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  Venturing onto the set of The Sand Pebbles, AJ felt conspicuous in his modern dress, so stunning was the re-creation of China in 1926. McQueen played Jake Holman, a disaffected American sailor who was the chief engineer on a gunboat patrolling the Yangtze River. The San Pablo (miscalled Sand Pebble by the film’s locals) had been constructed at the staggering cost of a quarter of a million dollars because the director, Bob Wise, wanted all the details perfect. And after directing The Sound of Music, which had made Fox more than a hundred million dollars, Wise could have gotten the studio to build him Peking.

  AJ had envisioned scenes from The Sand Pebbles the first time he’d read the script. Watching McQueen coach a Chinese coolie to box an American bully, AJ found himself grimacing with the blows, laughing at Steve’s pained expressions, and cheering the knockout. This was what his negotiating, hand-holding, and bush-beating were all about. Beyond the thrill of shooting was the liberation of location. At home AJ’s obligations to family, friends, and employer flattened his fantasies and desires. He needed the road to experience freedom. That’s why his days at summer camp had been halcyon. A movie set was the adult version. The crew was oblivious to the world, focused only on their daily pursuit of two great minutes of film. Strangers bonded and fought and fell in love, then hugged and kissed good-bye—often never to meet again.

  On the Sand Pebbles set Wise was king to everyone but Steve. Their power struggle was bound to explode, and the igniting incident was a two-hour delay while the cameraman lit a complex crane shot. AJ overheard Wise explaining the reasons to McQueen, who argued that the setup was unnecessary. “Steve, that’s my call, not yours. And if you’d let me get to it, we’ll be ready quickly.”

  “You don’t want to talk to me, Bob?” Steve yelled. “Then I’m not talking to you!”

  In frustration Wise beckoned to AJ. “I don’t understand your client. Last week we couldn’t get the boat started, so Steve went below and had it purring in ten minutes. The son of a bitch had learned everything about the engine because Holman would have known everything. He’s the most dedicated actor I’ve met, but whenever he can’t get his way, we become the enemy. Maybe you can calm him down.”

  McQueen was preparing to bolt from his trailer. Like a parent with a pacifier, AJ took out a deck of cards and suggested stud poker, then proceeded to lose twenty bucks, which wasn’t easy because the actor was a lousy card player. AJ steered the conversation from Wise to women. “Candice is gorgeous. Can she act?”

  Steve sneered at the mention of his costar. “She’s as stiff as her father’s puppet.”

  “Nineteen, her first big movie—”

  “Bullshit. Candy Bergen needs to get laid.”

  “It doesn’t seem that should be so difficult.”

  “You’d be surprised—sure she’s beautiful, but she’s colder than a witch’s tit. Talk about getting laid, I see you signed Romy Schneider. There’s a babe. Maybe you could introduce me.”

  AJ nearly spit up his beer. “She’s got a boyfriend.”

  “So? I’ve got a wife.” The assistant director knocked to announce that Wise was ready. Steve pinched AJ’s cheek. “Never mind. I forgot what a prude you are.”

  A platoon of American soldiers on R&R from Vietnam packed the honky-tonk on Sun Yat-sen Road where AJ and Steve stopped for drinks on the way home. When two of them asked for autographs, McQueen offered to buy a round. “How long before you whip those gooks?”

  The one with the heavy beard laughed bitterly. “We got to find them before we can whip them.” His eyes displayed the haunted look of someone who had watched his house destroyed by a raging fire.

  “The papers at home claim we’re making progress,” AJ commented.

  “Assholes. They’re listening to Westmoreland.” The second G.I. was high on something other than enthusiasm. “The light at the end of the tunnel? The only thing at the end of the tunnel’s another fucking tunnel.”

  After they left, AJ knocked back a shot of rice wine. “That was uplifting.”

  “Every one of them is like that,” Steve observed.

  “The parallels are eerie.”

  “What parallels?”

  “Richard McKenna wrote The Sand Pebbles a decade ago—about a world four decades ago. But the way the Chinese despise your character as a foreign devil, I’ll bet it’s exactly how the Vietnamese view a marine patrolling the Mekong Delta.”

  McQueen nodded. “I suppose, but if we don’t halt the VC, Hong Kong will be next.”

  “You think so?”

  “You don’t?”

  AJ shrugged. “I’ve been trying to sign a young writer named Dan Cohen, and he gave me a pamphlet by a group called Students for a Democratic Society. It argues that Vietnam’s a civil war and we’ve got no right to get involved.”

  “We can be involved in whatever the fuck we want if it kills Reds.”

  Given Steve’s politics, this was one fight AJ didn’t need. “Relax. I’m just keeping an open mind. Are you buying the next round or am I?”

  The phone was ringing as they reached the farmhouse. Neile shouted that James Garner, who was caring for their dogs, was on the line from Los Angeles. Steve grabbed the receiver. AJ and Neile assumed that one of the animals was hurt, but as color drained from Steve’s cheeks, they wondered . . . earthquake?

  “Hey, Jim, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. . . . Of course there are no hard feelings.” Steve then screamed at the dead receiver, “Die, you motherfucker!”

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “MGM offered Garner the part in Grand Prix. He took it and didn’t want me to read it in the papers.” McQueen mimicked AJ. “ ‘The part’s not cast.’ Uh-uh. The part is cast with my next-door neighbor.”

  Why the hell hadn’t the office cabled a warning? He would ream Haber a new asshole for this screwup. “It must have just happened. I still think that—”

  “Who the fuck cares? It’s your fault I’m stuck here, not back home prepping Champions.”

  What about “You’re my hero”? That’s what Steve had proclaimed after AJ delivered The Sand Pebbles. “If you’ll let me finish—”

  “Tell Kamen I expect William Morris to keep Warners from canceling us. And don’t forget my papers are up in a few months. This would never have happened if Freddie Fields was representing me.”

  AJ walked the perimeter of the farmhouse, formulating a strategy. He would make sure Stan got on a plane. They would beg the studio to hang in. Somehow McQueen would stay put. But where was the light at the end of AJ’s tunnel? He had fallen for the illusion of representation. For eight years he’d considered Steve a friend first and then a client, but reality was the reverse. Cynical agents understood this, but AJ was a romantic. The realization left him certain that he needed a new line of work.

  AJ fingered the gold Chinese characters embroidered on his royal blue silk robe. According to the butler who’d toured him through his suite at Hong Kong’s Peninsula Hotel, the letters signified inner peace. For the first time in his short-term memory he knew what that meant. The Peninsula was a haven of class and elegance in the gaudiest, most electric city he’d ever visited. AJ gazed across a congested harbor, where modern cargo ships threatened to swamp ageless Chinese junks, to Hong Kong Island, whose skyline rivaled Manhattan’s. But the best view was reflected on the windows from inside the suite.

  Romy Schneider sat at an inlaid-ivory desk composing postcards to her friends in Vienna. This assignation had been her idea, but he’d planned every detail. Now that she was his client, they talked daily, but because of her prior commitment to a film in Hamburg, they had seen each other only once since the affair at the Chateau Marmont. Romy had flown in yesterday to shop, entirely, it seemed, for alluring lingerie. She fingered the lacy edge of her gray gossamer teddy, wet the pen with her tongue, and closed with a line that pleased her.

  Romy departed to the bathroom and AJ returned to bed. The sheets and blanket formed a mountain range of peaks where they had kic
ked and rolled for hours. He heard her heels tap the marble floor. Damn it—the woman had left the door open. In the full-length mirror he saw the teddy slip off her shoulders as she sat gently on the commode. Did she forget or was she teasing him? He glanced over as the toilet flushed. Romy was astride the bidet, beckoning him to join her. He entered, timidly at first, then ran the tub at her request. Where was his former dominance? Frankly, he didn’t give a damn.

  L.A. Chinese food consisted of wonton soup, spareribs, and chow mein, so the menu at Qua Ling’s presented a new sensation. His favorite dish was called drunken shrimp. The waiter selected live prawns, woozy from swimming in a bowl of rice wine, and submerged them in a silver samovar filled with boiling broth. “If your time is up, it’s definitely the way to go.” AJ sliced off a shrimp’s head and swallowed it, shell and all.

  “I believe he’s coming back.” Romy was straight-faced. “In some other form, but he’ll be back.”

  Horror crossed AJ’s face. “You think he’ll be pissed?”

  “Go ahead, make fun. I believe in reincarnation. I was a doe in one life and an African slave in another. There are dozens of existences I haven’t discovered yet. What do you believe in?”

  “After my dad died, I tried to believe in an afterlife because then I could see him again. But I’m not spiritual. No one born in Brooklyn is. These days I don’t think about it. If there’s nothing out there, then I didn’t waste my time in idle speculation.”

  “You’re so pragmatic.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “An American thing.” Romy stared at him enigmatically. “Do you think about what will happen to us, or is that also ‘idle speculation’?”

  It was the first time either of them had discussed their nascent relationship outside the present tense. He affected nonchalance. “I thought after this trip you would get bored and dump me.”

  “I thought the same thing—now . . . who knows? But the idea that my agent can drive me crazy with his cock . . . that could be a problem.”

  Great—he risked being fired by friend and paramour within forty-eight hours. While picking the red peppers out of his Hunan beef, he asked, “Do you know a really rich guy?”

  “Several. Why?”

  “Since we’re not breaking up, I may have to quit being an agent.”

  Romy laughed. “I appreciate the devotion.”

  “I’m actually contemplating another opportunity, but it requires a major investor.”

  “I know a man who is a multimillionaire and a gambler.” Her rich man’s name was Charles Bluhdorn, a fellow Austrian whom she’d met at a party a year ago. “He’s taken me to dinner at Lutèce and still calls frequently.”

  “Old guy?”

  “Late thirties. Fascinating. And I think he might like you. He owns a company that makes bumpers for automobiles.”

  “Hardly a résumé that relates to movies.”

  “Charlie doesn’t care about what a business does, only if it can make him money.” Romy added a worldly-wise smile. “But he does care about beautiful women, and the movies have lots of those.”

  “Will you set up an introduction?”

  “If you behave yourself. Now let us hope the next course is vegetarian.”

  Steph and the kids waved American flags at LAX when his plane touched down. He gave Jess a Chinese doll, Ricky a carved puzzle box, and his wife a breathtaking string of freshwater pearls. At home his present was a carton from work. While divvying the fifteen new scripts into “must read,” “someday,” and “no way,” he recounted his debacle with McQueen.

  “Steve’s a different person since he made it big in films,” she sympathized from the dressing room. “I didn’t tell you at the time, but after volunteering to host your surprise party, he sent me a bill for the food and wine.”

  “I hope you ripped it up.”

  “Neile did when she found out.” Steph emerged wearing a black cocktail dress and her new pearls. “I missed you so much, AJ. Any chance you missed me?”

  He threw his wife down on their bed, determined to make spontaneous, crazy love, to find the passion he longed for here on the home front. But when he started to talk sexy tough and kiss her where she wasn’t used to being kissed, Steph looked . . . confused, as if a disc jockey had slipped a Jimi Hendrix release on the turntable of a folk station. It was back to basics. The only unusual development was that she fell asleep first.

  A victim of jet lag, AJ trudged downstairs. Overspiced by Chinese food, he wanted nothing so much as a Tab and a corned-beef sandwich. His marital reunion had proved a disquieting blah. On the kitchen table a magazine was dog-eared to an article about a doctor in Texas who helped kids with learning problems. His mother strikes again. This kook was probably recommending leeches. The first few paragraphs were more potent than a sleeping pill, and the next thing he heard was his daughter’s giggle.

  “Daddy, it’s time to go to work.”

  AJ raised his head from his deli plate, his chin stained with crusty mustard. It was six-thirty A.M. and Jess was happily feeding Dimples, the cat. Back to reality.

  CHAPTER 24

  Thank you, Adidas. AJ had purchased a pair of their new luxury sneakers after arriving in New York to confront chaos from a New Year’s Day strike that shut down bus and subway service in the five boroughs. Now, hiking past honking traffic and leaking garbage in lower Manhattan, he recognized in Mayor John Lindsay’s struggle against the transit union a harbinger of his generation’s death match with the archaic powers in Hollywood. This trip was his chance to strike a blow for the good guys. In the next forty-eight hours AJ planned to meet with two investors who had the resources to finance his proposed takeover of Paramount.

  By chance, his presentations coincided with a showdown in the lawsuit that the studio had instigated to kick Herb Siegel and Ernie Martin off the board of directors. Entering the federal courthouse, AJ slipped into a seat at the back of the gallery, immediately identifying the key players. The guy with the curling iron hair was Louis Nizer, Paramount’s pit-bull attorney. Yesterday Nizer had pressured Siegel into acknowledging that his part ownership of a talent agency created a conflict of interest because the studio was a potential buyer of his clients. From the annual report AJ recognized the steely patrician peppering Nizer with advice as Ed Weisl, chairman of Paramount’s executive committee. Weisl was a senior partner in a prestigious law firm and virtually ran the Democratic Party in the state. And there was Paul Herzog supporting a stoop-shouldered old man. . . . God, was that . . . ? It was. After Barney Balaban had given the green light to The Fall of the Roman Empire—one of the sorriest financial flops in movie history—Weisl had stripped him of his power and forced him into the figurehead role of chairman.

  The clerk called Balaban for his cross-examination. It took forever for him to reach the stand. The defense counsel, Paul Connelly, approached within inches because the witness was nearly deaf but too vain to wear an aid. “Sir, you love Paramount Pictures, don’t you?”

  “Like my firstborn.”

  “And you’d do whatever is necessary to protect it?”

  Balaban nodded. “I would.”

  Connelly backed away like a camera on a slow dolly shot. “When you saw Mr. Siegel and Mr. Martin in your boardroom, you feared for the well-being of your company, did you not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  AJ noticed Weisl and Herzog shifting nervously as Connelly continued his faux-friendly cross-examination. He enticed Balaban to admit that the board had been less outraged by conflict of interest than by meddling and criticism. And with each question, he roamed further afield, forcing the chairman to lean off balance to hear him. Nizer objected, but Barney insisted he was fine. “They called Paul Herzog and me incompetents,” he snarled. “They complained we were giving away the store.”

  “So the real reason you came to court was to have Judge Palmieri do what the Paramount board couldn’t—get the foxes out of your chicken coop?”

  “You’re
damn right! I don’t have to kowtow. Who the hell do those bastards think they are?”

  Connelly charged. “I’ll tell you who they are. They’re stockholders. Mr. Siegel and Mr. Martin own eight percent of Paramount.” The lawyer was instantly in the witness’s face. “And your attempt to strip away their legitimate votes is a disgrace!”

  AJ pumped his fist. The admission had damned Paramount’s case. Judge Palmieri excused Balaban, but as he stood up, the gallery gasped. A stain spread from the crotch of his brown tweed suit down the right leg, spotting his brown oxford shoe with piss. In the movie business there was no dignity to the downfall of the mighty: David O. Selznick, Harry Cohn, and now his dad’s old boss. AJ determined that when he finally achieved power, no one would dispatch him in disgrace.

  A table at the ‘21’ Club meant you had arrived among the city’s power brokers. The booth commanded by the famed investment banker Charlie Allen announced that you were here to stay. Ray Stark had arranged the lunch after Paul Herzog had reneged on Stark’s Paramount deal. AJ summarized his plan while Allen attacked his blood-rare hamburger with the precision and dispassion of a feeding shark. “After we assume control, Ray would be chairman. We’ve drawn up a list of possible heads of production, including Stan Kamen, John Calley, and David Begelman, any of whom would be a monumental improvement over the guy there now.” His nervous energy expended, AJ grabbed for the rolls and butter.

  “Fascinating.” Allen suppressed a belch. “But I’m afraid backing your play would be an inefficient use of our money.”

  A bread stick froze in AJ’s mouth like an exploded cigar.

  “The movie business is too risky and the returns on investment are minuscule at best. The creative assets walk off the lot at night. And, frankly, I’m not sure there’ll even be a business twenty years from now, given the growth in cable television.”