CHAPTER 24
Regardless of my disaffection for Patti Davis, her father’s presidency gave me a new mind-set. I felt that society would change—it was cleanup time. Wyatt Earp would come back to straighten things out. After the inauguration fiasco, I started working hard to get a Mickey Spillane project off the ground. The national mood had changed dramatically, and patriotism had reached a fever pitch. People were tired of the Carter years of malaise. I thought they were ready for action and justice, and so did Bud Grant, president of CBS Television Entertainment. Bud gave me the go-ahead for a two-hour movie based on Mickey Spillane’s fictional detective Mike Hammer.
Mickey and I had stayed in touch. To a degree we had become alter egos. Working together we developed a storyline that screenwriter Calvin Clements Jr. wove into a teleplay. It was simple, retaining the 1940s film noir flavor of Mickey’s original Hammer novels. Mike’s best friend is killed, and in the process of solving the murder he untangles a web of corruption between the New York mob and political officials.
Networks seldom finance 100 percent of the budget, so I needed a financing partner. An independent producer usually goes to a major studio for his deficit. The studio hopes for a series spin-off, from which it will eventually recoup its money when the show goes into syndication years later. In the case of Margin for Murder, I had guidance from Steve Mills, head of movies at CBS. Steve, more than any other network executive in my experience, tried to help fledgling producers. He sent me to Robert Hamner, an independent moviemaker who not only became my co-executive producer but also secured Columbia Studios Television as our partner.
CBS wanted Kevin Dobson to play Mike Hammer. I did not know Kevin, but he was a seasoned television actor with myriad credits. He was currently co-starring in Knot’s Landing, a nighttime soap hit. Fortunately, Kevin was on hiatus between seasons. He accepted the role. For the role of Velda, Hammer’s girl Friday, we chose Cindy Pickett.
We went into production at the Burbank Studios, but I was not a hands-on executive producer. Hamner did the yeoman chores, for which he was extremely competent. I went to the set often, but usually with advice on how I thought we could make the picture better. My reputation as a perfectionist and a star manager, however, grated on lesser souls. It should not have surprised anyone that I would speak to our “stars” about the possibility of my managing them, since Larry and I now had two dozen well-publicized clients.
One day I had a long and pleasant conversation with Dobson. The next day a security guard forbade me from entering the set. I was taken aback. “Why?”
The guard shrugged. “Orders from headquarters,” he said.
I went to see Herman Rush, president of Columbia Television Pictures. I did not know Herman well, although later I would find him to be one of the better executives in the industry. He shrugged. “Columbia hasn’t barred you, Jay, it’s the network.”
Craig Rumar and Larry Kubick, Dobson’s agents, were afraid I would sign their client to a management contract. They had gone to CBS with a threat: if I went to the set again, Kevin would not work until I left. Whoa!
I let the threat pass. Bob Hamner was de facto executive producer, and I had more important things to do. But I didn’t forget the incident. One hundred-plus people were involved in the production. Not one of them would be employed had it not been for me, and suddenly I was anathema on the set. Well, two could play that game. I would wait for a more opportune time to take my revenge.
Margin for Murder aired on October 15, 1981. It was good; better yet, it got viewer numbers, the bottom line in television. Judith Crist, reviewing it in TV Guide, rated it sixth in her ten best list of TV movies for 1981. A San Francisco reviewer summed up Mike Hammer’s philosophy accurately: “Do unto others before they can do it to you.” The climate of the country had changed. I knew Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer was not a one-time shot.
I now had two professional roles—manager and producer—and they were not necessarily compatible. Both, however, were time-consuming. I had little time left for new clients and became selective about who I signed.
I was in the parking lot of the Century Plaza Hotel in Century City, going to a dinner function for musicians and singers, many of whom I had previously represented. A weird-looking black guy in a tuxedo started following me. I hurried my walk. He called after me, “You’re Jay Bernstein, aren’t you? I’m a singer, and I’d give anything in the world if you would represent me.”
I stopped and looked at him more closely. He wasn’t Tyrone Power, he wasn’t Alan Ladd and he wasn’t Clint Eastwood. He wasn’t Harry Belafonte or Sidney Poitier, either. I thought he was goofy, a strange-looking dude in a tuxedo. He made me nervous.
“I’m not taking music clients anymore,” I told him, “but I know a guy named Ken Craigen. He’s the best in the business. Talk to him, and tell him I sent you.”
I went on to the function and forgot about the guy.
About a year later I was driving on Sunset Boulevard. My eyes held on a big billboard. There in bold colors was a picture of the guy who had accosted me. “Merry Christmas Hollywood, From Lionel Richie and Ken Craigen,” read the message. Geezus, I thought. I hadn’t given him two minutes. I hadn’t given him enough time to tell me his story.
Many years later, I was in front of my house in the Hollywood Hills. It was dusk and I was in my paranoid mode; I was packing a .38. A black Mercedes with blackout windows pulled up and stopped. One of the windows started to roll down. I reached for my gun, thinking it might be a hit.
“Don’t shoot, Jay. Don’t shoot!” The window came down and a man’s head popped out. “It’s just me, Jay—Lionel.”
By that time, Lionel Richie was as successful as you could get. We chatted a few minutes. “I’m curious,” I said. “How much in commissions do you think I passed up by not representing you?”
Lionel thought for a moment. “I don’t know . . . probably around ten million.”
When I signed Persis Khambatta, I felt I could take her to the heights of stardom. A former Miss India, Persis was one of the most exotically beautiful women in the world. When she landed the role of Lieutenant Ilia in Star Trek: The Motion Picture, I thought her career would soar. It did not, but that was in the future.
Persis and her Star Trek co-star, William Shatner, were selected to present the Documentary Feature Oscar at the 1980 Academy Awards presentation at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Persis, always nervous, wanted me to go with her to the rehearsal the day before the event.
There, Shatner and I struck up a conversation. He was concerned about his career. Star Trek the television series was done, but Bill was afraid the new motion picture would stigmatize him further as Captain Kirk. It was a box-office success, and no one knew better than Bill that a sequel was in the works. He felt caught up in a quandary—he was a star attached to a single character.
“Why don’t you let me manage your career?” I asked him.
“What could you do for me?”
“Look,” I said, “I can’t make you any bigger than what you are as Captain Kirk, but I can expand your industry participation.”
Bill was interested in hearing me out.
“First, I’ll find a television series in which you play a character far removed from Star Trek; it will be your second career. And two, I’ll let people know who Bill Shatner is as opposed to Captain Kirk. Being Bill Shatner will be your third career.”
I signed him. Aaron Spelling gave Bill his second career as T.J. Hooker, a police sergeant in the series of the same name. His co-star was Heather Locklear. It was a big hit.
As to removing Bill from his Captain Kirk image, the record speaks for itself.
Aaron Spelling’s perspective was always from a producer’s standpoint, which surprised me because he had started as an actor.
“I’ll never do another show without an ensemble cast,” he once told me. “I learned that when I was making The Rookies. Unfortunately, I had to fire Michael Cole, but after he left, the show was still The Rookies. My cast was large enough to cover the absence of one actor. I don’t think the audience ever missed Michael.”
Mod Squad and S.W.A.T. were ensemble pieces. Then Aaron did Starsky & Hutch, with just two stars. I represented Paul Michael Glaser, who played Hutch. Paul started making trouble because he wanted to become a director.
One night we met Aaron for a drink at the Polo Lounge. Aaron wasn’t in the mood to discuss issues with an intransigent actor. “Look, Michael,” he said, “I can always rename the show Starsky & Smith.”
Aaron did several more ensemble shows, all successful. He produced Family, Dynasty and The Colbys, series where he could fire an actor and replace him without a hiccup in the production schedule.
I remembered everything Aaron said, and then Bill Shatner became T.J. Hooker. As the time approached for Bill’s contract to be renegotiated, Aaron didn’t want to talk about it. I advised Bill to keep his cool and not ripple the waters. Finally Aaron made a lowball offer, and Bill’s back suddenly went out. I had Aaron in a fix, and he knew it. Bill got a good contract.
Bill’s contract put us both on cloud nine. And going a few rounds with Aaron and coming out the champ made my heart sing. It was a great time to celebrate, but there wasn’t time for celebration—I was racing against the clock to make some big deadlines. One of them was the Golden Globe Awards at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, a real yawn-fest I never looked forward to. This particular year was no exception. As usual the program was too long and attendees spent a great deal of time running back and forth between the ballroom and the bar. Finally it was over. My date and I were talking to Elliott Gould at the valet curb. I had a plastic glass of champagne. When my Aston Martin pulled up, I gave my glass to the valet driver and said goodbye to Elliott.
“Drive carefully,” he said. “The police are cracking down on partygoers.”
The previous week the mayor had announced an ultimatum on driving under the influence. No one was immune. The police had promptly arrested Johnny Carson, Dean Martin and F. Lee Bailey for alleged drunk driving.
We drove a block and a half before we heard sirens. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Star Wars: two police cruisers with blinking red cherries and three motorcycle cops like little space jets. I pulled over. There were seven cops. One of them looked at my driver’s license and said, “You’re the starmaker, right?”
They huddled, whispering. Then they made me do the walk routine. I had to place one foot directly in front of the other, moving along like a clown. I did it without incident, but they weren’t finished. “What test do you want, Starmaker?” asked one of the cops. “Breath, urine or blood?”
Without thinking, I said, “Blood.”
They handcuffed me and told my girlfriend to take my car home. As I was being escorted away, I yelled over my shoulder, “Call Bob Shapiro!” She nodded. Then I was placed in the backseat of a cruiser and chauffeured to Cedars-Sinai Hospital, a mile away.
A nurse took a vial of blood from my arm. Then I was retired in handcuffs to a waiting room, where I sat quietly, motorcycle cops standing at attention left and right. A young woman came up to me. “Aren’t you Jay Bernstein?”
“Yes, I am,” I answered.
She wanted my autograph. The two cops rolled their eyes and took off my handcuffs. I scribbled my name on a piece of paper and gave it to the woman. The cops handcuffed me again. All this while I’m sitting in my tuxedo in a hospital waiting room.
An hour passed. I was certain I did not have enough alcohol in my system to be considered intoxicated. If I did, I would be sober by the time the cops got the test results. I suspected they were letting me stew, hoping it would unnerve me. It didn’t. I began to stare at the cops as if they were targets. They averted their eyes. At last the arresting officer returned. “Mr. Bernstein, did you take any medication today?”
“Yes, a Valium.”
They took me to the Beverly Hills City Jail, ten minutes away, where they placed me in a small holding cell with a wiry little fellow who kept saying, “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill nobody.” It was winter. The man was wearing a short-sleeved shirt open to his waist. He kept repeating his mantra. I thought, “I don’t need this!” All I’d done was take a prescription Valium.
“I didn’t kill nobody,” said the murder suspect. Then he yelled, “I’m fucking cold!”
A jail keep issued wool blankets. I lay down on a bench, but the blanket was so scratchy my hands and neck began to itch.
“I didn’t kill nobody!”
I needed to relieve myself. I looked around; the cell had no facility. I banged on the bars and joined the murderer in yelling. The jail keep returned and asked what I wanted.
“I need to relieve myself, and this fellow needs a goddamned sleeping pill!”
He unlocked the cell and took me down the hallway to a urinal contraption recessed in the wall. As I did my thing, he stood behind me as if afraid I might make a sudden break for freedom. A black flush knob was set oddly in the wall to the left of the urinal. When I finished, being a gentleman, I pushed it. A spout of water shot out like a geyser, drowning my clothes. It was a drinking fountain gone awry.
I was escorted back to the cell, my tuxedo dripping, my shoes wet, my upper body soaked. As the door slammed behind me, my lunatic cellmate screamed, “I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill nobody!”
At 4:47 a.m., Bob Shapiro got me released. There were no charges against me. I was not a star, but I’d just tasted one of the negatives of stardom.