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  “Steph, why don’t I help you clear?”

  The door had barely swung shut before she hissed, “That woman is driving me crazy. Her interference has got to stop.”

  “I know.”

  “Then say something.”

  “I will.”

  “If you say it like that, she won’t even notice.”

  “I’m sorry, Steph, but you know how close she and Ricky are. I can’t tell her to get lost.”

  “They’re too close.”

  AJ scraped the plates.

  “Say something.”

  He sighed. “We’ve been through this before.”

  “And we’ll go through it again until you do something. Just because she helped out when I was sick doesn’t give her the right to act as if she’s Ricky’s mother.”

  Helped out? Maggie had bathed and dressed the boy, taken him for strolls, and carted him to the pediatrician for checkups. She’d seen him through teething, colic, gas, and sore throats. Steph had been too out of it to realize what a godsend Maggie had been. “I said I’ll say something. Now what the hell do you want to do about Bonanza?”

  Ricky kept his bedroom door closed, unlike his sister, who welcomed the light and noises from the rest of the house. His son’s penchant for privacy concerned AJ, but he chose to respect rather than fight it. He knocked and entered to find Ricky still in his jeans sitting cross-legged on his bed, the pieces of a complicated picture puzzle laid out in sorted piles. He fit two together and laid them into the mosaic. “That’s great,” AJ marveled. “I get so frustrated I force the pieces together.”

  “It’s a picture of Goofy.”

  “So it is.”

  “I wish Hoss was my big brother.”

  In tonight’s Bonanza Dan Blocker’s character had saved Little Joe from outlaws. “I understand. Sometimes I wish I had an older brother. But you can be that for your sister.”

  “I suppose.”

  “As far as Mom and I are concerned, the past is past. But if things at school really bother you, please come to us before you do something silly again.”

  Ricky crossed his heart and hoped to die.

  When AJ returned to their bedroom, Stephanie was asleep. He climbed gingerly into his side of the ring lest he wake her for round two. He had an early breakfast scheduled with a Canadian director named Sidney Furie, whose new film, The Ipcress File, was supposed to be a breakout hit. But you never knew whether the word of mouth from early screenings was real or hype. Turning his bedside lamp to low, he opened a perfect example—The Sand Pebbles. A friend at Fox had sneaked it to him for an early look, saying it was special.

  After two pages his early-warning system kicked in—he sat up straighter, his mind cleared, his heart beat faster. A great script always trumped weariness or preoccupation. He finished at midnight and immediately began scheming how to get the part for his client. The Sand Pebbles was a shoo-in to win Steve McQueen the Academy Award.

  Maggie was an insomniac, so Leon obliged by playing Scrabble with her till past his bedtime. “You should take the role.” For weeks he had tried to convince her to star in Miss Mayhem, a new television series he was developing for ABC. Its lead was a woman who owned a private detective agency in Los Angeles.

  “I already have a role. I’m Ricky and Jessica’s grandmother.”

  “And you’re overplaying it. What you did tonight was wrong—and you know it.”

  “Don’t you have a home to go to?”

  “I love you, Maggie, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree with you.”

  She turned the board upside down looking for an opening. “They’re lost as parents. AJ’s going through delayed adolescence and she’s a bowl of oatmeal that’s been left out too long. I have to step in. Secretly, they’re happy to have me.”

  Leon sighed. “I’ll drop the family therapy. But in return, at least meet with the network people.”

  “You’re only doing this to make sure you keep getting laid.”

  “It’s an honest motivation.”

  Maggie laughed—louder when she spelled out mystique. “Let’s see, with double-letter for q and triple-word . . . I get ninety-six points. Had enough?”

  CHAPTER 21

  AJ flew back to Chicago to drown in nostalgia and Schlitz. Jerry Roblin—the last single guy among his Zeta Beta Tau fraternity brothers—was finally getting hitched, and his bachelor party promised a blowout reunion. Sitting with the condemned man in a first-base box at Wrigley Field, AJ rejoiced in the trip’s bonus: escape from the claustrophobia of a company town. His dentist raved about Doris Day’s bridgework, his accountant bitched about Sam Fuller’s gambling, and his barber gossiped about Gene Hackman’s thinning hair. So what did they say about him? In refreshing contrast, Jerry was a product manager for Sara Lee Bakeries and more interested in pushing pound cake.

  “What’s marriage like, AJ?”

  “Depends on your fiancée.”

  “Janie’s a great girl. We’re sitting in her seats—actually, her dad’s. Mr. Drummond is chairman of Consolidated Foods.”

  The company owned Sara Lee. “I predict wedded bliss.”

  The party commenced postgame with T-bones at Eli’s and segued to a dive in the Loop, where the guests tapped kegs, mauled hookers, and pissed on the rugs with impunity. To AJ’s amazement—and dismay—even outside Hollywood a Hollywood insider couldn’t remain anonymous. Guests peppered him with questions about which actresses he’d slept with, and his sly smiles and polite demurrals sent his stock soaring. He was refilling his drink when the profoundly endowed stripper cornered him. “I wondered what you thought of my performance?”

  “Artistic . . . and truly committed.”

  “I could show you some other moves—in private.”

  “Angelica, I don’t represent exotic dancers, even ones as talented as you.”

  “Oh. Does anyone at William Morris?”

  “There’s one guy, but you can’t say I told you to call. His name’s Sam Weisbord.” AJ scribbled a number on a cocktail napkin.

  Ben Drummond, the bride’s brother, drunkenly sidled over. “So, Mr. Movie Business, you know the guy who runs Paramount Pictures . . . what’s his name . . . Pete Hiller . . . or Hitzig . . . is it Hertzel?”

  “Paul Herzog?”

  “That’s it!”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m going to be his boss.”

  AJ reached for a bottle of Scotch and poured his new friend a nightcap.

  The first part of Ben’s story had headlined the trades two months ago. A businessman named Herb Siegel and his partner, Broadway producer Ernie Martin, had bought a sizable chunk of Paramount stock and proceeded to publicly accuse Herzog’s management team of massive incompetence. To avoid airing their dirty linen, the studio’s directors had awarded the dissidents two seats on the board as a peace offering. “I thought everyone was satisfied with the compromise,” AJ commented.

  “For a heartbeat,” Drummond stage-whispered. “Siegel and Martin are sneaky bastards—they keep buying stock. So Paramount wants to find a white knight, which is where my father enters the picture. This investment banker came to him and asked if he’d like to be in the movies. Ha, ha, ha.”

  It sounded like a banker’s joke. “And he said . . . ?”

  Ben took another belt of Chivas. “Pop took me to the meeting because I go to lots of flicks. Herzog thought I was damn smart, even said so to Nate.”

  “Nate’s your father?” Ben nodded. “And Nate said . . . ?”

  Like the guy who gets shot as he’s fingering the killer, Ben’s head conked on the table.

  AJ and Jerry carried his inert body outside. “My future brother-in-law can be a jerk,” Roblin admitted. “Paramount pledged the family to secrecy, which is why I didn’t say anything, but I almost told Herzog that I knew the smartest guy in Hollywood and he should hire you to make movies because the ones they’re making bite.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything. I
hate using influence to get ahead.” AJ’s skills as a liar were sharp, and his friend took him at his word. They shared a final drink in honor of Mopsy Moore, the girl they’d both screwed junior year.

  But AJ had business to do before calling it a night. A colleague in New York had tipped him that a comedian named Richard Pryor, who was supposed to be the black Lenny Bruce, was performing in a nightclub off LaSalle. Pryor did solo stand-up, but his delivery packed the stage with characters. In one skit he played a husband soft-talking a broad into bed. Then he became the wife, catching her man flagrante. Finally, the comic flipped back to being the husband, bluffing to save his ass. “Who you gonna believe, woman—me or your lying eyes?”

  After his scabrous act Richard’s shy persona surprised AJ. “How you doing, Mr. Agent?” An instinct told AJ to low-key his pitch or find himself in a future Pryor skit. They sipped Jack Daniel’s for half an hour, complaining about Mayor Daley and the sad state of American movies. Then Richard returned to the microphone for an even ruder second show.

  Jazzed by the performance, AJ phoned Ray from his hotel room and repeated half the routines. “The guy’s the future of comedy.”

  “They’ll never let you sign him,” Stark declared. “Those dinosaurs at Morris still think Sammy Davis Jr. is the hippest schvartzer in America.”

  “I’ll convince them. I’ve got to represent him!”

  “Even if you did, what would you do with him? The networks will swallow pabulum like Cosby, but they’ll never order up a black man as belligerent as Pryor. And the studios . . . are you going to find him a role in The Sound of Music or Cat Ballou? Hollywood’s idea of racial risk is A Patch of Blue.”

  “Poitier’s a white man’s black man. Pryor’s the real deal.”

  “That’s my point. We’re a decade behind the rest of the country.”

  “Screw you. Anyway, it wasn’t why I called. Is your deal at Paramount closed?”

  “Next week.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  The news that the fight for control of Paramount continued in back rooms and boardrooms sucker-punched Ray. After exiting Seven Arts to go it alone, he’d negotiated a lucrative deal with Paul Herzog to center his new production entity at Paramount. “It’ll never get signed now,” Stark mourned. “The whole company’s going to stop in its tracks until this fight is over.”

  AJ didn’t say “Serves you right.” Ray’s choice of Paramount had offended him, but Stark was the ultimate pragmatist—Herzog had offered the most money and independence. “Who’s Herb Siegel?” AJ inquired.

  “He’s a few years older than you, no experience with movies, but he’s a pro at taking over companies, then selling them for a profit.”

  “You can do that legally?”

  “That’s the future of corporate America.”

  After he’d ruined Stark’s night, turnabout was fair play, so AJ called Stephanie in Los Angeles. The good news on the home front was Jessie’s maiden ride on her tricycle. He loved hearing how his daughter had squealed in delight navigating the driveway on her own. But despair transformed Steph’s voice. “I helped Ricky with his homework. He was reading aloud this story about a boy who gets lost in the forest, but every time he hit that word, he read it as ‘frost.’ Then he confused ‘mouse’ with ‘house.’ ”

  AJ could imagine his son trying so hard that the veins in his face turned blue. The fear that Ricky was stupid hovered over AJ like the premonition of his premature death. “I bet you wanted to read it for him.”

  “That’s exactly what I did, which only made him angrier.”

  “Hang in, honey. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

  Steph blew him a kiss, which sounded tinny over the long-distance line.

  “Tonight’s the night,” Stan Kamen declared, sticking his head into his protégé’s cubicle.

  “If not, Miss Schneider’s eaten her last dinner on a William Morris expense account,” AJ assured him. He had spent more time trying to sign the actress than he had wooing his wife. “How do I look, boss?”

  Kamen assessed, then straightened AJ’s tie. “Irresistible.”

  They dined at Knoll’s Black Forest Inn because Romy craved home cooking. Dressed in tights covered by a checked silk half-dress, her hair cut short, she affected the appearance of a tomboy—with only cosmetic success. Unlike most actresses, the more he knew about her, the more alluring she became. “Do you remember the war?” he asked.

  “My parents were always behind stage lights or in front of the camera. That’s the war I knew . . . except for the bombs. . . . They interrupted performances and annoyed my father.”

  “I never asked you why you retired.”

  “Ten movies before I turned eighteen—if I heard ‘Action’ one more time I was going to snap. But I could not figure out how to fill my days. That is sad, right?”

  “No. You have awesome talent—it needs to breathe. But I won’t let you overdo it, even if I have to chain you to your bed.” He could see that his wife’s old line touched Romy as it had once touched him. He leaned in for the kill. “Assuming I become your agent.”

  “You know I want to say yes . . . but I still can’t.”

  He waved to the waiter for the check. “I think you should sign with Kursner.” The rumor on the street said that Art Kursner, an older gay agent, was close to landing Romy. “Either I’m too aggressive or you don’t like my taste or the Morris office is too big. You’ve had enough time to feel comfortable, and clearly you don’t.”

  “Is this your idea of reverse psychology?”

  “It’s not reverse anything.”

  “You’re hurt.”

  “Of course. I wanted you to recognize my value, but I’m too much of a pro to let that affect things. This is better for both of us.”

  “So I’m a bad girl who doesn’t deserve dessert?”

  “Order it from room service. I’m taking you back to the Marmont.”

  They drove from Santa Monica in self-imposed silence. As he made a left on La Cienega, Romy touched his hair, her fingers lingering on his neck. “This is all wrong,” she said nervously. “We can’t end this way.”

  Actress bullshit—they hadn’t even begun.

  She avoided eye contact by stubbing her cigarette into the ashtray. “God, these have no flavor. Do you have a Marlboro?”

  “No and don’t change the subject. What are you telling me?”

  “Mr. Kursner represented Daddy years ago. Every time I visit America he is an uncle to me. When I met you, I had already promised him I would become his client.”

  AJ felt like the village idiot. “It’s not that I didn’t enjoy wining and dining you, Romy. Under different circumstances, I might have done it without a business incentive. But I don’t enjoy being lied to, no matter how enchanting the liar.”

  “You’re right.” They pulled into the hotel’s driveway and he opened the door. “Please help me figure out how to handle this,” she pleaded. “I want you as my agent.”

  Get out with dignity—but get out now. “Don’t mess with me again.”

  “I won’t. Please come upstairs.”

  Her contrition intrigued him. He could imagine her on stage, trying desperately to please her parents. The next thing AJ knew he was in a suite that faced the Hollywood Hills. He sat on the sofa while she busied herself emptying ashtrays, picking up stray bras and half-finished highballs. “You smoke too much,” he lectured.

  “I know. No one ever made me stop.”

  “Stop avoiding me. Get over here and let’s decide this now.”

  She approached the sofa, looking for guidance on where she should stand, as if the properly penitent position would appease him. “I am going to call Kursner tomorrow and tell him my decision.”

  “Should I simply take your word for that?”

  “I swear it.” She started to cry. “Why do I do things that make everyone I care about miserable?”

  “Stop crying. Tears won’t get you out of this one, young lady.” His
voice surprised him with its harsh authority. “At your age, apologies aren’t enough. Don’t forget, I know how good an actress you are.”

  She massaged the carpet with her toes. “I ought to be . . . punished . . . for what I did.”

  “Punished how?”

  Romy spoke barely above a whisper. “The way all bad girls are punished.”

  “You mean sent to your room? Grounded? Extra chores?”

  “No. I mean . . . sp . . . spanked.” Romy unbuttoned her dress, letting it puddle at her ankles.

  “Turn around,” he ordered. Her face flushed as she executed an about-face. The muscles in her bottom clenched. “Bend over.” He felt her land with a slight jolt on his lap. She tried to balance by grasping the floor. The sight of her submission kicked in a drive so primitive he lost any inhibition. As he yanked down her tights, she raised her hips. The crisp sound of his palm on her backside, her moan of discomfort, and the outline of his hand springing up on her cheek made him gasp. The more she wriggled, the more potent he felt.

  “Please. It hurts. It really hurts!”

  “It’s supposed to. You’re getting exactly what you deserve.”

  In trying to cover up, she revealed everything. He picked Romy up and deposited her butt on the bed, causing her to yelp. Entering her was the most exquisite sexual pleasure of his life.

  Afterward, he asked how long she had fantasized about this evening.

  “Since the Polo Lounge. At first you seemed too young. Most American men my age are. Then I saw how much you cared about my career—and about me.”

  “Do you want to know when I first thought about it?”

  Romy got up to use the bathroom. “You’re a man. I already know.” She returned with a washcloth and gently cleaned him, explaining wistfully that she didn’t want his wife to suspect. “For as long as we last, I only want us both to have joy.”

  They kissed for the first time.

  CHAPTER 22

  Southern California felt like a pizza oven when AJ stepped outside on the Saturday morning of Labor Day weekend. A sane member would be teeing off into Riviera’s ocean breezes, but AJ had promised Ricky a “guys” vacation before school, so he stowed his clubs and rooted out the pup tent, and they headed north to the Ojai Valley. It was camp-counselor déjà vu, with him organizing fishing, riding, swimming, and a visit to Bob’s Beehive, where the beekeeper put Ricky in a suit and helped him collect honey. Feasting on hot dogs and baked beans, they discussed the Dodgers’ run for the pennant and AJ’s upcoming visit with Uncle Steve, who would be shooting The Sand Pebbles in Taiwan, then capped the evening with a farting contest. Ricky won with a toot that lasted four seconds. AJ felt more sanguine about his son than he had in years.