Chapter Eighteen

He was summoned at nine o'clock on Friday morning. The call came through to his hotel room and he was told by a candy-voiced American girl that he would be collected in thirty minutes. 'We're a short ways out of town. And Mr Weislob asks would you please bring the option agreement, sir. Uh huh. Thank you so.'

He waited in his room, standing by the shutters before a grey sky, until a suited Italian chauffeur with shades and moustache hopped up the steps on to the hotel terrace and made his swift way to the lobby entrance.

He took a notepad and calculator and was soon descending the steps behind his escort. The man was courteous and quiet and gave off the aroma of macassar and starch as he led the way, natively indifferent to the view that opened out at the foot of the steps as they passed the ravine and encountered the steep set of the town.

It was a black Mercedes, cumbersomely parked across a snake bend in the road, and Michael fell into the back seat with a solid sense of impostorship. He wore a blue suit and a lilac open-necked shirt. His black shoes were polished to a gloss and he felt poised as the big car turned and made its cushioned ascent of the Viale.

The agents were not staying in central Positano, but out, along the coast road, and he noted with curiosity the number of twists and turns that elapsed between the receding town and their destination, as if he were being driven to a villain's hideout. The coastal slopes became steeper, the mountain more lowering. Small villages stuck in coves or on outcrops veered by and the glare in the sky was complicated by a storm cloud. The sea was lead-like, sharp against the horizon.

The hotel was perched, like a Riviera fortress, on a promontory of cliff that in times past had flaked great facets of its mass into the sea. They swung into the drive, and Michael saw to his right the jaws of a cove suspending a swimming pool at one level, a tennis court further down, and right at the bottom, for use in finer weather, a concrete beach clamped between cliffs.

It was international luxury-class inside, with much glass revealing the coastal view, and marble floors and statuary and deluxe imperviousness to external weather conditions. He was presented to a handsome male receptionist in a blue tunic and directed to a seat in the lobby while his arrival was confirmed.

'Hello,' said the candy-voiced girl.

She whistled across the lobby like a game-show hostess, all fresh and clean in belted hotpants and augmented sweatshirt, which sported the legend 'Coburn's In Town'. Her thighs were honey brown, and her bare arms hung in listless innocence.

'Hi,' she said, cutting the word off brusquely.

He rose to a handshake and curtsy, just a kink in the legs.

'Nice to meet yoooou.' The lip gloss glimmered as the eyes sparkled.

He nodded.

'I'm Bambi.'

'Hello, Bambi.'

'Will you come on in?'

She smiled over her shoulder and kicked off in front of him through the lounge of the hotel.

'You're from England, right?' she said as they entered a lift.

'I am.'

'London is neat.'

He cleared his throat. 'You're from LA?'

'You got it.'

The lift led to an inner courtyard of sprinkling fountains and wrought-iron tables laid for breakfast. With a gazelle hop she took him up a run of flagstone steps leading through a portico to a wide corridor. Rugs led the way over terracotta tiles and by malachite side-tables and the architraves of apartment doorways.

'Frank and Rick'll be right along.' She brought him round a corner through an open door into a suite with a head-on sea view.

'Can I fix you coffee?'

He could see through an archway a vista of white walls and marble floors.

'Make yourself at home.' She smiled.

He nodded and positioned himself in a chair with a view of the sea. Bambi clicked her heels and swept off through the annexe, and then there was silence.

They had isolated him.

He remembered Adamson's advice from the night before.

'Be as Jewish as you can.'

'What the hell does that mean?'

It had been an hour-long call, a deluge of angles and conjectures, projections and weavy second thoughts.

'Talk a lot. Show them you're not afraid to spiel the hind legs off a pregnant cow. It's the international parlance of negotiation. Means you're flexible and undeceived at the same time, cos it mirrors the lip-service platitudes they'll be churning out. If they're philosophical, be more philosophical. If they're warm and human, let them see teeth, open palms, the twinkle of a cuff-link. Grease for grease. That way you'll lull them. I mean, man, these guys are going to be very fucking edgy. You've got the option, and they've got jetlag. If you go cold and English they'll freak. Don't confront. Describe where you're at from an enlightened Jehovah-type perspective. Wisdom of the ages.'

'Is Coburn Jewish?'

'Nope.'

They had decided to dub the packaging percentage a finder's fee.

'Control the agenda. First the picture. Then the deal. It's easier to agree on editorial. Non-contentious semantics. But you can be articulate, real. Besides, you'll have the upper hand. You've read the book.'

'Surely they've read the book!'

'Hey! They've read coverage. Weislob has probably flicked the manuscript on the jet. If you're lucky they'll know the author's name.'

Adamson's advice had been purchased for ten per cent of Michael's fee, and ten per cent would buy calls and contractual overview, a full behind-the-scenes consultancy. His aspiration to produce the film had been guillotined, and Michael had him where he wanted him. Adamson was the third person he had lied to about the option.

He watched over himself now. He was at the centre of events. In the past twenty-four hours he had become disinhibited and could meet things head-on.

'Would you join us, Michael?'

She beckoned him from the next room and he followed her leggy beeline to an inner door, which she knocked on before opening for Michael's admission. The room beyond was wide and bright and gave directly on to a courtyard swimming-pool area like an atrium, all ferns and hanging baskets, stone seats, mosaics and frescos, an emperor's bath in mock-Pompeiian style.

Weislob stood by the patio door, wearing wrap-around shades and talking into a mobile phone. He was small against the open length of the room, his black suit and slick-cut hair seeming miles away. He turned when Candy knocked but made no response to Michael's arrival. Instead, he rocked forward and incised the air with his hand, pushing a deal point.

'Hi, Frank,' said Bambi. 'I have Michael Lear for you.'

The room shrank when Coburn came in, as though five-star luxury could not compete with so purposeful a tread.

'Bambi, I want to conference Meyer Obermann and Phyllis Cheat-ham at midday and Zike Weinberg at two-fifteen. Tell Marian at Zike's office we're gonna talk schedules on Red Devil p.m. Hope Freeway can call me any time about Barbara Brindisi for Ghost Town but I don't want to hear a damn thing about Chum Nasser. Will you fix those London meets and tell LA to e-mail the call checklist through to the portable here and Maximilian Durnhauser. Everything goes to Max, right. And honey, tell these guys we're in the bunker till whenever. No interruptions. No faxes. Zero antipasto. Do Rick, then join us.'

Coburn was shiny bald with a wrestler's crease at the back of his neck. His shoulders were broad, kegged in muscle. He wore a kimono, track-suit bottoms, pumps. Like a frontier cowboy, all thew and moustaches, he carried himself with equestrian energy across the room, not offering Michael a hand or nod, or the security of a glance, but making him feel somehow included, as if his buffalo might were a shield to the near at hand.

Weislob snapped off the phone and came into the room. 'OK, let's go.'

'You got anything for Bambi?'

'I got everything for Bambi.'

Coburn turned to greet Michael, as though he had just come in. There was no pretence at familiarity, only a handshake, the glare of assessment. Coburn knew human nature. His eyes were disarmingly brown, containing surplus personability.

'Rick Weislob.' A big hand ushered in a short associate.

Weislob without shades exhibited no friendliness. The face was sour, usefully mean. He did not look like his voice. His hard blue eyes regarded Michael unflinchingly, as though the telephone call between them had never happened.

The 'bunker' was an empty bedroom, with wall lamps set into a panel either side of where the bed would have been. The hotel staff had brought in a conference table and four chairs for the purpose of the meeting and provided water in a jug and glasses.

Weislob sat down at the far end of the table, his jacket buttoned, shades pocketed, fingers conjoined. He had the bottled quality of a man who has had to eat shit and is heavily unpleased, tight-faced with the anger of it.

'Real pretty place,' said Coburn, coming away from the window and leaning against the wall.

Michael hoped that their flight had been OK.

'Flight's a flight.'

They had tried to intimidate him. He was unimpressed. He was not going to be bullied.

When Bambi arrived, Coburn averted his eyes. She sat opposite the boss, legs crossed, pen and notepad ready.

For a moment there was a curious silence that rehearsed all that stood between them, the incongruity of the situation, its uncustomariness and gravity.

'You got the option agreement?' said Weislob.

Michael shook his head.

'Bambi, did you ask Mr Lear to bring the option agreement?'

'Yes, sir.'

Weislob was unblinking.

'You never faxed the coverage,' he said.

'I faxed it Wednesday.'

'Didn't arrive.'

'I have fax confirmation.'

'Not received.'

'Talk to your hotel. You got the option?'

'It's in my hotel room.'

Weislob gasped, unable to conceal impatience. 'Michael. We fly from LA. Ten hours. Six thousand miles. Meanwhile, you leave the contract in your hotel room.'

'I didn't ask you to come.'

'You agreed to show us the contract! You made a promise!'

'Bambi.' Coburn leaned forward, rubbing his eye. 'Have reception call Mr Lear's hotel. Mr Lear can authorise the hotel staff to collect the agreement from his room and give it to a messenger.'

Bambi rose questioningly.

Coburn humped his shoulders.

There was silence.

'Thank you, Bambi.'

'It's a standard agreement,' Michael said quickly. 'You've seen hundreds like it.'

'There's agreements and agreements.'

He drew himself up. 'I'd hate to waste time on small print. This discussion might go nowhere.'

'You got sequel rights?'

'Yup.'

'Merchandising, CD-rom.'

'Sure.'

'Option renewals?'

Coburn came towards him rapidly, placed hairy hands on the table, leaned forward on thick arms. 'We're in this town for forty-eight hours, pardner. My attitude is that when we leave we have a deal.'

He was like a Western sheriff, but real; as though he had gone through things to make him real; fights.

'I hope so.'

'Not hope. Know.'

'I can't . . .'

'Michael!' There was dark energy in Coburn's eyes. 'The situation is dangerous.'

'Because of you,' said Weislob.

Michael frowned away his annoyance. 'For me it's not at all dangerous.'

'Legally it's devastating.'

He flinched.

'We're saying be real!'

'Is that a threat?'

Coburn sat down hard. 'Leave the room, Bambi.'

She made a dignified exit.

Two pairs of eyes came at him.

Coburn dropped a forearm on the table. He drove a tongue into the pouch of his cheek. He shut his eyes meditatively before swinging a slow, sleepy gaze at Michael. 'I can see you like her. Most everyone likes Bambi. Rick here sucks her tits in his dreams.'

'The babe's a breast mountain.'

'Know what, Michael? This business of ours is crammed with shitty people. A flakefest. Hanging out with wannabes, coke crazies, lots of weavy crap, lots of talented furkin people going nowhere, and we get sucked off with all the fringe trash. We're businessmen first and foremost; technicians of profit. We see a market, we make a product, we go straight to the money. Sometimes . . . manners are useful.'

'I don't do manners.'

'Rick is a specialist in non-manners. He's too small to be nice. And the reason Bambs so kindly left the room is cos I want to protect the meek and the innocent from the sight of this thing.'

Coburn leaned to the side and produced an object bound in cloth. He set the bound lump on the table. With a forefinger and thumb he pulled away the material to reveal a hand-gun.

He revolved it on the table's surface, then swept the thing with the edge of his palm towards Michael.

He had never seen a hand-gun before. For a second he felt strange.

Coburn sat back, arms crossed, a biceps in each hand. 'We're LA people. Frontier folk. I've always had a drawer full of metal. I've done Kalashnikov courses. Shooting-range promotions. I got a diploma in gunge. Rick here does martial-arts classes. Like running between punks' legs and biting their balls off. And sure, if some scumface Hispanic pulls a tool on me I'll shoot him. No problem. Squeeze the trigger like taking a piss. Cos I believe in democracy and I believe in a man's right to defend his property. Like if you came into my house' – he pointed at Michael – 'and you laid a finger on what I own, I'd blow you in half with this here gun.'

'You took the option, Michael. You stole property.'

'I keep what's mine.' Coburn lurched towards the gun, grabbed it back. 'I wanna piece through customs, favours are called. You know. Bambs there, great at favours.'

'Two of the biggest alibis in the business.'

'So let's cut the fuck and get to the point.'

Michael scratched his neck, displacing astonishment. Coburn was stagy and grotesque, and he had not expected anything like it.

'We ain't the suave charming guys we seem.' Weislob's eyes were crystal blue, the skin sallow. He had eaten his jetlag and digested it in one.

'OK, dear.'

Bambi returned, resumed her seat, and waited with parted lips for the discussion to continue. She gazed expectantly at Michael.

'You got the option?' said Weislob.

The gun had disappeared.

'Just a minute, Rick.' Coburn was on his feet, stroking the back of his neck. 'Michael says he's got the option.'

'Maybe Michael's lying.'

'You lyin', Michael?'

He made no response.

'We have a lie detector here.'

For a moment he was checked, as if they knew something and were psyching him out. But they could not know anything.

'This discussion proceeds on the basis that you have the rights, that your attendance here represents you have the rights, that we are here in reliance of that and that you'll give us the agreement at' – Coburn checked his Rolex – '3 p.m.'

'If you want to talk, talk.' It was time to dig in. 'I'm not accepting conditions.'

'Don't hardball us!' Weislob hit the table.

'Rick, slow down.' Coburn wandered towards Michael's end of the room, clapped his palms together. He was suddenly different. He had given his mood a makeover. His eyes glittered with theatrical anticipation. Suddenly, he pulled the gun from his pocket and clicked the trigger. A tongue of flame shot up from the barrel. 'You got me a smoke, Rick?'

The short agent took a cigar tube from inside his jacket, put it flat on the table.

Coburn smirked at Michael, a hillbilly smirk full of childish mirth and sophisticated gamesmanship.

'Maybe later. When Michael's a little more relaxed.'

Weislob grinned for an instant.

Michael let the air out of his lungs. His expression remained blank but he was physically relieved, which meant that he had been successfully toyed with.

'Michael, we got something you want.' Coburn cleared his throat, replacing the lighter in his pocket. 'We got Shane Hammond rolling up his sleeves to do a part. We got green wave on a movie called Last Muse, which you're going to associate produce for the biggest cheque you've ever banked. We got a case of money for your option expenses and legal costs, plus a sweetener and then some. Bambi? Thank you, honey.'

Bambi came to the table with two separate attaché cases. She sprang the catch on each opening them wide.

Michael was surprised to see what he saw. The dollar wads were neat and fresh, toylike.

'You're looking at thirty thousand bucks which will be yours when these discussions are over.' He winked. 'Plus a roll in the hay with Bambs. OK, Rick?'

'My pleasure.'

Coburn laughed. 'And that's just howdy-do money.'

She was looking at him. He averted his eyes. They were an act, experts at bluff, menace, disorientation.

'You get associate-producer retainer during development. Ten thousand a month, plus expenses. Then a production fee in any tax shelter of your choice on first day principal p. One hundred thousand dollars.' He walked behind him. 'I repeat: one hundred thousand dollars. One more time, Rick.'

They both sang. 'One hundred thousand dollars.'

'You're looking at one fifty plus grand and you haven't said a word. You haven't had lunch. We'll give you points, we'll give you onscreen credit, single card, letters not less than seventy per cent bullshit and major paid advertising. Welcome to Hollywood.'

'Welcome, Michael.'

'Rick's got paper. We can sign off now. Your signature buys those greenbacks. Our signature gets us that option. How's about that?'

'Speak your mind, Michael.'

He pressed the fingers of both hands into a steeple. His heart was racing. His first realisation was that Coburn had blown his cover by advancing a deal large enough to suggest pragmatism and therefore flexibility, but not large enough to reflect the leverage causing that pragmatism, Michael's leverage. His second thought was that Coburn had calculated he could be bought. If that assumption were true, it would explain Coburn's confidence, his routine with the cigarette lighter-cum-gun prop, his gamble on the offer. But it was not true. His heart quickened. There was an opportunity here, and Coburn had just confirmed Adamson's most bullish predictions.

'Interesting.'

'We think so.'

'The offer is made in good faith?'

'My friend, we did not come here to procrastinate. We are businessmen and we are busy men.'

'The figures you mention' – Michael waved his hand – 'I had numbers in mind.'

'I'm sure you did,' said Coburn.

'Different numbers.'

'Hey, bud.' The American was all smiles. 'We'll pay less if you want.'

He smiled back. 'I'll tell you what I want.'

Weislob was poker-faced.

'I'd like to touch on the creative aspect.'

Coburn blinked.

'I have a vision of the film.'

There was silence.

'And it's important to myself and the author that this thing is done properly.'

Their faces were expressionless, shadowy with reserve.

'Unless I can meet Shane and establish that we want the same film . . .'He shrugged. 'No point in talking further. You see, we're dealing with an important novel, and the development should not go forward without your team being clear about the type of film I want to make. A film that is dramatic, cinematic, but true to the book. If we can come together at that level of aspiration, I'm happy to continue discussions. But I won't let the tail of the deal wag the dog of the film.'

He was conscious of having spoken in a firm tone, of having conveyed a little of his metal to the Americans in a different language to their own. The agenda had moved on.

Coburn gazed at his lap and rotated his thumbs; the window light caught the scimitar whites of his eyes.

Bambi was jotting rapidly, turning Michael's sub-clauses into shifty shorthand.

'What d'you say, Frank?' shrugged Weislob.

'How many films you made, Michael?'

'I haven't made any films.'

'You want to make a film?'

'Not any film.'

'You want to get a movie scripted, cast, financed, produced and exhibited once in your life?'

He said nothing.

'Get some perspective, Michael.'

'Shane Hammond is the money, right. Guy pulls twenty million like picking his nose.'

'Shane's big, Michael.'

'You're invisible.'

'Baggage.'

'No track.'

'This is not your film, never was, never will be.'

He was hard. 'It's mine for three years.'

Weislob grimaced. 'What you got is not yours.'

'It's ours,' said Coburn.

'You stole confidential information, read a confidential manuscript. You've acted in gross bad faith and have no right to call this your picture.'

'You've heard my terms,' said Michael.

'Don't bluff.'

'I don't need to bluff.' He held the table-top, fending the pressure. 'I can go elsewhere.'

Coburn rose bearishly. Michael sensed the anger-point had been reached.

'We've checked you out,' said Weislob.

'Due diligence,' added Coburn.

'Intelligent Productions is a blown-out piece of garbage, no revenue, no capital, big debts. Won't be around by Thanksgiving. See, we've totally researched you, Michael, and we see the logic of your hijacking this movie cos you're up shit creek without a hank of rest-room paper.'

Coburn rounded boomingly. 'You're opportunistic and desperate, and frankly, my friend, I raise my hat to you readily, because you got our arses out here like greased lightning. But, amigo, if you really think a star like Hammond is going to sit round a table listening to a chicken fuckin' word of your so-called ''vision'', you're out of your jock-strap.'

'Wise up, Michael.'

'Sell out, Michael.'

He caught Bambi's eye and spoke mildly and abstractly. 'The option's in my name. Not my company's.'

'Your name is bullshit.'

Coburn hovered above him. He heard the big man breathing.

Michael looked at his hands in self-consultation. This was the crux moment and he fought against chagrin.

'Would Shane prefer to wait three more years or talk to me now?'

'Don't try it,' said Weislob.

'We do all the talking. Till the deal is sealed and signed.'

'Shane's time is money.'

'He'd talk to me.'

'He's cute with old folks and bums but he doesn't like wannabes.'

'Stars aren't into speculative de-scussions about the nature of the universe with industry freshmen.'

'Hilldyard wants to meet him.'

There was silence. It was a strange thing for him to have said.

'I think you should inform Shane.'

'Shane is not sociable.'

'Why don't you ask him?'

'Ask him what?' whined Weislob. 'Audition for some pesky old author?'

'He should be so lucky.'

'Fuck.' Weislob's palms hit the table. 'Shane Hammond's way bigger than Hilldyard. Hilldyard's just another bookworm scribe. Hilldyard should be touching the hem of Hammond's jacket if he could get within a mile of a man that famous.'

It was an insight to hear what these men really believed. They spoke ugly words, said crude things and believed them implicitly.

'Hammond winks, there's twenty, thirty, fifty million bucks on a plate.'

Coburn shook his head. 'Hammond does not need James Hilldyard. He has the pick of the best Hollywood scripts and can work with anyone he chooses, including authors a lot more visible than Jimmy-boy.'

Michael's heart was sinking in his breast.

'Fact is, Hilldyard needs Hammond, being as right now our scouts say the bard ain't shifting them stateside.'

'I'd say in the US market James Hilldyard is not only not visible but a complete lemon. Where's that Pulitzer? Where's that Nobel? Right out of sight. What the good man needs is a big, bruising movie opening on twelve hundred screens with a Universal or Sony on a major-spend advertising campaign.'

'A humungous tie-in.'

'Get the people readin'.'

'Bums on seats. Paws on pages.'

'Not some squirty little English producer trying to play off his literary status against a major Hollywood star.'

'Won't work, Michael.'

He was subdued, hemmed in.

'Take the ransom and sign.'

He had played it too straight, too respectably, and he wanted to leave them now, leave behind the whole monstrous situation that was as dismal to him as it would be horrifying to Hilldyard. But he had no choice. There was no backing out now, not until all the cards were played.

'Variety would pay more for this story,' he said, turning an eye on Coburn. It was important to hold his eye.

'I didn't hear that.'

'Variety would pay me more,' he said.

Coburn blinked, came round and sat right before him. 'Dumb, Michael. You'd lose thirty thousand bucks now. You'd lose more later.'

Balls was what you had to have, he thought. Cojónes.

'Want to hear more?'

'Some things I don't hear.'

'Then read about it. How your agency lost Shane Hammond! Full-page feature. Your face. Hammond's. Hammond's new agent. The screw-up on the option. Hilldyard's views on Rick. Your sweaty trip halfway round the globe and failure to close a deal. The trades would lap it up. Not great for business, but no publicity is bad publicity!'

Coburn tongued his cheek. His eyes were neutral.

'Are you blackmailing us?' Weislob was sharp. 'Make a note, Bambi.'

He saw the cold disgust in Coburn's eyes.

'We can play it that way.' Michael stood up.

'Sit down.'

'You're not leaving this place till the deal's done.'

'Or we can have a civilised discussion.' He went around the table to the door.

'Don't move.'

'I'll be lunching at the Marinella restaurant. On the beach. If you want to talk on my terms, I'll see you there. Otherwise, give my regards to Tinseltown. Pleasure to meet you, Bambi.'

Coburn rose violently.

Michael grabbed the handle, pulled the door open.

'Big mistake, Michael.'

'We'll see.'

Coburn let him leave without another word, but in his expression Michael saw a strange absence, a moment of non-being.

Weislob picked his nose; and then the door was closed.