Action! Page 21

  He drove home at dawn, intent on showering, getting under the covers, and sleeping till tomorrow. The garage was empty—no sign of his wife’s station wagon or Maggie’s Chrysler. He called the kids in vain, then spied an envelope propped up on the kitchen table. He trembled, certain that Steph had taken Ricky and Jess and was suing for divorce. But the scribbled message announced a defection on a second front.

  Ricky nervously traced the stitching on the cowboy hat Grandma Maggie had bought for him as soon as they’d landed in Austin. The salesman hadn’t had one in his sister’s size, so Jess had gotten a rawhide vest. The trip was a surprise. Only minutes after his mom had dropped him and his sister off, Grandma had whisked them to the airport to board a Braniff Airlines plane. On the way they’d played tic-tac-toe and he’d won every time.

  They arrived by cab at a school that looked like UCLA and went straight to the office of a man who had shaggier hair than Ringo Starr. He called himself Dr. Doug, even though he must have had a last name. His grandmother said the doctor would help him learn to read, but Ricky didn’t see why coming to Texas would make a difference. After she left, Dr. Doug asked him to read a story, but he got mixed up, like always, so the man read it to him. The story was about an elephant named Eric who enjoyed playing with the other elephants, but they didn’t like him. “I thought it was boring,” Ricky answered when asked for his opinion.

  “Doesn’t do much for me either. I like stories with more pow!” Ricky giggled. “Why do you think the other elephants teased Eric?”

  “Because his trunk was pink. Only girls have pink trunks.”

  “How would you have rewritten it?”

  Ricky thought that was a good question. “Eric’s father takes him to a class where he learns judo and kicks the other elephants on their big backsides. Then he hits them with his trunk to prove that pink ones can also be strong.”

  Dr. Doug removed cards from his desk and flashed the first. “What letter is this?”

  “I think it’s a d.” From the doctor’s expression he knew his answer was wrong. He grabbed the card and ripped it up.

  “You’re a young man with strong feelings—that’s good. How about this one?”

  “Maybe a b?” Maybe a b—he was seven years old, what was the use? “I don’t want to do this.”

  “Do you like skywriting?”

  “Like at the beach?”

  “Exactly. I want you to write some of the letters you’re not sure of in the sky, as if you were the pilot of the plane.”

  It sounded silly, but Ricky let the doctor guide his index finger, slowly tracing a b in the air.

  “Now feel how the line goes down and then up halfway to form the circle to the right. That’s b,” Dr. Doug said firmly. “Now we’re going to make a d and touch it.”

  Ricky felt the letter even though it wasn’t there.

  “Now I want you to do it by yourself.”

  His hand weighed a million pounds, but he managed to raise it.

  Maggie watched her granddaughter curl up on the couch in Dr. Gerlich’s waiting room and cry herself to sleep pleading for her mommy. Jessica was sweet but lacked firepower and feistiness—she was the unlucky beneficiary of too many of her mother’s genes. Ricky was determined and special, although AJ couldn’t see it—he was too blinded by his career to see anything. The doctor stepped out to invite her into his office, but there was no wink of assurance.

  Ricky was pacing, practicing a karate chop he’d seen on I Spy. The doctor held up a card with the word bed on it. “I’m going to read it, Grandma.” Ricky slowly traced the letters, retraced them in the sky, then back on the card. He spoke the word bed with as much hesitance as hope.

  “Oh my God.” Maggie hugged her grandson.

  “Why don’t you try one, Mrs. Jastrow. Make it tough.”

  Maggie chose was because Ricky had difficulty with w’s and s’s. It took a moment, but he read it correctly, celebrating by snatching all his imaginary letters from the air. His cheer woke Jess, who came in rubbing her eyes. Ricky rushed to brag about his success.

  “Your grandson’s extremely intelligent,” Gerlich whispered. “There’s no problem with comprehension—Ricky surpasses grade level. His difficulty lies in decoding the written word. The way he transposes letters indicates a condition called dyslexia.”

  “How come they don’t know this in Los Angeles?”

  “Most professionals in my field think they already have the answers. And the public school establishment brands these children as being slow or having behavioral problems because it’s easier. With your permission I’m going to write up Ricky’s case, because his impatience, aggressive touching of objects, and impulsiveness fit the profile perfectly.” Gerlich handed her a business card with the name of one of his former students who taught in San Diego. “I’m afraid that’s the closest help available.”

  “What causes this?”

  “Shake your family tree, a dyslexic relative will probably fall out.”

  “I’ll bet it’s my husband’s mother. Everyone said the old bat couldn’t read because she came from Russia.”

  On the way to the airport Maggie noticed that Ricky’s sense of triumph had waned, replaced by melancholy. “Do you think that Mom and Dad will really believe I was able to read?”

  The question made her sad as well. “I’ll swear to it.”

  “Why didn’t they come on this trip?”

  Maggie swallowed her actual thoughts. “Your mom and dad love you very much, but they’re busy with their own lives. Parents are like that. That’s why God made grandmas—to make sure that children’s problems always come first.”

  CHAPTER 27

  AJ fashioned his phone cord into a noose. Should he risk Lastfogel’s wrath by being late to the staff meeting or cut off McQueen’s trans-Pacific bitching? The client always got the nod—especially when he had a legitimate gripe. After four months of shooting, Steve faced seven more grueling weeks on The Sand Pebbles. AJ glanced at his desk calendar, which starred a July 1 start for Day of the Champions. “I’ll call John Sturges and tell him we have to delay principal photography.”

  “Thanks but no thanks. You’ve got to kill it.”

  “Kill what?”

  “The movie.”

  AJ assumed Steve was teasing. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m dead serious, man. Five films in two years—you guys have overscheduled me. I’m too fucked up to face another production.”

  “You can still beat out Grand Prix, even with another delay.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I don’t care”—but how about everyone else, asshole? How about all the chits and favors we called in to keep the project alive? How about the million dollars Warners has already spent? How about your friend Sturges—he passed on five other gigs. “Steve, are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yeah,” he yawned. “But I can’t look like the heavy. Find somebody to blame.”

  AJ slumped in his chair. It was impossible to reason with his client and useless to tell him to go to hell. That left the depression of accommodation. “Finessing these things is our job.”

  “What would I do without you, man?”

  You’ll find out, AJ consoled himself, sooner than you think.

  Abe Lastfogel was even later than AJ to the Monday meeting, which provided agents a chance to spread gossip over their bagels and lox. Topic one was a story in Variety under the headline G + W TO SCALE PAR MOUNTAIN? Over the weekend Charles Bluhdorn—a mysterious stranger to movie executives—had purchased the Paramount stock owned by dissidents Siegel and Martin and was in negotiation for the shares owned by Chicago businessman Nate Drummond. The article speculated that Gulf + Western targeted total control of the studio.

  AJ played dumb. He and Bluhdorn had spoken briefly yesterday, with Charlie assuring him that everything was on schedule. After their golf outing Drummond had indeed called Weisl to announce his lack of confidence in Paramount’s management team. And as hoped, Ed had pan
icked and asked Bluhdorn if Gulf + Western was still interested in stepping in. But AJ wished it were official, because something in Charlie’s voice had given him pause. Or maybe he had read too many thrillers where the guy with the axe came out of the closet at the last possible moment.

  A squadron of agents, including Kamen, listened to Sammy Weisbord whine. “I hope this Bluhdorn rumor is bullshit, because if it’s not, you’re seeing the beginning of the end of Hollywood as we know it. A guy like him doesn’t even know what a director or a producer or, God forbid, an agent does.”

  Stan couldn’t mistake the fear on the faces of his troops. He needed to rally them. “Then we’ll teach Bluhdorn. He’s probably so bored with the auto-parts business he’ll love joining our world.”

  “You’re assuming he cares about movies and TV,” Sam replied grimly. “Don’t kid yourself. Our only value is to make him a buck.”

  AJ fired from the outer circle. “Maybe Bluhdorn can help us make a buck.”

  Agents backed away so that Weisbord could spot the sniper. “You don’t know squat about this, Jastrow.”

  “I know that the people who ran the film business for the last twenty years failed to regain the audience they lost.” That’s your generation, Weisbord. “Time’s run out on them.”

  AJ readied for a counterattack, but Weisbord snorted and returned to Kamen. “This won’t stop with Paramount. Corporate types are ants in the kitchen—there’s never just one. A year from now Procter & Gamble or some insurance company will snag U.A., Warners, or Fox. Wasserman’s the only guy tough enough to take them on. Nobody will ever own Universal but him.”

  “You’re right about that, Sammy.” Lastfogel barged in, all smiles. “But take it from me, none of us has to worry about Bluhdorn.”

  Weisbord turned puppy dog. “Good news, Mr. Lastfogel?”

  “I just got off the phone with my contact in New York. Ed Weisl and Paul Herzog met Bluhdorn last night—it turned into a lovefest, Chinese food and all. Charlie admitted that outsiders had bad-mouthed their performance but confided that he’d discounted those statements as sour grapes. The more he investigated, the better he liked Paramount’s prospects—otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten involved. Paul Herzog is in like Flynn. Now, can we get down to business?”

  AJ shook, but no one seemed to notice. They were too busy pumping their clients’ careers. He could barely sit still when Lastfogel and Kamen asked him to remain behind at the end of the meeting. This time there was no offer of seltzer.

  “A mistake was made at your salary review.”

  They want their money back—tough luck.

  “We’re going to rectify it by awarding you a bonus of five thousand dollars.”

  “What?”

  Kamen chimed in. “You’ve done a great job servicing Steve McQueen and several of our clients.”

  This was the kind of gesture the partners made only to those selected players who would someday own a piece of William Morris. AJ knew that beyond the gratitude, Lastfogel expected to hear “I want to be here forever.” He didn’t want to be there another minute, but suppose Bluhdorn had lied to him? He was defenseless. Ray had been correct way back when—AJ didn’t have guts. Capitulate gracefully. “Mr. Lastfogel, Stan, I’m really pleased that you—”

  “One other thing, Jastrow.” Abe slid a file across the table. “Cut out this extracurricular garbage.”

  AJ had never seen an FBI file—much less one with his name on it. Inside were memos, marked “Confidential—Eyes Only,” that reported his participation at the antiwar meetings at Dan Cohen’s house in Laurel Canyon. “What is . . . I don’t understand. . . . How did they get the letter to my congressman? Cohen’s people couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “The Bureau is the best judge of that,” Lastfogel replied abruptly. “Special Agent Banks, who’s in charge of the L.A. office, has concluded that cells like his are undermining the war effort and risking the lives of our troops.”

  AJ told himself he wasn’t part of this ridiculous discussion. “Sir, I voted for Barry Goldwater.”

  “We won’t hold that against you . . . just kidding.”

  “This isn’t fair. You can’t silence my political views—”

  “Jastrow, this Commie stuff ends here.”

  AJ stared at the wisps of hair growing out of the man’s ears. The tendrils grew longer and longer, till they reached across and under the table, ensnaring him in a net. He flailed helplessly, weakened by too many pragmatic concessions, swallowed objections, and self-serving rationalizations. But just before Lastfogel reeled him in and pickled him in the William Morris barrel, AJ broke free. “Thanks for the offer, but save your money. It’s time for me to move on. I’m resigning.”

  Kamen’s elbows slipped off the table.

  “It’s Begelman, isn’t it?” Lastfogel thundered. “You bought his bullshit.”

  “I’m not going to CMA. I don’t have another job right now, but—”

  “You ungrateful snotnose . . . you . . . you Benedict Arnold . . . you Alger Hiss. Get out! I want you out of this building before lunch.” He stormed over. “And if you try taking your Rolodex, I’ll call the cops.”

  “Abe, a Rolodex theft is a federal offense, isn’t it?” AJ rose from that table one last time. “Call the FBI instead.”

  Stan followed him out, spinning him around by the shoulder. “You want to explain what that was about?”

  “Survival.” AJ flushed from his daring. “I don’t know how you’ve taken this shit for so many years.”

  “Low expectations.”

  “I can’t live that way . . . not yet.”

  Bill Haber helped pack his personal possessions. “I’m going to miss you, boss. Any room for me where you’re going?”

  “I don’t know if there’s room for me. But I’ve recommended to Kamen that he make you an agent immediately.”

  His assistant blushed. “I already got three calls saying you were fired. What do I say?”

  “Tell them they should be so lucky.”

  Steph popped the lid on a cold Coors. Her weekly drives to the reading specialist in La Jolla, combined with the fallout from AJ’s infidelity, were taking a toll in crow’s-feet and back spasms. Now she could add her husband’s rash independence to the mix. Speak of the devil . . .

  AJ stepped into the kitchen. “Ricky’s doing great,” he ventured. “I actually understood the story he read me. And he seems . . . easier to be with.”

  “Try four hours in the car twice a week before you say that.”

  “Okay. I’ll drive him next week.”

  “We’ll see.” Her husband promised anything and everything to get back on her good side, but she refused to believe a word. “You still think Bluhdorn will come through?”

  “I do.”

  “I hope you’re a better judge of character than I am,” she remarked snidely.

  “The FBI bullshit was a blessing in disguise. I’m too free-spirited for Morris, and bottom line, I don’t want to be an agent. You know how crazy it’s made me.”

  “Don’t blame Palm Springs on a lousy career choice.”

  “Christ, how many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

  Are you kidding, buster?

  AJ recognized that mistake and took a different tack. “Let’s use some of the money we made on the stock to take a vacation . . . just you and me.” He nuzzled her neck. “I love you.”

  Her body stiffened. “I’ve got to mash the potatoes.”

  “This won’t work if I’m the only one.”

  “Is that a threat?” Anger was a relief, so she seized every pretense for it. “Are you telling me you want a divorce if I don’t screw you?”

  “Hey, I’m leaving before you charge me with rape.”

  She heard him in the garage revving the engine of his car. Divorce was all she thought about—how much alimony she might get, how it would affect the kids, where they could afford to live.

  Jessie trotted in. “Read me a story.”
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br />   Steph suggested A Little Princess or the Bobbsey Twins, but her daughter insisted on Nancy Drew. “Are you sure? That’s for girls a little older than you.”

  “Grandma gave it to me. She’s gonna be a defective.”

  Out of the mouths of babes. “You mean a detective?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  When they came to the part where Nancy discovered the dead body, Steph made a note to tell her mother-in-law to keep her literary choices to herself.

  AJ’s extended summer vacation ended on October 8, when stockholders voted final approval of the merger of Paramount Pictures into Gulf + Western Industries. A limousine honked from the curb. He grabbed an attaché case with nothing in it and set off—fighting a case of the jitters worthy of the first day of school. Bluhdorn sat ensconced in the back, surrounded by scripts and files. “This is a total piece of shit,” he sneered. “What do you think?”

  Its title was The Psychopath. “Cut-rate Hitchcock. But, Charlie, it would be better if you asked the opinion of others before you gave your own. Most Hollywood people won’t contradict the big macher, regardless of what they really think.”

  “Fuck that. I don’t want no yes-men around me.” He studied AJ suspiciously. “You got too good a tan. Next time I come out, you better be pale from making me money.”

  “Are you excited?”

  “Nah. Just another business to me.”

  Not according to Gail Suchinsky, Paramount’s new head of casting; she’d confided to AJ that Bluhdorn was having a wild time with Hollywood’s under-twenty-five-year-old blondes. Sam Weisbord had been wrong when he’d predicted that this Attila would pillage for riches—Charlie had bought in to get laid.

  “I’m excited enough for both of us.”