with the Proper Stranger—which made you guys a ton of money. Give me the four hundred I’m asking so we don’t have to putz around until he’s too old for the part.”

  “Suck my dick, Jastrow!”

  “An attractive offer, but not what I’m looking for.”

  Marcus thumped his rosewood desk with a hand the size of a leg of lamb. “Anybody who pays your client four hundred is dumber than a post!”

  “Then Lew Wasserman’s an idiot.”

  “Mr. Wasserman . . . an idiot?” AJ had used the name of the Lord in vain. “How dare—”

  “I’m not saying it—you are. The best agent in history, the shrewdest judge of talent, the guy who turned Universal into Hollywood’s hottest studio, but now he’s a dummy for offering McQueen five hundred thousand to do The Plainsman.”

  “He put a half mil on the table?”

  “Forget it. Steve’s star is rising too fast for Paramount. You guys are in the alter kocker business. That John Wayne movie you made last year—that was a snore. And those two bombs with Jerry Lewis.”

  “Get your uppity ass out of here.” His nose flared. “But don’t leave the building.”

  AJ paced the reception area like a boxer ordered to the neutral corner. He had fought his share of prelims, negotiating for directors and supporting actors, but this was his first solo shot at making a deal for a client at the top of the agency’s bill. Norm
ally, his boss would represent McQueen, but when Stan Kamen had been called out of town, he’d assigned AJ the task. That had raised eyebrows among the mafia at William Morris who thought AJ was moving too fast, even though they’d promoted him from assistant to agent five long years ago.

  Marcus’s secretary eyed him suspiciously. Sit down—quit telegraphing your anxiety. AJ flopped on the sofa, but as he thumbed through a crumpled copy of Time with Martin Luther King Jr. on the cover, his stomach chugged like his old Chevy. It was hairy to hang tough. He’d surprised himself with that riff about Wasserman. Universal hadn’t even made an offer, much less half a million. But from the scuttlebutt around town, he was sure Paramount needed McQueen too much to walk away. God forbid he was wrong, because Steve was counting on the money from Nevada Smith to furnish his new Brentwood mansion. What if he had overplayed his hand? A blown deal and he’d have to slink back to El Camino and spend the rest of the decade booking personal appearances.

  Hollywood was Vegas these days, with each negotiation a new hand of poker because few writers, directors, or actors were under long-term contracts to the studios. The corps of agents had tripled since the 1940s, matched by a phalanx of executives and lawyers at the majors—all of them striving to prove their added value. Even in the flush days trust had been rare, but now it had evaporated in a cloud of paranoia and reduced expectations. Television hadn’t killed the movie business—just made it behave like a chronic invalid.

  “We’re going down the hall,” Marcus ordered. AJ stuffed his hands into his pockets, hoping to dry his palms before reaching the double glass doors with Paul Herzog’s name etched in gold. Inside stood the bespectacled, balding, middle-aged mogul who two years earlier had succeeded Barney Balaban as president of Paramount. His once muscled frame had gone flabby. Herzog wore a six-inch-wide cushioned brace around his neck to keep it immobile. As they shook hands, AJ squeezed tightly, hoping to cause him pain from spine to toes. The statute of limitations on a murder never ran out.

  “We’ll pay three hundred and fifty thousand dollars and not a penny more.” Studio chiefs spoke in fiats, even when they lacked leverage.