Sandy Raven turned off Pico and drove up to the inner gate of Twentieth Century-Fox. The officer in aviator sunglasses was a familiar figure who had been there as long as Sandy could remember.
And he, in turn, had a photographic inventory of everyone who had ever passed through his portal. He even recalled the first visits Sandy had made as a wide-eyed teenager. Yet his nomenclature was always up-to-date.
“Good morning, Professor Raven. Nice to see you.”
“Good morning, Mitch.”
But this time he did not automatically lift the barrier. Instead, he came out, clipboard in hand, and inquired, “Who’re you gonna see today?”
Sandy’s heart began to pound. Struggling to keep his composure, he asked as offhandedly as he could, “Would you mind calling Miss Tower’s office and asking if she could give me a few seconds?”
The guard did his best to camouflage his surprise, then asked with extreme politeness, “Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“Not exactly. It’s sort of a last minute thing. But I’ll be glad to wait for as long as necessary.”
“Right, Professor. I’ll call her office.”
He returned to his booth and closed the glass window so that Sandy could not possibly hear the conversation. Yet he tried to decipher its contents by analyzing Mitch’s body language. All he managed to recognize was discomfort at the beginning and a sigh of enormous relief at the end.
Then the sentry emerged. “A-okay, Prof. She’s gotta watch the morning rushes from Europe, but she’ll do her best to fit you in before then. Do you need directions to her office?”
Heartsick, Sandy was on the verge of exploding. Come off it Mitch, cut the obsequious crap. This is where my father spent half his life.
He simply nodded to the officer, who continued, “Very fine. And guest parking is—”
“I know,” Sandy snapped.
He quickly rolled up his car window and proceeded around to the main building. There were V.I.P. spaces with the names of the executives stenciled on the asphalt. Though his father had parked there for many years, the caretakers had never allowed the paint to fade. Yet this morning—as Sandy had half expected—the name was completely effaced. Indeed, it had already been reallocated to one “F. F. Coppola.”
He angrily drove to the visitors’ lot, and leaving his car, slammed the door behind him.
Marching back toward the main building, he passed through familiar sets which were now ghost towns. Relics of the time when half a world separated him from Rochelle Taubman. And he could worship her in secret.
He stormed up the stairs to the first floor, stopped to recomb his hair and straighten his jacket, then proceeded to the double doors that bore a gold plaque:
KIM TOWER
HEAD OF PRODUCTION
As he turned the knob, he realized to his embarrassment that his palms were sweaty. Hopefully, she would not offer to shake hands.
Two secretaries—one male and one female—guarded the inner sanctum: the first was a blond beach-boy type, the second an elegantly groomed woman in her mid-thirties.
“Well, hello, Professor Raven,” she greeted him with an expert smile. “I’m Eleanor, Miss Tower’s secretary. My my, you’re just like your father. The family resemblance is quite striking. Miss Tower is tied up in a phone call, but you’re next on her schedule. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
“No thank you,” Sandy replied tersely.
“Tea? A soft drink perhaps?”
In his anger, Sandy wanted to refuse even the tiniest gesture of hospitality from anyone associated with Rochelle. Yet, feeling inexplicably tired, he nodded at the suggestion of a Diet Coke.
“With or without caffeine?” Eleanor asked.
Sandy opted for the stimulant, thinking it would help him in what he expected would be at most a ninety-second encounter.
Moments later the intercom buzzed and he heard Rochelle’s voice asking whether he had arrived.
“Yes, Miss Tower. Shall I show him in?”
“No, no,” said the voice. “He’s an old friend. I’ll come out and greet him personally.”
One deep breath later, the inner door opened and there, in all her power and glory, stood Rochelle Taubman.
Sandy had never paid much attention to women’s fashions. His sartorial observations had been limited to telling Judy that she looked nice or, under extreme duress, responding with candor as to why he really did not like what she was wearing.
But he knew from all the interviews that Rochelle bought her clothes at a place called Milestones, which specialized in making good bodies look better, and great bodies radioactive.
She smiled. “Sandy, what a marvelous surprise. I’m so happy to see you. Do come in.”
Thankfully, she did not offer her hand, nor—as he had worried during the nigh—did she offer her cheek to kiss.
“Sit down,” she said, motioning to one of the Barcelona chairs that formed a semicircle in front of her enormous marble desk. She returned to her own leather throne. “Gosh, it’s nice to see you,” she remarked, a smile playing on her face. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No thanks,” Sandy answered quietly. “Eleanor was a charming hostess.”
There was a sudden silence, during which Sandy stared at her, wondering if she would give the minutest sign of anxiety. Or any emotion.
Finally, she asked, “What brings you to Tinseltown?”
Christ, he thought to himself, the L.A. Times announced my university appointment, but she probably doesn’t read anything but Variety.
“Actually, I’m based out here,” he replied. “I mean, I’m at Cal Tech. In fact, I’m part of their new genetic engineering program.”
“Genetic engineering? That must be thrilling work. I wish I had the time to read more, but I’m fascinated by the whole subject of DNA.”
“You know about DNA?” he asked with surprise and a tinge of condescension.
“Just a bit. We had Jim Watson’s Double Helix in development. But the screenwriters couldn’t lick it.”
The second silence was longer.
Even Rochelle could sense that the magic of her beauty, the opulence of her office, its shelves lined with Oscars, was ceasing to mesmerize Sandy.
Wisely, she took the initiative. “I’m sorry about your father.…”
Unbelievable, he shouted inwardly. She’s acting as if he was in a car accident, when she was the one who ran him down.
“I’m sorry too.” Sandy frowned. “But neither of us feels as bad as the man who gave twenty years of his life to this studio.”
“And lost almost that many millions,” she added in subdued but emphatic tones.
“I don’t believe that, Rochelle,” he countered. “I mean, those pictures he made during the first years were real gushers—and on a tight budget.”
“I’ll give you that,” she said. “Sidney was an asset to the studio—in a different era. Sandy, you work in science. God knows that’s changed since we were kids.”
Her civility was killing him. He was determined not to be the one to raise his voice.
“Excuse me, Miss Taubman, but to the best of my knowledge, motion pictures are not an exact science.”
“That’s just the point.” She leaned over her desk for emphasis. “In this business the most important quality is intuition. Our statistics tell us that the vast majority of our audience are teenagers. Now how can you expect a man in his sixties to understand today’s youth culture?”
Sandy was outraged by her sophistry—and yet amazed by her resilience and the dexterity with which she continued to hit the ball over the net.
“By that reasoning, Rochelle,” he rejoined, “all pediatricians should be little kids.”
She was stymied for a moment, then chose humor as the medium of response. “That’s very clever, Sandy. I mean that.”
She glanced at her Rolex and stood up.
“Oh my God, I’m late for a screening, and I know Sergio hates to be kept waiting. Give me a ring sometime and we’ll do lunch.”
Then Sandy exploded. “Rochelle!”
There was a barely susceptible flash of triumph in her eyes: she had finally cracked him. And dealing with hostility was not only her forte, but one of the prime secrets of her success in Hollywood.
“Yes?” she answered primly.
“Forget his loyalty and all the years he broke his back for this studio. Think about just one thing—your own career.”
She did not react, leaving him off balance to continue his tirade.
“I mean if it hadn’t been for my father, you wouldn’t be in this office right now.”
Perhaps she was unaccustomed to being told the truth. But suddenly her temper flared. “That’s your opinion,” she said with a hostile smile. “Personally, I think it’s a considerable overstatement. Anyway, it was nice seeing you, Sandy.”
With that she disappeared. Leaving him still consumed with rage.
How could he have ever loved this monster?