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  Just like old times. The idea of taking Steve to Thailand—far from home, close to drugs—terrified AJ. But he’d promised Begelman a full-court press. “I wrote it for you.”

  “I can’t wait to read it.”

  A pair of perfectly polite lies.

  AJ marveled at how together McQueen looked for a man who’d gone way over the deep end. His career had almost ended after the disaster of Le Mans, the race-car movie he’d waited too long to make. But just as Hollywood was writing him off as over the hill, Steve responded with Papillon, his most successful film to date. His marriage to Neile had died after he’d put a gun to her head, forcing her to admit to a brief fling with actor John Gavin. He couldn’t accept or forgive her infidelity, he announced—forgetting that he’d fucked hundreds of girls. But just when he’d hit the bachelor market, he’d fallen in love with Ali MacGraw filming The Getaway. How small was the town? Their torrid affair had begun while Bob Evans lived in the cutting room of The Godfather.

  “You look great in fireman’s gear, Steve.”

  “I do, don’t I?” He broke into an ear-to-ear grin. “Freddie got me top billing over Newman.” McQueen had turned down Redford’s role in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid because Kamen couldn’t get him first position in the ads. He’d eventually fired the agent who’d created him—in a three-line telegram—and hired Begelman’s former partner, Freddie Fields. “He’s the kind of son of a bastard you want on your side. Now that you’re a writer, I’ll get him to represent you. And I’ve got a hot broad for you. She’s my masseuse—the most incredible hands.”

  The last woman Steve had matched him with was an actress who trained wolves for a hobby. “I better get out of here or they’ll blame me for making you late. Give me a call as soon as you finish it.”

  “Absolutely.” Steve skimmed a few scenes. “My character’s a lieutenant, huh? I’m a little old for that, so maybe we could promote him to major.”

  Farber’s inexperience was crucial to making the story work. “No problem,” AJ assured him. “We can figure it out.”

  Bluhdorn cursed AJ’s stupidity for leaving—and never offered anything as gracious as “good luck”—but the sentence was exile rather than execution. Although he refused to attend, Charlie authorized a thousand dollars for AJ’s going-away party. At the bash’s peak, the fire department threatened to close down Lucy’s El Adobe Café for overcrowding. AJ’s studio colleagues and friends from the movies he’d supervised were sloshed by the time Bob Evans, whose trust in AJ had been restored by his decision to leave, called for a speech by the guest of honor.

  “Last night my years at Paramount played on a loop in my mind, AJ began. “The amazing thing was . . . they were all bad.” People laughed nervously. “Actually, they were awful, devastating, and catastrophic. Reading the reviews on Darling Lili, I recall worrying that I’d have to default on my mortgage when they closed the studio. Or that night on the set of Waterloo when Sergei Bondarchuk was cursing in Russian, while five thousand extras stood around with nothing to do. Or trying to understand the dailies on Harold and Maude, then rushing to the set to find Hal Ashby so stoned he didn’t recognize Bob or me.”

  AJ studied the sea of faces. Maybe he was drunk or emotional—but friendship was alive and well in Hollywood.

  “Now I see that those terrible times were my best times—because I was able to share them with you. We’re in the same lifeboat and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Russ Matovich had a pogo stick for a spine. From the moment he arrived at AJ’s house—his motorcycle spraying gravel against the white stucco walls, his hair blown into unfathomable clumps—he bounced his way from room to room and subject to subject in a dizzying plea to direct Don’t Tread on Me. “If you want to be sure that I’m the right guy, look into my soul.”

  At least AJ hadn’t heard that one before. “That’s exactly what I’ll get to do, if we make the movie together.”

  “I’ve got a shortcut.” Russ thrust out his hand, featuring an oversized ring he might have picked from a box of Cracker Jack. “The guy in New York who invented it said the color of the crystal reveals your mood. Blue means I’m happy. You try it.” When it slipped into the groove where AJ’s wedding band had once rested, the quartz darkened to a rainstorm gray. “Whoa! That means you’re mucho tense.”

  AJ removed the ring before it faded to black—but didn’t argue with its diagnosis. Under prodding from Begelman he had spent weeks searching for an experienced director. Typecast candidates, like Frank Schaffner, who’d won the Oscar for Patton, didn’t wish to retread old territory, while pros like Fred Zinnemann and Sydney Pollack evinced no interest in a war movie. Peter Yates, the director of Bullitt, loved the script but was prepping Mother, Jugs & Speed. Frank Perry wouldn’t travel to Southeast Asia. As the rejections mounted, AJ sensed that David was second-guessing his decision to go forward. In his dad’s day, Frank Freeman would have ordered one of Paramount’s contract directors to the set. But in the wake of free agency, the new breed indulged their passions, which too often mismatched their talents.

  Fortunately, Matovich loved the script, and Begelman grudgingly agreed to approve him if AJ felt strongly after their meeting. In conducting due diligence AJ had spoken with Russ’s first producer, Roger Corman, who’d cited the director’s ingenuity and energy but warned that the guy needed slapping around from time to time. Matovich’s professors from USC Film School had graded him at the top of his class. Art Pratt, his last cameraman, had praised his sharp eye for shot making. And Ricky had never quit lobbying.

  “I think producers are mostly bullshit,” Russ offered breezily.

  Give him credit for honesty. “Really.”

  “It’s the writer and the director who make the difference. The fact that you wrote the script is cool.”

  “You’re what . . . twenty-eight?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “How’d you beat the draft?”

  “I had my mom get her shrink to write a letter that I was gay. At my medical exam I came on to the colonel like a flaming faggot, then went home and balled my girlfriend.”

  “God bless America.”

  “I’d have done worse to avoid that cluster fuck. Your screenplay catches it—the sense of being totally out of control. I’ve got to make the audience feel that Nam was free-falling without a chute.”

  “But in the end Farber regains control. His decision to determine if Tet Vanh is clear of VCs rather than simply annihilate it, that’s the moment we say that a person can maintain his humanity, cut through the chaos, and save innocent lives.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You suppose?” Supposing was unacceptable when it came to the core of what he and his father had created.

  “Don’t shit a brick. What Farber does is great. I wouldn’t have risked it, but I respected him. Maybe it just worries me that the end is anticlimactic when Tet Vanh turns out to be clean. But it’s my job to figure out how to deal with that.” Matovich reached into his portfolio and withdrew detailed storyboards. “I know I don’t have the job yet, but I’ve started planning shots for the key scenes.”

  AJ studied the first action sequence, in which VCs ambushed Farber’s squad. Palpable tension suffused the crude sketches. Something mysterious—perhaps the enemy or only a potbellied pig—remained slightly beyond the frame line. Tantalized, AJ turned the storyboards on their sides to catch a peek. Matovich seemed oblivious to his opinion, too busy bouncing around the garden, fingering the viewfinder that hung around his neck like a talisman. Directors used the device to visualize what the camera would see with different lenses. “Russ, this represents a lot of work on spec.”

  “I only sleep three hours a night, so I’ve got plenty of time to think. I’ve already shot half your script in my head.”

  “How is it?”

  “Ballsy. Tough. Scary. I heard you’re out to McQueen.”

  Sore point. “Yeah, but he’s been working craz
y hours on Towering Inferno and still hasn’t read it.”

  “No big deal,” Russ replied nonchalantly. “He’d be primo for box office, but I’m not sure he’ll take the chances we need an actor to take. I’d go with a newcomer. Shit, we’re the stars of this film!”

  An hour later AJ reported to Begelman, “The good news is he’s brilliant. The bad news . . . let’s just say modesty isn’t his strong suit.”

  “You think he’s our man?”

  “Unquestionably.” In the prolonged silence AJ worried that he was too ebullient.

  Finally, Begelman spoke. “I think you should book a trip to the Far East.”

  “Is this an official green light?”

  “Blinking yellow. Turning green when you’re cast.”

  Alone—but anxious to share his elation—AJ dialed the Sherry-Netherland Hotel in New York and asked for Julia Phillips’s suite. A man growled hello in a voice husky with illegal substances. AJ flinched. “May I speak to Julia?”

  “She can’t talk now, she’s giving me head. Call back in an hour.”

  Every single man and woman in Hollywood slept around—hell, so did half the married couples—and he and Julia weren’t remotely exclusive. So why was he jealous enough to think about prowling some bar to find an ingenue sipping a Harvey Wallbanger and seeking quick romance? Instead, AJ flipped on the TV, where his mom—already in reruns—pointed her Beretta at a quivering criminal. He poured a brandy, hunted up Breakfast of Champions, and crawled into bed.

  Stephanie jolted awake from her nap, disoriented to find herself riding shotgun next to her ex-husband. The sign on the shoulder of Interstate 87—ENTERING THE ADIRONDACK STATE PARK—reminded her why they were together. “How much longer?”

  “Another hour.” AJ exited onto two-lane Route 28. “Having second thoughts?”

  Her ex-husband could always read her mind—when he bothered to do so. “I’m worried about Jessie. Any time we do something as a team, she assumes that we’re going to reconcile.”

  “I explained we were visiting camp on the same weekend so we could both see Ricky in his big show.”

  She laughed at his naÏveté. “Rational explanations don’t cut it with thirteen-year-old romantics.”

  They drove in silence through forests of pine trees thick enough to blot out the sun, past lakes that shimmered as if the winter ice had just melted. A put-put, or even a canoe or sailboat, was rare. The few towns they passed had soda parlors, general stores, and barbershops. To Steph, this enclave of upstate New York seemed “the land that time forgot,” but it was Brigadoon to her ex. Proximity put a goofy smile on his face. That’s what he must have looked like from ages eight to eighteen. AJ returned to the car from a road stand carrying a handful of . . . muddy brown shoelaces?

  “Have a strip. It’s the best beef jerky in America. Based on an old Algonquin recipe.”

  The first bite almost cracked her molar. “Which is why the tribe disappeared.”

  “I used to make my parents stop and get a pound when they came up.” A quizzical expression crossed his face. “I never looked forward to those visits.”

  “I wouldn’t have either, if it meant seeing your mother.”

  “I miss how you used to snipe at her—it saved me the trouble.”

  Her giggle jolted both of them. Giggling—and every other joyful act between them—had ceased years ago, after Steph had learned through the grapevine the identity of AJ’s former mistress. How the hell was an Ohio girl supposed to compete with the memory of Romy Schneider?

  Still, they might have survived the affair if it weren’t for his job. Being a studio executive was hazardous to your soul. She couldn’t decide if she liked her husband less when he was arrogant or when he was scared—he seemed to flip-flop on alternate days. But in these last six months since he’d quit Paramount, she’d sensed a tectonic shift. AJ remained anxious, but his passion for his movie touched her, and his renewed ability to think about things other than film—the kids and the world—was refreshing. Steph actually found herself missing his . . . energy. That spirit had been the prevailing breeze in their marriage. Her reminiscences, however, were fraught, so she changed the subject. “How’s it going with your director?”

  “I get a kick out of Russ. One out of every three ideas he comes up with is brilliant. We’re trying to convince Begelman to let us hire Michael Douglas for Farber.”

  “Steve turned you down?”

  “Would you believe he never read it? You can’t approach an actor while he’s shooting.”

  “Please, he’s an ass.”

  A slice of blue flashed between the trees, then another, like skip frames in a film. Finally, the trees gave way and Raquette Lake, swelling with whitecaps, came into full view. “God, I could dive in right here,” he sighed.

  “Fight the impulse.”

  They parked and walked—AJ practically skipped the last few yards—to the Antlers. Modeled on the African Queen, it transported them two miles to the island camp. Fifty other parents joined them, their purses and bags weighed down by junk-food contraband, including enough jerky to keep the area dentists in business.

  Bernie Halperin, who had owned Raquette since AJ was a camper, understood that a mom and dad on the move couldn’t complain about their child’s soiled underwear or earwax, so he scheduled ninety minutes into every visiting hour. After rooting for Jess in volleyball, Steph panted hiking over to the soccer field. Meanwhile, AJ followed his daughter to the tennis courts.

  Could two children be less alike? Steph wondered. Ricky was tall for his age, with muscles filling out his pale frame and the hint of a beard. The way he played spoke volumes. Her son was focused, fast, and capable of breathtaking saves in the goal, but despite the high fives of his teammates, he responded with the deep blue stare of an ascetic who couldn’t be bothered with the kudos of the masses. But Jess was so tanned she might have summered in a different clime than her brother. She was more than part of the team; she was its captain—and soul—never ceasing to chatter encouragement and advice. No wonder the two of them co-existed rather than loved.

  By the time morning activities ended and everyone assembled for lunch, the bedraggled parents looked like they needed a summer vacation. Steph could no longer eat a meal without reviewing it in her mind. The barbecue sauce for the steak was too sweet, the corn waterlogged, and the salad overdressed, but only she seemed to mind. A forty-minute rest period normally followed lunch, but today Bernie had announced a surprise. From underneath the cool shade of an evergreen, Steph and Ricky watched AJ in the center of the campfire circle telling a new generation of campers “The Coney Island Maniac.” Apparently, the tale of horror he’d first concocted as a counselor was a legend.

  “Ahhhh! Noooo!”

  Steph smiled at the screams, including Jessie’s. “Your father can be a spellbinder.”

  “It’s a good thing, because Sis bragged to all the kids,” Ricky reported. “She’s heard him tell this ten times and still gets scared.”

  “How about you—are you nervous about tonight?” Her son was the lead in the camp’s production of Jesus Christ Superstar.

  “I don’t get nervous. It’s negative energy. A half hour before I go on I disappear into my part. It’s cool, especially when—”

  Another shriek from the crowd startled them.

  “I hope Dad doesn’t wear them out.”

  “You want to see something funny?” From her purse she removed a photo of AJ as Raquette’s youngest camper, in 1942. Ricky studied the fading picture as if it were an artifact from an Egyptian tomb. “Can you believe how small he was?”

  “I bet he had the neatest cubbies in camp.”

  Steph laughed. “Right. His underwear probably saluted.”

  A bugle blasted over the loudspeaker, then the disembodied voice of the head counselor urged his troops to the next activity. Jess obeyed, while Ricky loafed off. Steph saw AJ hustle toward her and signaled that she was through running around. He already had an al
ternative.

  As AJ paddled a canoe into a quiet cove off the lake, Steph broke the silence. A tremor in her voice betrayed her message. “AJ, I want to tell you something that you—”

  “You’re going to marry François Volk.”

  His mind reading was eerie. “How . . . how did you—”

  “The same ‘friends’ who told you about Romy.”

  Steph had met her Frenchman when he’d opened a bistro in Santa Monica. “We’re going to live together. I’m not sure I’ll ever remarry. But I’d like François to move into our house.”

  “It’s your house, the state of California says so.”

  This was hard for him. When they’d divorced, everyone had predicted that he’d find a new wife quickly, but she was the one in a committed relationship. “If it’s too weird, I could sell it and buy another place.”

  “I appreciate that, but stay. You deserve more happiness there than I gave you.”

  Turning to thank him, Steph slipped on the damp wicker seat and went for her first actual swim in Raquette Lake. How the kids hadn’t come down with pneumonia or hypothermia every summer was a mystery.

  Four hours later Steph was still shivering as she and AJ stood at the back of the social hall, which was packed with campers and parents. The mimeographed program listed Ricky as Jesus, Jane Cohen as Mary Magdalene, and Neil Hirshfield as Judas. “Kind of an odd choice for a Jewish summer camp,” she whispered as the lights dimmed.

  “Hey, all the characters were Jews.”

  The curtain parted and the cast appeared costumed in white robes and sandals, everyone’s hair so naturally long that no wigs were required. Their rendition of “What’s the Buzz?” promised that this wouldn’t be one of those amateur productions that made entertainment professionals cringe. It was well rehearsed, and nobody’s voice cracked. Ricky’s performance elevated the evening. He commanded the tiny stage, his voice echoing off the log walls. The pain and passion he mustered in his final plea to God amazed Steph. The audience rose as one for its ovation.