FIVE

A month had passed since her meeting with Owens at the law office and Abby was now getting desperate. Owens was calling her daily. She needed to find Gable Cooper. To keep the agent off her back and buy time, Abby agreed to Owens’s representation. She told Carla she was authorized as Gable Cooper’s lawyer to do this. Carla didn’t ask any questions.

This morning she used a pair of scissors to rip open the top of the large envelope and then removed the catalog-sized loose-leaf binder. It contained at least two hundred pages with the name of a talent agency stenciled on the cover. It had taken several weeks and all of Morgan’s efforts, but he had finally done it. A contact he had met during the entertainment law seminar had loaned him a copy of the directory, and Morgan had it sent directly to Abby.

Theresa hovered over her as she set up at the card table in the living room. It was cluttered with papers, the remnants of notes from the last manuscript. In the center was the old Royal manual, built in the fifties and now nearly an antique. It wasn’t that Abby shunned computers. She used one at work. But the manual typewriter was her forty-pound lucky charm when it came to fiction. She had written four novels on it, including Gable Cooper’s. There was a certain therapy in beating on the heavy keys. Abby was afflicted by the disease of overwriting. The old typewriter exacted a cost for revisions in the form of retyping, and so it served as a restraint.

“You know,” said Theresa, “people go to jail for this kind of stuff.”

“You worry too much,” said Abby.

“No, I mean it. Remember the guy who wrote the book about Howard Hughes? The unauthorized biography?”

“Where did you ever hear about that?”

“Hey, I read.”

“But that was years ago.”

“Don’t change the subject. He did prison time,” said Theresa.

“Stop worrying. Gable Cooper isn’t Howard Hughes.”

“My God, woman. He’s a figment of your imagination. How do you know he isn’t Howard Hughes? You haven’t found him yet.”

Theresa Jenrico liked to laugh at her own jokes even with a bruised cheek. Theresa’s husband, Joey, had used her for a punching bag for the umpteenth time just before their divorce five weeks earlier and, according to Theresa, she was now residing permanently with Abby, though how long this would last was not certain.

Joey was manipulative and chronically violent. Theresa had him arrested four times, and to date he had a perfect record; four busts—no convictions. She dropped charges each time, after Joey professed his love and vowed he would never hurt her again.

It was Abby who’d finally convinced her to go for the divorce and then represented her in the ordeal. She also tried to talk her into a restraining order to keep Joey away, but Theresa told her it would only make matters worse.

“You’re telling me that I’m being stupid,” said Abby. “Look at yourself in the mirror.”

“Hey. I left him, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. For the fourth time. What was it last time—two broken ribs? And the time before that a detached retina?”

“They only thought it was detached,” said Theresa.

“Well, lucky you.”

“I’m only telling you this cuz I don’t want to see you get in trouble,” said Theresa.

“I’m not going to get in trouble. I talked with Morgan and he agrees.”

“Did you tell him everything?”

“What he needed to know,” said Abby.

“I’ll bet. And the agent?”

“So far I’m managing to hold her off. I’ve told her he’s on a junket, a trip into the jungles of southern Mexico for more color.”

“Sooner or later that’s gonna wear thin,” said Theresa. “What then? Hmm?”

“By then I’ll find somebody.”

“Right.”

“You should have heard her,” said Abby. She was talking about Owens.

“‘What does he look like?’ ‘Does he have big baby blues?’ ‘How tall?’ ‘How thin?’ ‘How young?’ ‘Does he have hair halfway to his ass and cleavage of the chin?’ Listen. If she wants a dimple on his pecker I’ll find one—and if I can’t, I’ll make one,” said Abby.

Theresa looked at her, bright eyes. “I got it.”

“What’s that?”

“We can use Joey. You can hold him down and I’ll do the honors. On his pecker, I mean.” The thought of circumcising Joey with a meat cleaver offered a certain sense of comic justice.

“He’s too stupid,” said Abby. “Besides, if he wrote the book, all the characters would speak with a slur.”

“Hey, I will say, Joey did kick the bottle.”

Abby wondered if it wasn’t in Theresa’s teeth at the time.

“Good for him,” said Abby. “Call me when he kicks the bucket.”

“No, I mean it. He stopped drinking.”

“And the pope’s gone over to Scientology,” said Abby.

They’d had this discussion before. Abby had warned her that if she didn’t leave Joey, he would eventually kill her. The relationship had all the classic signs. Joey was a drunk out of control, a paranoid fueled by alcohol, with a raging temper that knew no bounds. If he killed and dismembered her, he would no doubt be too drunk to remember where he put the parts. He would beat the charges on a plea of diminished capacity.

“Don’t change the subject. We’re talkin’ about you and this stupid thing you’re gonna do.”

“It isn’t stupid.” Abby centered the binder in front of her on the card table so that it was upside down to Theresa.

“Look at it this way. How often have you had a chance to play Pygmalion?”

“Pig who?” said Theresa.

“Greek mythology. Pygmalion was a sculptor who hated women until he carved a statue of a gorgeous woman and promptly fell in love with his own work.”

“Sounds like some of the men I’ve known.”

“He called the statue Galatea and when he got tired hugging cold stone Pygmalion went crying to the gods, in this case Aphrodite, and asked that she supply him with a woman as beautiful as what he’d created. Aphrodite took pity and brought the stone to life.”

“So what are you telling me, that this Gable Cooper, this dream boat with a dimple on his dick, is your statue?”

Abby laughed. “Not a statue, but he is my creation.”

“All I can say is I hope to hell you’re praying to the gods. Cuz you’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

Abby opened the cover and popped open the rings of the binder, removing the first page and holding it up for Theresa to see.

“The gods help those who help themselves.”

There pasted to the page was an eight-by-ten color glossy of some male hunk, blond, blue-eyed, pearly whites smiling at Theresa across the table.

“Who’s that?” Suddenly she was all interest.

“Somebody from a talent agency in L.A.” Abby pointed to the binder in front of her. “This is full of the same.” She fanned some of the pages with her fingers. It was an endless array of photos, all great-looking men.

“Spencer got it from somebody he met at a seminar in L.A. This guy was dating a woman who works at the agency. I’m going shopping,” said Abby.

If anyone found out she had a copy of the directory, the woman who palmed it from the talent agency would lose her job. So Abby had to be discreet.

Each entry contained a photo with the name of the actor, followed by a résumé including acting credits, address, and telephone numbers for their day job and home. Abby thumbed through the binder quickly. Most appeared to be waiters or sales clerks by day, all of them with looks to stop time.

Theresa moved around the table for a better look. “Lemme see.” She picked up the photo.

“Oooo. He’s nice. Michael Chapen. Redondo Beach. Do you know him?”

“Nope. But he’s not my type.”

“I knew it,” said Theresa. “You’re sick. Lemme take your temperature.”

“I told the agent that Gable Cooper was dark. Mr. Chapen doesn’t fit the bill.”

“Ah.” Theresa pulled up a chair and sat down for a closer look. She was convinced Abby was nuts, but as long as she was going to do this thing, there was no harm in indulging fantasy.

“So tell me. What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to go through this and find the ones who come sufficiently close to the description I gave to the agent. Then I intend to call and set up auditions.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“No.”

“You’re gonna meet these guys?”

“Until I find the one I want.” Abby made it sound like buying salami in a store.

“You actually think they’ll do this? What you’re asking?”

“It’s acting, isn’t it? They’re actors. Listen, for most of these people it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. The chance to play a real live author. Who knows, they might even become famous.”

“Yeah, right. Their picture in every post office in America. Listen, the only possible silver lining in this cloud is if you both get convicted and they put you in the same cell with him.”

“What’s wrong? I’m gonna pay the guy.”

“With what?” asked Theresa.

“A percentage of the advance and royalties on the book. Whatever I can negotiate.” Abby turned the page and suddenly Theresa swallowed her protests.

“Now, he’s tall and dark,” said Theresa.

“He might do very nicely.”

“Listen,” said Theresa. “You need help? I could carry your luggage. Take notes.”

Abby thought she was joking, looked at her for a moment, and realized she was not. Suddenly they both starting laughing.

Ron Sidner took the call directly. It came in on his back line, somebody he knew.

“Ron here.” He was typing a memo to the front office, coverage on a movie script sent to him by an agent.

“More news from Big-F,” said the voice on the phone. It was clear and precise, the words clipped with a certain air of formality and very businesslike.

“I have been told that the author’s operating under a pseudonym,” it said.

“We figured that much,” said Sidner. He was cool, good-looking, and twenty-two. Good looks were a must in the industry, where deals were increasingly driven by kids in their twenties. Sidner had originally aspired to become an actor but had come to his senses when he realized there were better odds for success in the lottery. Since then he’d worked as a tour guide for one of the major film studios in L.A. before graduating to its story department. He was now bitten by the film bug and craved a spot in the executive suites.

“Yes,” said the voice, “but did you figure the reason for the pen name?”

Sidner was all ears.

“Word has it he’s a bestselling author. A major name.”

Sidner suddenly stopped pecking away at the computer keyboard. “Are you sure?”

“My information is from well-placed sources.”

“Gimme a name,” said Sidner. “The author?”

“That I don’t have, at least not yet. Give me a while and I can probably find out.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know.”

Silence from Sidner as he thought. “There’s an extra thousand in it for you, if the information is accurate and we get it before anybody else.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” The voice was on retainer, part of a stable of film scouts maintained by studios in New York to keep an eye out for potential hot properties in the book world. Most of these operated aboveboard, out of offices in the publishing district of Manhattan. They routinely combed the files of literary agents and publishing houses on the make for stories that might be scripted for film. A few of them, like the voice on the phone, were moles, secretaries and office assistants, who could be used when the need arose for inside information. This could run the gamut, from the price a publisher was paying for a book, to the scope of their advertising budget, and most important whether another studio might be interested in the property for film rights. People heard things in offices and passed them as gospel. Film was an industry fueled by rumors. Nothing was hot unless someone else wanted it, in which case the sky was the limit. It was an industry that operated on the premise that perception was reality, or if it wasn’t, it soon would be.

“There’s more,” said the voice. “Owens hasn’t signed him yet.”

“What are you talking about? She’s had a month. She went out to Seattle.” This did surprise Sidner.

“She never saw him. He was out of town. And he hasn’t come back. Off someplace doing research—on another book. From what I am told, it picks up where the first one left off.”

They didn’t own the property, hadn’t cast the star, weren’t in production yet, and a sequel was already looming. Sidner buffered out of the coverage he was writing on the screen and quickly started a new memo while he talked.

“You mean after her visit here Owens struck out?”

“Not entirely. She made contact with a woman who supposedly lives with the author. The woman knows where he is, and according to my information is now working with Owens to contact him.”

“Got a name?”

“Abby Chandlis.” He spelled the last name and gave Sidner the address of her place of employment and what details were known about Gable Cooper and his whereabouts.

Ten minutes later Ron Sidner was centered in front of the huge oak desk, hand-carved in deep relief, a quarter-inch of plate glass protecting its surface. It was rumored that the desk once belonged to David O. Selznick, and that on one of its corners Clark Gable inked his name to the contract to play Rhett Butler.

Behind it, in a tufted wing-back maroon leather chair, sat Mel Weig, cool and detached, impeccably attired, the Armani suit coat buttoned even as he sat.

In another chair across the desk from Weig sat Stanley Salzman, head of production and Weig’s number two at the studio. One never moved without the other.

Weig read Sidner’s memo as he toyed with the twelve-thousand-dollar gold-braceleted watch on his wrist.

“Anybody else seen this?”

“No, sir,” said Sidner.

“Let’s keep it that way.” He passed it to Salzman, who did a quick reading. Weig knew that just as his mole had penetrated Big-F, it was possible that other studios had eyes and ears in his own. The fewer people who knew the contents of the memo the better. Weig had been responsible for hooking the actor interested in Gable Cooper’s book. But if some other studio bagged the film rights, the deal would be gone, like a movable feast. Box-office stars were no longer in bondage to the studios. They were free agents, signing contracts on a film-by-film basis. Studio execs had to crawl on their knees to get the hot ones, as Weig had on this deal. In the end, the actor came only because he longed to play the character created by Gable Cooper, and Weig knew it.

The corn-line on his phone rang and he picked it up.

“Sir, I have Carla Owens for you on the other line.” It was Weig’s secretary who had placed the call at her boss’s directive moments before. He punched the line.

“Carla, darling. Mel here. How are you?” Some silence while she chatted.

“Oh good. Listen, do you mind if I put you on the speakerphone? Stanley Salzman, you know Stan, head of production? He’s here with me, and I think he’d like to hear what’s happening.”

An instant later Weig hit the speaker button and laid the receiver down.

“Carla, can you hear me?”

“Oh yes.”

“Hi, Carla, it’s Stanley.”

“Stan, how are you? It’s been a long time.”

“Too long.”

“Listen,” said Weig. “We’re very interested in what’s going on with your man Cooper.”

“Oh, it’s going great. Just fine.”

“Then you have him signed?”

“Done deal,” said Carla.

Weig looked over at Salzman, whose dark eyes revealed the deception.

“Listen, what’s he like?”

“I think you’re gonna love him.” She avoided direct answers. “He’s very good-looking. I’m told that, in fact, he did some modeling. He’s a marketer’s dream.”

“That’s good. That’s great. When can we talk about numbers for the film rights?”

“Oh well, give me a few days. He’s just getting back from a tiring trip to Mexico, so we should be on the phone in the next few days. I’d like to talk to him in more detail before we get down to specifics. Is that O.K. with you?”

“As long as you aren’t talking to anybody else,” said Weig. “Another studio or a producer?”

“Mel.” She made his name sound like a cat in pain. “How could you think such a thing? No. No. As soon as he gets his feet back on the ground and we have a chance to talk, I’ll be back to you.”

“Right,” said Weig. “Take care, Carla, and I’ll wait to hear.”

“Ta ta, be in touch,” said Carla, and the phone went dead.

Weig said it all with his expression. “We obviously can’t rely on Carla. When will your source have more information?” he asked Sidner.

“We’re not sure. He thinks maybe a few days.”

“What do you think, Stan?” Weig looked at Salzman.

“It looks like Carla’s having difficulty lining him up,” said Salzman.

“Or playing games,” said Weig. He had a more sinister agenda in mind. “She could be trying to buy time, to jack the price up. Get us into a bidding war with another studio.”

Though Gable Cooper couldn’t know it, Weig’s studio was already prepared to offer a million dollars for the film rights to the book. The hint that he might be a bestseller, and their inability to reach him to talk dollars that might bring a smile to the author’s face, left them in doubt as to whether it would be enough. Anxiety in Hollywood always had a predictable and singular effect—a higher price.

“Where are we on the budget?” asked Weig. “Can we go higher for the rights?”

“Looks like we may have to,” said Salzman. “We could take a little off of casting, some of the minor characters. That could take us up to three million for the rights.”

“Do it,” said Weig. “If somebody else gets the book, it won’t matter how much we reserved for casting.”

Sidner marveled at the exercise of power; two million more just like that—“do it”—a million dollars a word.

“What else?” said Salzman.

“We can’t wait,” said Weig. “There’s too many wagging tongues in this town. Get Ackerman and his agency to find the woman.” He looked at the memo. “This Abby Chandlis. Have them contact her.” Weig thought for a second. “No. No. On second thought, you better make the contact.” He looked at Salzman. “And take Zitter here with you.”

“Sidner,” said the kid.

“What?”

“The name’s Sidner, sir.”

“Whatever,” said Weig.

“So what do you want? Ackerman or us?” said Salzman.

“Both. Have the Ackerman Agency trail the woman. If Cooper, whoever he is, comes back to town, I want to be the first to know it. But I only want them to surveil.”

Salzman nodded.

“Then I want you to put yourself on a plane to Seattle. Get your ass up there and talk to this Chandlis woman. Romance her. Wine and dine her. Do whatever you have to do, but tell her we’re interested in the film rights and we’d like to deal directly. Not through an agent. I’m tired of waiting for Carla. She wants to bullshit us, she’s gonna learn there’s a price.”

“Is that smart?” said Salzman. “I mean, Owens has already talked to her.”

“Tell her whatever you want, that an agent’s gonna slow things down. That we don’t like to do business with this one. Whatever gets us to Cooper. But get us there.”

“What if we get halfway through and they think they can find a better deal someplace else?” said Salzman. It was the concern in every agentless deal: people who fancied themselves artists could be notorious flakes—agree to a deal today and renege tomorrow. To the studios, agents weren’t professionals representing talent. They were animal trainers with a leash and a whip. Their principal value was client control.

“Owens hasn’t signed him. If we can get to him before she does, maybe we can limit this to one player, ourselves. If not,” said Weig, “I’m afraid the price is gonna get very steep, in a hurry.”