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  But when he went to piss at two A.M., Ricky was still awake, mesmerized by the embers of the campfire. “Can’t fall asleep?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “If I go to sleep, the next thing I’ll know it’ll be morning and we’ll have to go home. But if I stay awake, time goes really slow.”

  “Makes sense to me. What are you thinking about?”

  “Why do fish eat worms?”

  “Hmm. Maybe they ask each other why we eat peanut butter and jelly.”

  “I’m serious.”

  AJ thought for a beat. “ ‘Why is the sky blue, Daddy?’ ”

  “Huh?”

  “There was a TV commercial when I was growing up where the son kept asking his father why the sky was blue, but the dad didn’t have a clue, so he bought the family the Encyclopaedia Britannica. The answer to your question is that I don’t know why fish eat worms.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. Ricky made a perfect cast with an imaginary rod into an imaginary stream. “Did I do it right?”

  “Almost. Maybe a little more wrist.” AJ sat down next to him and baited his make-believe rod. “I hope we get a bite soon.”

  A half hour later, they were both snoring softly.

  The hills were steep, and after a mile Ricky’s throat felt like sandpaper. Somewhere in the night a colony of red ants had moved in to share his sleeping bag. Their bites stung, but he didn’t say anything because his dad would have used it as an excuse to skip their hike and head home to play his dumb golf. Uncorking his canteen, Ricky drank greedily.

  “Slow down, son.”

  Water dribbled down his chin. “Do you want me to die of thirst?”

  “No, but if you finish it, you won’t have any for the hike back.”

  “I don’t want to go back.”

  “I never wanted summer vacation to end either. But school’s going to be different this year.”

  That was easy for him to say. They walked to the top of a butte and looked west, to the beaches of Santa Barbara. “Daddy, you were an A student, weren’t you?”

  “I got some B’s and a C once in chemistry.”

  “You can admit it, ‘cause I saw one of your report cards.”

  “School was a lot easier in those days.”

  “What if I never learn to read the phone book? I won’t know how to call anybody.”

  “Of course you will.”

  He knew his dad was lying. “I’ve been trying for a year.”

  “It’s just a matter of time.”

  “I don’t give a fuck.”

  “Hey, I didn’t even hear that word until I was a teenager. I don’t want you using it.”

  “Fuck you!” Ricky hurled the canteen, then watched in horror as it cut open his father’s forehead. Nothing he did turned out right. He raced into the forest, hurtling over rocks and tree stumps in a blind dash to nowhere. He wasn’t going back to Edgewood to look like a fool again. He was breathing hard, but his father was close on his trail. Why didn’t he give up and have another son, one who was smart? Or just keep Jessica. She read better than he did. There was a clearing ahead, so Ricky swerved right to keep hidden. He saw a twisted stick, but couldn’t avoid it and tumbled to the ground, his momentum carrying him onto the ledge below. Dusting himself off, Ricky saw that he had missed falling off a blind cliff by a few feet.

  He peered above the lip and saw his father charging through the brush, blood and sweat pouring into his eyes as the tree branches whacked him. Ricky realized he wouldn’t see the approaching cliff until he broke through the tree line—and that might be too late. His warning cry caught in his throat. But at the last instant Dad jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop.

  “Ricky! Ricky!”

  His father’s voice echoed through the canyon. He made weird sounds, like he was going to barf. That’s what Ricky felt like every day in school. “Daddy, I’m here.”

  “Thank God!” His father’s hug choked him. “I was sure you fell.”

  “I hit my head on a rock and I got sand in my eyes. I didn’t see you coming.”

  “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  He wasn’t yelling about his curse word or the canteen. Ricky began to feel better. “Can we stop for ice cream on the way back?”

  They started walking. There was enough sweat on Dad’s hand to fill the canteen.

  “It was the worst moment of my life.”

  Lying in bed that night, Stephanie wiped the perspiration from her husband’s forehead. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “He hates me so much he almost killed himself. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

  She wanted to tell him she understood. But that meant confessing the mad dream that had plagued her when Ricky was an infant. It had recurred every night for months. She was warming his formula on the stove but it remained ice-cold, so she turned the heat higher and higher until the water boiled over, scalding, blistering, and drowning her baby. She buried Ricky in an unmarked grave in the backyard, next to her tomato vines. “Accidents happen.” In the dream she suffered no twinge of regret. Her fear was that it revealed her soul. Steph felt AJ nestle close, searching for comfort, but she had no wisdom to impart or pep talk to give.

  Hollywood’s social scene took a summer hiatus and didn’t kick into high gear until after the Jewish holidays in the fall, when the premieres and charity events ran uninterrupted through Christmas. People courted AJ as a young man on the rise and Stephanie as the easy-mixing spouse, informed enough about the business to converse with the pros and still able to gab to the civilian wives. After so many gatherings they were blasé about getting dolled up, but tonight AJ struggled with his tuxedo studs and Steph practiced a curtsy till she was stiff in the knees.

  The same scene played out in the homes of those lucky enough to have received an invitation to the party of the year. Bona fide royalty had arrived in Hollywood in the persons of England’s Princess Margaret and her husband, Lord Snowdon. The “A” ticket in town was a dinner for the couple at the Bistro restaurant in Beverly Hills. Among the hosts were Mr. and Mrs. Ray Stark.

  As Steph descended the stairs, AJ bowed deeply. From behind his back he produced a magnificent orchid. “For my princess.”

  “AJ, it’s gorgeous. What’s gotten into you?”

  “What do you mean?” He pricked his fingers pinning it to her gown.

  “Dinner at Scandia last week, the earrings, and now this?”

  “I decided you deserve a more romantic hubby.”

  As they drove up to the restaurant, photographers snapped pictures of Steve and Neile McQueen. Directly ahead, AJ saw Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward exit their Volkswagen Beetle. “Paul works hard for that ‘just folks’ image, doesn’t he?” Steph observed.

  “There’s a Porsche engine under that hood that cost more than the whole car.”

  Newman posed with Steve, both actors squeezing out smiles. They regularly competed for parts, but their supposedly friendly rivalry had shifted to another venue. McQueen was an avid race-car driver, and the pros had been quick to acknowledge his skill. His pet project was a racing movie called Day of the Champions that he planned to start next year with director John Sturges. Newman had recently taken up the sport, but Steve regarded him as an imitator. McQueen’s envy of Newman was a pain in the butt for AJ. Not only did he have to sympathize with McQueen, he and Kamen also had to make sure that the actor saw every script offered to his rival.

  Inside the restaurant even jaded old hands gaped at the glamour of the gathered stars: Frank Sinatra and Mia Farrow, Jack Lemmon, Roz Russell, Shirley MacLaine and her brother Warren Beatty, Judy Garland, Rock Hudson, Bob Mitchum, and more. Liz Taylor gave AJ a big kiss and introduced her new husband, Richard Burton. The Americans lined up eagerly to meet the princess while commenting on how dowdy she was.

  Arm in arm with his wife, Gladys, David Begelman, dressed more Savile Row than the Brits, joined AJ and Steph. “Your husband i
s among the most talented—no, let me amend that—he is the most talented young agent in Hollywood.”

  “I agree.”

  “I keep asking him to come work with me, but I must not be a very good salesman.” Begelman managed to make smarmy self-deprecation courtly and convincing.

  An hour later AJ and Ray Stark relaxed in the courtyard. “Did you see Lastfogel eye you when Begelman did his number?”

  “If it weren’t for Stan, I might have switched to CMA.”

  “Forget it,” Ray scoffed, “the agencies are all the same.”

  “Which is exactly why I have to talk my idea over with you.” AJ’s pause grew pregnant. “I want to buy Paramount Pictures.”

  Stark removed his wallet. “How much do you need?”

  “I’m serious. I want us to do it together. Your connections and taste are a hell of a lot better than the duds running it now. And I can find the filmmakers who’ll dominate the business in five years.”

  “Are you and your client dropping acid again?”

  “Herb Siegel and Ernie Martin aren’t Koufax and Drysdale. If they can try, why can’t we?” Ray remained silent. “Hey, this is all your fault,” AJ joked. “You whipped my butt in Monopoly and said I lacked balls.”

  “So you’ve developed elephantiasis? Okay, I’m too bored to go back in there. Let’s explore your wet dream. How much?”

  “We could buy it lock, stock, and shooting stages for one hundred million dollars.”

  “Assume your figure is correct and we go out to raise the money, the first question the investor asks is what’s the EBITA.”

  “Huh?”

  “Earnings before interest, taxes, and amortization. You should read that chapter. Okay, how much cash flow does Paramount throw off?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What’s the current debt-to-equity situation?” AJ studied the laces on his patent-leather shoes. “What will it be after the takeover? Do the corporation’s voting regulations work in our favor? Are there any tax—”

  “You’ve made your point!”

  Stark shook his head. “No, I haven’t. Elliot Hyman and I considered this two years ago. So have twenty legitimate players. You’re way, way over your head. I know how much you dislike Herzog and Balaban—”

  “It’s more than that.” How much, he wasn’t certain.

  “You need to think about the consequences. If you go sticking your cock into places it doesn’t belong, somebody’s liable to cut it off. Then you’ll be worse than a eunuch.” He started back to the party. “Come on, our wives will be getting antsy.”

  Ray’s lecture embarrassed AJ. So he bought one share of Paramount stock at sixty-two dollars and, as a stockholder, requested every available piece of information on the company. Late at night he studied annual reports and 10-Ks. When he couldn’t figure out how to interpret them, he audited a class at UCLA business school to learn more about finance.

  The guinea pig for his final exam was Steph. If she could understand his presentation, so would investors. “The key is the enormous untapped value of Paramount’s film library,” he explained, pointing to a chart on an easel he’d carted into the bedroom.

  “More than other studios?” she asked.

  “Yes. In 1957 Herzog convinced Balaban to sell their pre-1948 films to Universal Pictures for fifty million dollars. Wasserman made a fabulous deal. He’s already recouped his investment five times over—and owns those rights in perpetuity. When he realized his blunder, Herzog refused to sell the studio’s post-1948 titles. So Paramount has two hundred virgin movies—never shown on the air—almost all in color, which is critical with color TV around the corner.”

  “Can you tell how much they might go for?”

  “I can indeed.” AJ flipped the page, delighted that his wife hadn’t dozed off. “I used recent deals as a guide. Then I valued Paramount’s other assets, like the Gower Street lot, the Famous Players theater chain in Canada, and the movies and television series in development.”

  She studied the bottom line. “So if you liquidated the company, the money you could get from selling all the assets would more than cover the cost of buying Paramount?”

  “Exactly. Given the goodwill of Paramount’s name, the place is a steal.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why the long face? I thought it made sense.”

  “It does—a lot. Someone’s going to pay attention, but if it’s the wrong person, you’ll lose your job.”

  “Is that such a terrible loss?”

  “I think you’ve got so much going for you—remember what Begelman said.”

  “You think I can’t do it.”

  “I’m worried about the kids—”

  “Maybe you should worry about me.”

  Steph huffed out of bed. “Seven years ago I was the one who urged you to take a chance with your career. You didn’t have the guts. If you’d stuck with Leon and Kelly and Cohen, we’d be rich. So don’t try blaming me.” She walked out.

  Where the hell had that come from? Had she carried a grudge all that time because he’d opted for job security? Christ, he’d done it for her and for Ricky. Sometimes—no, too many times—he realized he didn’t know who Steph was. Had he ever known, or just imagined?

  CHAPTER 23

  After a grueling fifteen-hour flight from L.A., AJ rubber-legged onto the tarmac at the Taiwan airport, gulped a breath of fresh air, and nearly threw up. A stiff breeze was blowing across a rice paddy fifty yards from where the Pan Am pilot parked his 707, and whatever they used to fertilize the crop had aged badly. Clap Clap Shapiro, Steve McQueen’s local Chinese assistant, greeted him with a deep bow, then ordered three coolies to place his luggage into an ancient Mercedes. As they drove through the capital of Taipei, Clap Clap offered a chamber of commerce smile and pointed to a lonely palm tree shivering in the dying December day. “Just like home, Mr. AJ.”

  “Have you ever visited Los Angeles?”

  “No, but I see movies.”

  The only familiar element was the acrid smog. “The air’s a bit . . . pungent.”

  “No need to worry. Soon you not notice smell.”

  At a roundabout an unsmiling Chinese soldier blocked their progress with a locked and loaded M-1. Tanks, jeeps, and troop carriers roared by in an endless parade through the middle of the city. Although he had come of age during the Cold War, AJ had never approached its front lines, and the proximity of combat made Los Angeles seem more than an ocean away. Around him heroic posters of Chiang Kai-shek were plastered to the walls of buildings, exhorting citizens to defend themselves. “Is it always so martial?”

  Clap Clap motioned across the Formosa Strait to Communist China. “Two day ago we fight big battle. Gunboats go bang-bang many hours.”

  “Who won?”

  “No one ever win, just go bang-bang.”

  The chatter of coolies in the fields awakened AJ at six A.M. It was chilly enough in the McQueens’ rented farmhouse to see his breath, so he dressed under the covers, then hurried downstairs to join Steve for his drive to the set. Neile produced a paper bag filled with cinnamon toast, explaining that her husband loved to eat it during the day. It was Clap Clap, however, who munched a slice while Steve drove. McQueen cheerfully confessed that he sold the toast to the crew for fifty cents a slice. His salary for The Sand Pebbles was $650,000, but no bank balance was fat enough to quell Steve’s gnawing fear that the poverty of his youth would grip him again.

  “Have you killed Grand Prix yet?” McQueen asked anxiously. MGM’s film was the rival to Day of the Champions. Both productions had filmed footage at European tracks and were bumper-to-bumper in their race to start principal photography in the spring. Steve had pressured the Morris Agency to force Metro to abandon its project—a ludicrous demand to everyone but him.

  “Bad news,” AJ replied gingerly. “They told us to go to hell. Their movie’s going ahead as scheduled.”

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” In his fury Steve hit a pothole the size of a bo
mb crater. The Mercedes launched into the air, bounced down, and skidded off the road toward a pond filled with green goo. McQueen regained control and halted inches from the edge. The wheels spun as he gunned the engine.

  “I’ll check the trunk,” AJ volunteered. “There’s got to be something to help with traction.” He wedged himself out the passenger door—and immediately sank up to his shins. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Steve dissolved in laughter.

  A truck carting winter melons stopped to tow them free. As he doubled his speed to make up for lost time, McQueen opened his window to let in the air. “You stink.”

  “I appreciate your candor.”

  “Personally, I love you, man.” Steve reversed to dead serious. “But what the fuck am I paying Morris hundreds of thousands of dollars for?”

  AJ knew that, like virtually every character he’d ever played, his friend was a distrusting loner who was incapable of acknowledging the help he’d received over the years. He also knew it was an agent’s fate to suffer abuse. Still, the question hurt. “Grand Prix isn’t cast yet,” he told McQueen calmly. “And they’re not going to land anyone at your level. As long as Day of the Champions starts when you’re finished here, we’re okay.”

  When he was locked in his office at William Morris, with a phone crooked in his neck till he looked like a listing ship, AJ felt so divorced from the actual filmmaking process that he might as well have been selling anvils. But that changed the second he spied the telltale signs of a movie in vivo—trucks and trailers, cranes and dolly tracks, assistants with walkie-talkies, and the crew noshing on snacks from craft service. His love affair with sets had begun in 1940 when his dad had taken him to see the filming of The Road to Zanzibar. Dorothy Lamour had bestowed lipstick on his cheek and Bing Crosby had helped him hit Bob Hope on the head with a rubber hammer. At the age of six, it didn’t get much better.