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  This kind of mealymouthed input was no help. “Folks, you have to—”

  “I vote for my brother,” Jessica piped up.

  “Good. Because . . . ?”

  “I’ve always worried about the believability of our premise. Would an urban terrorist really do something so heinous? Ricky did a better job of convincing me.”

  “I know I’m not a creative guy,” Pete interjected from the back row. “But if they’re so close, aren’t we better off with Ricky, who’s proven his acting chops, rather than Sweeney, who’s inexperienced?”

  AJ deliberated for a seeming eternity. “I’m going to make a statement. If any of you disagrees, it’s critical that you speak up.”

  The four nodded solemnly.

  “Sweeney’s performance was interesting and I rooted for him to nail Dreyfuss. Ricky’s acting was riveting, but I found myself rooting for Dreyfuss to escape.”

  No one said a word.

  After they departed, AJ paced the room alone. He was confident of two things. First, no matter how cleverly written and directed, thrillers like Water, Water worked commercially only if moviegoers cared about the hero. Equally critical, the camera captured some ineffable quality in Ricky that kept an audience at arm’s length. It was the same in his prior films, which made it unlikely that a director—especially a rookie—could eliminate it. AJ circled the essence of the problem with adjectives like dark and cold. But they described the surface, whereas Ricky’s problem resided deep within. From his earliest days his son had despised his own inadequacies. Acting was his attempt to escape, but the audience had caught him. How could they embrace someone who so obviously hated himself?

  Silver Lake sucked. The neighborhood west of downtown had slipped from funk to grunge in the three years since Ricky had put a down payment on a two-bedroom Craftsman with his paycheck from Evil on My Mind. One of his next-door neighbors was an abstract artist with a hundred unsold canvases in her garage, the other a sound engineer laid off by Capitol Records. Low expectations choked the place, like the everyday smog. He had to move—and move on in life—but first he needed to earn some bucks and he wouldn’t take a handout from his grandmother. That’s why he’d gotten so charged when his father had called to ask if he could drop by. It had to be good news about the part; otherwise the old man would have sent an emissary, probably his dutiful sister.

  The premise of Water, Water Everywhere was sufficiently sick to make it a fun read. Ricky’s immediate instinct, of course, had been to play the terrorist, but it was an instinct he had to deny to keep his career from going deeper into the toilet. Hell, he’d be making a million dollars a picture now if he had accepted the lead in Risky Business, but he’d been afraid it was going to be another dumb comedy. It was time to go commercial—without sacrificing quality.

  Paying the devil his due, his father had a knack for producing that kind of film. And the role of the CDC investigator had potential. Ricky had gone without water for a day to see how it felt. Shit—anyone who wanted to see thousands of people dying of thirst was seriously sick. To track him down, he had to adopt that mind-set, and that’s how he’d played the screen test. He’d almost skipped it because he was so pissed at the idea of having to compete with an unknown like Sweeney. But what could he expect—his father was a walking, talking power trip. At first he worried that his anger might have seeped into his performance, but apparently not.

  The doorbell rang twice while he reminded himself of his promise to his grandma to make an honest effort at getting along. “Hey, Dad. How you doing? Want something to drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  Small talk was a dry hole. “So, how’d I do? Did that suit I wore in the test make me look too corporate?”

  “You looked good . . . very convincing.”

  His father sounded like he had gravel in his throat. “I’ve decided that casting you would be a mistake—for all of us.”

  The words made no more sense than the gibberish the old man had spouted the night of his stroke. “I don’t understand.”

  “Son, you’re great when you play unconventional. But the role of the doctor straitjackets you into the standard Hollywood hero.”

  “Are you saying that you’re giving the part to someone else for my own good?”

  “It doesn’t showcase your talent. I’m worried that if the movie fails, it will ruin your career.”

  It was all clear now. His father had baited him by having Jess slip him the script, and now he was snapping the bear trap. What better way to humiliate him—and Grandma—than to make his son beg for a chance, watch him sweat through a trial he couldn’t win, then reject him? Ricky tried controlling his emotions, but . . . shit, he was crying. “I . . . was . . . I was great.”

  “But not in the way I need.”

  The bastard tried to put his arm around him. “Get your hands off me!”

  “I didn’t think you’d want to get the part out of guilt or charity.”

  “You jealous fuck! It’s just like Don’t Tread on Me. You can’t live with the idea that I’d be great in the movie and get the credit. So you cast some bum and disgrace me.”

  “That’s totally untrue.”

  “Are you insane? How will I ever get another job in this town when people learn my own father won’t hire me? Get the hell out of here!”

  He slammed the door and closed his eyes but still imagined his father’s triumphant march back to his car. “Fuckerrrrrr!” Ricky hurled a beer bottle against the wall, then collapsed on his sofa, sending puffs of dust into the air.

  The phone was ringing off the hook when AJ returned home from the scene of the crime. A voice with a military cadence announced, “Madam Ambassador Ginsberg calling.”

  He’d figured he had until tomorrow before the fallout.

  “What were you thinking? Do you have any idea how vulnerable Ricky is?”

  “Would you like to hear my side of the story?”

  “Your side? There are no sides—you’re his father.”

  AJ squeezed the plastic receiver till it almost cracked. “I have a hundred people depending on me. I can’t fail them just because Ricky needs a gig.”

  “Doesn’t family mean anything to you?”

  “How about me, Mom? I’m family too.”

  “But you don’t have a drug habit. If Ricky falls off the wagon, there’s no telling where he’ll land. It could be his grave.”

  “Was he high when you spoke to him?”

  “No, AJ, he was low—as low as it’s possible to go. Let’s not have a ridiculous argument. The simple fact is that you have to be there for him. If you handle it properly, I believe he’ll still take the part.”

  Wishing for his mother to change was wasted energy. A half century of bullying had to stop. But it wouldn’t—unless he stopped it. Like he’d stopped Paul Herzog. “Casting Ricky was a bad idea. I should have cut it off at the start. But I allowed you to steamroller me. I’m not a fucking moron or a coward, I’m not selfish or irresponsible. I loved you, but that’s not enough. I don’t know what is, and I’m tired of trying to figure it out.”

  He felt his mother swallow his assault. But she could never digest it. “Stop trying. As long as I live, I will never see or speak to you again.”

  CHAPTER 41

  The coffin resting before the altar was mute proof of the incalculability of life. Sixty hours ago AJ and Leon Ginsberg had shared steak and onion rings at the Palm. They’d reminisced over the blind turns in their kinship, then segued to discussing how Ginsberg could help J2 enter the television business. As they hugged good-bye, Leon promised to broker peace in the family, whether anyone wanted him to or not.

  When AJ flipped on CNN the next morning, the last person he expected to see was the woman who linked them in a triangle. But there was his mother amid the rubble-strewn streets of Mexico City. An 8.1 earthquake had devastated downtown in the early hours of September 19. Racing toward a collapsed building, the ambassador shouted to a trailing reporter that th
ousands of victims were buried alive, while Mexican government officials “took a siesta.” Then she stumbled and disappeared.

  Leon jetted down in his G-3, tracking her to an emergency room where she’d been taken after breaking her ankle. They’d barely said hello when an aftershock hit. When the lights came on, Ginsberg lay facedown on the peeling linoleum, dead of a massive coronary.

  AJ shivered. Although the official name was now Mount Sinai Memorial Park, the chapel was the same one they’d used for his dad’s service. It was equally jam-packed. The difference was that his son stood at the pulpit. “Wherever my uncle Leon is,” Ricky began, “I’m sure it’s a good place, but I’m also sure the person he’s missing most is Gram.” Maggie—her ankle in a cast, her eyes puffy, and her cheek cut by flying debris—ignored AJ. No, she disdained him. The mourners in the congregation rose for the Kaddish. He had long ago memorized the prayer for the dead. But that didn’t make chanting it easier.

  The scene by the grave site reminded Ricky of a funeral for an international leader attended by representatives from hostile countries. He nodded hello to his father, but Grandma refused to acknowledge him. The Starks looked twitchy. The family’s schism was public enough to embarrass even the neutrals. As he leaned against the limousine smoking a cigarette, he spied his dad’s girlfriend approaching. He’d been shocked by how much he’d enjoyed talking to her at his father’s birthday party. Among the throng of Jews, she looked aggressively goyish.

  “I was afraid nobody in this city smoked anymore,” she complained.

  He lit one for her. “They’re too busy trying to live forever.”

  “That’s a fucking bore.”

  Ricky laughed. “I never figured my father to choose a hedonist.”

  “I chose him.”

  “Touché.”

  “You spoke beautifully.”

  “It’s easy when you believe what you’re saying. For Uncle Leon’s seventieth birthday, my grandma gave him a scrapbook. It had pictures and articles going back to his childhood in Berlin. When he was our age he’d graduated rabbinical seminary and been appointed to a pulpit in a town ten miles from Bergen-Belsen. Then came the war.”

  Megan inhaled deeply. “Today was the first I knew that he was anything but a legendary TV producer. What a fantastic opportunity to live two lives.”

  “It must have taken a lot of guts for Leon to make the shift—even to realize that his first choice was wrong.” The crowd dispersed. “You probably shouldn’t be consorting with the enemy. But even under the circumstances, it’s good to see you again.”

  She ignored his offer to escape. “I’m sorry about what happened with the part. You were clearly better.”

  “You saw the screen test?”

  “I asked your father so I could educate myself. When I gave my opinion, he grunted that I had a lot to learn.”

  “I appreciate your telling me.” He studied her. “Why are you here?”

  “I thought AJ would want support today—”

  “No, I mean here in Hollywood. You don’t belong—I say that as a compliment.”

  “Biding my time . . . and getting rich.”

  “If you’re so rich, how about buying me lunch?”

  Maggie gazed at a framed picture of her and Leon atop the Eiffel Tower. “Thank you, my dear. I know the world gossiped that I took you for granted, but I didn’t. Your love was a precious gift. Beyond all the riches, that’s what I’ll remember.” She kissed his face. The glass was cold. Maggie forced a brush through her hair, touched up her makeup, and walked downstairs.

  “We went through thirty pounds of lox,” she reported to her grandson after the final condolence caller disappeared into the night. “That’s a true measure of how much Hollywood loved your Uncle Leon.”

  “At twelve bucks a pound, I hope so.”

  “Believe me, I can afford it.” Yesterday Gary Hirsch, their lawyer, had announced that Leon’s estate exceeded one hundred million dollars. She was the sole beneficiary and, since she was his wife, it passed to her without taxes. The number was double what she’d expected—the result of the steep escalation in the syndication prices paid by local TV stations for his six successful series.

  “I’m more concerned about your health than your wealth,” he replied.

  “Don’t worry about me. I want to talk about you—about your future.”

  Ricky sounded upbeat. “I’m close to getting a part in the new Simpson-Bruckheimer movie. It’s about these aircraft carrier pilots, and I’d play Tom Cruise’s rival.”

  She didn’t reveal how hard she had pressured CAA to procure him the job or that at the funeral Ovitz had reported that the nod was going to Val Kilmer. If Hollywood preferred that punk to her grandson, the place was hopeless. “If you continue to act, of course I’ll support you. But you’ll be making a huge mistake.”

  Ricky was stung. “Don’t you think I’m good?”

  “You’re wonderful. It’s the job that stinks. As an actor you’ll always be at the mercy of fools like your father. Even if you succeed, you’re no better than your next movie. After Christmas I’m resigning my ambassadorship. When I return to L.A. I intend to build on your Uncle Leon’s legacy. A month ago Mike Ovitz introduced us to Mike Milken. He’s a financial genius on Wall Street and he described how we could multiply our net worth. It involves these things called “junk bonds,” which have unbelievably high rates of interest. They’re used to finance hostile takeovers.”

  Maggie realized that her grandson didn’t understand what she was talking about—or why—but she kept selling. “Leon was impressed, so I’m moving forward. When we have hundreds of millions, we’re going to march back into the entertainment business and buy something big. Don’t ask me what because I’m not sure. But I’ve lived long enough to know there are incredible changes on the horizon. Maybe it will be a new way of seeing movies or new ways of making them. The opportunity will occur before I’m pushing up daisies. And when it does, I want you to head it.”

  “I don’t know, Gram.” He looked embarrassed. “The closest I’ve come to business was playing Biff in Death of a Salesman at the Taper.”

  “In which you were fabulous, and after which those idiots at Fox turned you down for a part in Revenge of the Nerds.”

  “And I tried to kill myself.”

  “Exactly. Ricky, you can play any part you want in life. Just promise me you’ll consider it.”

  “I promise, although I don’t think I’d make much of a tycoon.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  Why, Jessica wanted to know, had Danny Hilman sent her an invitation to his famous Halloween bash? Hilman was an elegant producer, a few years older than her dad, and his friends were the most chic people in Hollywood—no one’s description of her. Maybe it was a mistake? Maybe there was another Jessie Jastrow? No, he had the address correct, and his office had confirmed her on the list. Checking with her friends, she discovered an unnerving explanation: her host’s penchant for seducing smart young women into erotic, twisted trysts.

  While shopping with Shelly Nolton, Jess confided how much Hilman’s reputation worried her, then chose a Cleopatra outfit that would have backed up barge traffic on the Nile. A straight black wig masked her auburn curls. A tiara in the shape of a cobra head reared up on her forehead. She wore a bustier of beaten gold, a flowing gown of turquoise blue chiffon, and a jeweled asp on her breast.

  A Chinese butler dressed as Fu Manchu ushered her into Danny’s domain. A Ming vase was the only item gracing the endless white entry. The guy had taken minimalism to the max. At the bar Jess recognized the Roaring Twenties’ flapper to her left—her idol, Sherry Lansing, the first female head of a studio. “Ow!” A bloodcurdling Dracula bit her neck from behind.

  “I can never resist young blood.” Her dad’s old nemesis Russ Matovich swept away with a flourish.

  Several women her age attended. Polly Newcomb, a lawyer at Ziffren, Brittenham, snapped her Catwoman whip. In her E.T. out
fit Leslie Kemp, a story editor at Amblin, chatted with ICM’s Milly Vance, dressed as Joan of Arc. Jess felt better—and worse—knowing she wasn’t alone in Hilman’s lineup.

  “ ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety: other women cloy the appetites they feed, but she makes hungry where most she satisfies.’ ”

  “Huh?” Jessie stared at the Mad Hatter, who quoted Antony and Cleopatra as gloriously as a Cambridge don.

  “I’m Sean Devine, an agent at CAA.” His name, rank, and serial number were impressive. Sean had once served as Mike Ovitz’s assistant and was irresistible in courting hot young talent.

  With CAA on her shit list, however, Jess remained distant. “I didn’t think agents recited Shakespeare—or knew who he was.”

  “That’s presumptuous.” Sean removed his mask, revealing the kind of all-American good looks she fancied. He was tall, with a dreamy body that featured narrow hips, unlike the last two guys she’d dated, who were wide enough to give birth.

  “The truth hurts.”

  He sighed theatrically. “I guess Cleopatra’s attitude came with the asp.”

  Sean was cute and clever . . . and a little outrageous. “I’ll forgive your insult because Alice in Wonderland happens to be my favorite book. Anyone who comes as one of its characters can’t be all bad.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m not really Queen of the Nile, just Jessie Jastrow.”

  They partied together and went for drinks afterward. As soon as she got back to her apartment, Jessica called Shelly. It was one A.M., but she had to tell someone that Sean had picked her out of that crowd! When her friend interrupted to ask if Hilman had also hit on her, Jess realized she had never actually met the host of the party.

  The first preview of The Scholarship took place in early November in the trendy beach community of Marina del Rey. The National Research Group, the firm that dominated market testing in the industry, recruited four hundred moviegoers ages sixteen to forty. After NRG’s founder, Joe Farrell, requested that the audience stay at the end to fill out questionnaires, the house lights dimmed and people settled into their seats—except the J2 team. They stood in abject terror at the back of the house.