“My ole lady, we’ve split. Feel like I’m back in the streets. Don’t know where to park my bones.”
“Let’s grab a burger at the Bistro, talk about it.”
“How ’bout the Hamlet.”
“The Bistro—we can walk there.”
“I look like a bum.”
He may have, but so what? McQueen was the hottest male star in the world, the perfect Hollywood cowboy, skintight T-shirt and jeans, not hand-me-down, but tailored to order.
Me, I wanted to talk about The Getaway, a heist film written by Walter Hill that the new boy-wonder director Peter Bogdanovich was directing for Paramount. The Getaway was the furthest thing from Steve’s mind. His ole lady, Nellie, was all he could talk about. Steve was not a happy camper. Always a romantic, I felt for the guy. He seemed totally lost, with no place to go.
“Sunday I’ve got a tennis marathon at the house,” I told him. “But forget the tennis; your dance card will be filled with new talent for a year.”
“Sure I ain’t imposin’?”
“Imposing? If you’re a no-show, I’m not making the flick. Got it?”
A good-bye laugh. “Yeah, see ya.”
The players were all male; the watchers all female. McQueen seemed a bit uncomfortable. Between sets, I rushed into the house and found Ali busy pressing flowers.
“Come out!” I demanded. “Meet McQueen, make him feel at home.”
“In an hour . . . look how beautiful the daisies are pressed in the book.”
“Fuck the daisies, McQueen could be Gatsby.”
Capote’s script was due within a week. Nicholson and Beatty were my first two choices. Ironically, only a few years earlier Warren wanted to buy the rights and produce Gatsby himself, but not star in it.
“The only one to play Gatsby,” he said to me, “is you.”
“You prick. Now that I’m on top, you want me to fall back on my ass?”
“Wrong. You’re the only Gatsby I know. Play yourself; that’s all you gotta do. I’ll line-read you if I have to.”
Neither Nicholson nor Beatty were interested, feeling Ali was wrong for the part.
“Right for the part of Jordan, but not Daisy,” both of them echoed.
“And fuck you too!” was my answer back.
In early December the script arrived. Truman and his companion, an air-conditioner repairman from Palm Springs, came over for dinner. Bruce never said a word all night while Truman had Ali and me in stitches with the story of how he had “improved” Fitzgerald’s “illiterate masterpiece.”
I kept thinking, He better have. I’m in for $300,000, against the strong objections of Bluhdorn and Yablans—neither of whom wanted a third Gatsby.
But, as it turned out, Truman’s script was Ada revisited.
“Maybe I’m illiterate, Ali, but I don’t know what the fuck I’m reading. It’s a miscarriage.” A terrible downer to blurt out.
Trying to turn a negative to a positive, I continued, “Fuck Gatsby. Make The Getaway with McQueen. Together, you’ll make it the hottest picture of the year.”
“Bob, drop it. Who’s gonna buy me as a vagrant on the run?”
“It’s not written in granite. Casablanca had seventeen rewrites.”
“What about Gatsby?”
“Fitzgerald ain’t easy to lick. You’ll end up being a character actress before we get a script. We’re back at the starting gate without a jockey.”
“Playing Daisy is the only thing I want to do.”
“Hey, let’s be realistic. You’ve been off the screen for two years. If we’re lucky, it’ll take another year to get a shooting script on Gatsby. Personally I don’t think we’ll ever get one. Fitzgerald writes essences. Not one of his books has worked on screen.”
“My Evans will make it work.”
“I haven’t yet. Use Getaway as a filler. At least you’ll be in action.”
“I’m not like you. I don’t want to be in action. I want to be here. You can hardly walk.”
Paying little heed to her vibes, I took on Peter Bogdanovich.
“If Ali were Helen Hayes, she couldn’t get away with it. It’s written for Cybill.” Cybill Shepherd at the time was Peter’s lady.
“If the Bible can be rewritten, so can The Getaway.”
“Great! We’ll make her a runaway from Wellesley in her Mercedes convertible.”
“Bottom line, Peter, McQueen and MacGraw together is blockbuster time. That’s the business I’m in.”
“You stick to your business, I’ll stick to mine. No Cybill; no Bogdanovich.”
Good-bye, Peter. Hello, Sam Peckinpah.
Helping me out of the bathtub, Ali began massaging my lower back. “I’m not leaving, Evans. Your whole back’s in spasm. I’m worried. Get someone else to play the Texas floozy.”
A Jewish mother was the one thing I didn’t want. Alone, not having to answer to anyone, was my Utopian thought.
The phone rang. It was agent Freddie Fields, who headed First Artists, a production company started by McQueen, Paul Newman, Barbra Streisand, Dustin Hoffman, and Sidney Poitier.
“Steve doesn’t think Ali’s right for the part. He’d rather go with Tuesday Weld or Katharine Ross.”
“Freddie, Ali’s perfect for the part. Have him come over for dinner.”
Steve, Ali, and I were in the middle of dinner when I excused myself. “I’ve got a script to read. You guys get to know each other.”
The next day Ali and I flew to Acapulco for a rest. Some rest. My host, Melchor Perusquia, gave me a phone with a two-hundred-foot extension cord that went from his house, down the cliff to the beach. Before I had a chance to dive into the sea, five calls had come in. It rang again.
It was Sue Mengers. “Bobbee . . . Steve wants a yes or a no from Ali.”
“You talk to her. I’m tired of trying to convince her.”
For twenty minutes Ali stood firm with Sue. The only thing that interested her was playing Daisy.
“Stop talking Daisy! Talk reality. It’s never gonna happen anyway.” I grabbed the phone from her hand. “Sue, she’s doing The Getaway. That’s it. Let’s hear the deal, and it better be good.”
Hanging up, I looked at Ali. Whatever was in her eyes, it sure wasn’t love.
Twenty minutes later, the beach phone rang again. It was Freddie Fields. Steve wanted to meet with Ali before giving his final okay.
I ran to the ocean where Ali was swimming. “McQueen wants to meet you in L.A.”
“But we’re flying to New York tomorrow for Christmas!”
“You fly to L.A. I’ll fly to New York.”
Glaring at me, “Is this really what you want me to do?”
“Yes!” A wave hit me and knocked me over, as well it should have.
Three days later, after flying back to L.A. to meet with McQueen, she joined me at the Sherry-Netherland in New York, different, distant. Did I pay heed? Of course not.
Angrily, she John Hancocked to do the film. Once Ali signed, Freddie Fields proceeded to give me a spiked steel dildo up my ass. With premeditated complicity, he loopholed Paramount’s control of the now hot McQueen/MacGraw Getaway, sliding it into his own First Artists Company, which he personally controlled. Nice guy, huh? Bluhdorn and Yablans were justifiably furious.
“Get Ali out. Freddie Fuckface Fields ain’t gonna fuck Frank Yablans,” he yelled. Frank was tough. He was also right. Me, I made the dumbest decision of my life.
“Ali’s doing the picture. That’s it, Frank.”
It all but cost me my partnership with Frank and my friendship with Charlie. No gray in this altercation. Black and white, they were right; I was wrong. Worse, both of them thought I was losing it. Again, they were right. I was—losing my wife, that is. Were my priorities fucked? What do you say about a guy who wants to get rid of his wife so he can be free to fight full-time with his director? Coppola was my primary thought, not Ali. Pure joy for Prince Coppola—making my life miserable. But no way was he going to slide something by me. Every hour of every day, I was on him like a cheap glove. Not once thinking of taking two days off to visit my wife on location, the very lady who had begged me not to be away from her for more than two weeks at a time. She was now shooting love scenes in El Paso with one of the world’s most attractive men. I never gave it a second thought.
How could she fuck around on me?
Two months passed. At last I was going to see my wife. Fly to see her? No! She was flying to see me, be on my arm for the opening of The Godfather. My ego was so enormous that I never picked up the slightest vibe that her head and heart were thousands of miles away. Worse, I was also the last to find out. That memorable evening, to me and the thousands surrounding us, no two people looked more in love. A picture tells a thousand words. Stop reading and find the picture of the two of us dancing. That was the night. Ask yourself, how can a man ever read a woman? A man who thinks he can is a man who knows nothing.
A month later I was in Paris working with Danny Goldman, Paramount’s head of foreign distribution, choosing top writers, directors, and actors to translate Paramount’s gusher, The Godfather, into French, Italian, German, and Spanish. I had just convinced Louis Malle, one of France’s premier directors, to helm the French version. I was on cloud nine, knowing his unique talent could translate an American The Godfather into Le Parrain.
Not a hybrid, rather a French film made in France. An expensive coup, paying Malle 100 Gs for a French version only.
“Sheer lunacy,” distribution barked.
“A cheap buy,” I answered.
Le Parrain became the highest grossing American film in French cinema history. Bursting with enthusiasm, I dialed El Paso to tell Ali of my coup.
“Sorry, Mr. Evans,” said the operator, “no answer.”
“Ring the nanny’s room.”
Missy, Joshua’s nurse, picked up. “Ali’s not here, Mr. Evans. She should be in shortly. I’ll tell her to call you.”
“Any time tonight, Missy.”
Jumping up in a cold sweat, from a bad dream, I called El Paso again. No Ali. I laid back on the pillow. “Nah,” I said to myself, “it couldn’t be.”
The phone rang at eight. It wasn’t Ali—it was a wake-up call. I called El Paso before breakfast. Awaking Missy.
“Where the hell is Ali?” Silence. I knew she was covering.
I flew to Rome for the Italian dubbing of The Godfather. The moment I reached the Hassler Hotel, I called El Paso where it was now five in the morning. Ali’s room-extension rang and rang.
“Sorry, no answer,” squeaked the operator.
“Ring the nanny’s room.”
“Where’s Ali?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Evans.”
I knew. And I knew she knew. Suddenly the Italian Godfather wasn’t so urgent. I took a car to Cinecettà, where Alain Delon was shooting a film.
“It’s a location fuck, that’s all,” shrugged Delon. “Happens all the time. When she comes home everything will be fine.” Why couldn’t I be French?
Later that afternoon, I connected.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I fell asleep in my dressing room.”
“You’re lying!”
“You’re right.”
“You’re with McQueen, aren’t you?”
Silence. “Yes.”
“I’m leaving for El Paso.”
“Forget it! You missed the plane months ago.”
I left Rome that night.
Missy and Joshua were at the airport to greet me—no Ali. I was checked into a hotel twenty miles out of town, just over the border in Mexico. Holding back my tears, I played with my son for the next few hours. Ali arrived at nine that evening.
When you ask too many questions, you get answers you don’t want to hear. Alain was wrong—it wasn’t a location fuck, it was full-blown, madly-in-love time. Ali’s affair with McQueen had been going on for months. The last thing she wanted was to spend the night with me, but she did. It ain’t a good feeling being kissed with a passion you’ve never felt before—none.
The next evening, she didn’t return to my border hideout, but Sam Peckinpah did. “We’re old pros, Bob. The situation stinks, but I’ve gotta finish the picture. As long as you’re in town, McQueen’s a no-show.”
“Fuck him and the horse he rode in on. What about Ali?”
“Bad shape. Her eyes are like two balloons; can’t stop crying.”
“I ain’t leaving. I’m going over to see Ali, now.”
“Bob, don’t.”
“Fuck you too, Sam. I hired you to direct the film, not direct me. I’ve been laid, parlayed, and relaid by fuckin’ Freddie Fields. Now his client, McQueen, is fucking me in the ass. Well the fuckin’ is over. If there’s gonna be any fuckin’, it’s gonna be me doin’ it.”
I sped into town, ran up the stairs of Ali’s hotel, and banged on the door.
“I need time to think, Evans. Please, please, leave. Let me finish the picture and get home—for Josh’s sake.”
Women’s tears always seem to work. On the plane back to L.A., I checked my watch. How could I be so fucking dumb? It’s an hour and forty minute flight and I never once took it till infidelity got me off my ass.
The fracas in El Paso became immediate fodder for the press. Instantly, the affair was common knowledge. One of my first calls was from Henry Kissinger.
“If I can be of any help, Bob . . .”
“Thanks, Henry, but it’s too late.”
“Do you want it to work?”
“Sure, but it’s useless.”
“If I can negotiate with the North Vietnamese, I think I can smooth the way with Ali.”
“Henry, you know countries, you don’t know women. When it’s over, it’s over.”
A few days before The Getaway was to wrap, Ali called, said she was sending Josh and Missy home first. She was going off to the springs to thaw out and think.
How exciting it was seeing Joshua arrive back at Woodland. Five days later, Ali too arrived back in L.A., not to come home to Woodland but to go away and commiserate with herself. Paranoid and nontrusting, I sent my loyal friend, Gary Chazan, a true original whose bite is even tougher than his bark, to check out my questionable lady’s arrival.
“I’m lookin’ at the two of ’em. They’re waiting for their luggage. . . . Should I break his fuckin’ head?”
“Not yet. If they get into the same car, ram ’em. Get him out of the car . . . do what feels worst.”
“Got it.”
“He’s a black belt, Gary, could be tough.”
“He’s a fuckin’ actor.” Laughing out loud.
A few hours later, Gary called back. “They took separate cars. He headed into the city. I followed her all the way to the hot springs. She just checked in. Want me to hang out and see if he shows?”
“Leave it.”
That weekend was both my brother’s birthday and Mother’s Day. I rented a weekend house in Palm Springs for me, Charles, Joshua, and the nanny.
Ali called.
“It’s so good to be away from everybody. How’s Joshua? Is he all right? Is he happy being home? Evans, please come and pick me up. I miss you.”
Maybe Alain was right.
“Bobbeee . . .” a long Mengela giggle, then in a half whisper, “McQueen just huffed out of my office, slammed the door in my face,” another giggle, “told him, I’m trying to convince Ali to stay with my Bobbie. It’s a good thing I’m hot!”
Memorial Day weekend, Sue Mengers, her husband, Jean-Claude, Ali, and I went to Palm Springs. Sue couldn’t have cared less about losing Ali as a client. She wanted her back with me. Sue was my Kissinger—peace was just around the corner. But behind closed doors Ali and I weren’t even holding hands.
I never asked her where she was during the day—I was afraid to find out. Coming home from the studio one day, I was surprised to see Sue and Ali in the living room having a fierce argument. Sue waved me away.
The next day I found out that Freddie the Fraud had given Steve the key to his beach house. Why? To fuck my wife. Nice guy, huh?
I began to tremble. That no-good lying piece of shit. Just the year before I’d saved Freddie’s ass. His wife Polly Bergen owned a cosmetics firm, Oil-of-the-Turtle. Freddie had heard Bluhdorn might be interested in buying into the cosmetics business and had asked me to intercede on his and Polly’s behalf. I knew Freddie had once lied to Charlie—a cardinal sin in Bluhdorn’s book. I told Freddie there was no way I could get them together.
“Freddie, you know Charlie’s feelings toward you.”
“Please, Bob.”
Charlie was in a meeting with the top executives of one of his many companies, Associate Investment. I broke in.
“Charlie, I know you’ve been looking to buy a cosmetics company—”
Bluhdorn exploded, “Hold it! Does it have to do with Freddie Fields?”
Knowing how to get to him, down on my knees I went, hands up, as if I were talking to God. “Please, Charlie, do it for me?”
Charlie slowly panned the other eight men in the room, loving every second of the drama. “These people from Hollywood! I told you they’re crazy. They’re all crazy! See what I have to put up with? I won’t see Freddie, Evans.”
Still on my knees looking up.
“It’s important, Charlie, for me.” Relishing the drama for his cohorts to laugh at.
“Is Polly with him?”
I nodded my head yes.
“Have her here tonight at eight P.M.—alone!”
Within seventy-two hours, for a high seven-figure amount, Gulf + Western was now the proud owner of Oil-of-the-Turtle. A year later “the turtle” drowned. For years, there wasn’t a week that passed where Bluhdorn didn’t throw my bended-knee plea in my face. Did Freddie appreciate it? Sure, he went out of his way to give Steve McQueen the key to his beach house, to fuck my wife.
Click, the fence went up. Click, the fence went down, all $186,000 of it, a hydraulic fence disappearing four feet into a brick slab on a click. Click it again, it automatically rose four feet above the ground, tightly surrounding my egg-shaped pool. A first in its design, it was there for Joshua’s protection. There was one problem. Joshua wasn’t there; he was with Ali.
Did it haunt me? Well, let’s just say I became a total recluse, sitting alone by the pool, night after night, pressing the button, watching the fence go up, go down, up, down. Hard as people tried, no one could break my spell. Those around me were getting concerned that I was flipping out. It didn’t bother me; I was in my own world. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. The hottest new bachelor in town couldn’t bring himself to go to a dinner party, much less to look at a woman. My pleasure was fulfilled by the click-click of the fence going up and down.
In the end, I had no say about it—Sidney Korshak ordered the fence taken out. He was right; it was a crutch that kept me with the past. No matter how hard it hurts, you’ve got to trudge ahead. Stand still—you’ll only get older.
Success breeds strange bedfellows. Sharing history was the key that attracted Coppola to take over where Truman Capote left off and adapt Fitzgerald’s Gatsby for the screen. Quite a coup, since he had just won the Academy Award for writing The Godfather. Waiting anxiously in the bull pen was Jack Clayton, one of England’s finest maestros, set to direct. The impossible became possible. In three months, Coppola delivered a screenplay that really worked. Full speed ahead was the dictate. Paramount now filled a big hole in their release schedule—Gatsby would be the Christmas picture.
From Sue Mengers and Ray Stark to Eileen Ford in New York, everyone extended themselves to find Miss Right for the now reclusive bachelor. No matter how right Miss Right was, in my eyes she would still be Miss Wrong. Call it wallowing in your misery, but never once did I leave the gates of my Woodland hideaway.
A howling bark so eerie that I jumped from my bed, through the front door and out to the driveway. Was it a wolf? Uh-uh, a tall, lanky hunk of lady with a humongous white German shepherd.
“You’re at the wrong place.”
“If I’m at the wrong place, I’ll leave,” a throaty voice answered, as she turned to leave down the long winding driveway. “Big mistake, Evans.”
“Hey, who the hell are you?”
Doing an about-face, she said, “Chiles. Lois Chiles.”
Still not understanding, “Yeah?”
“I’m doing a film with Ray Stark.”
“One of Ray’s jokes, huh?”
“I’ve never been a joke. Sydney Pollack is directing me: The Way We Were. It’s Ray’s. He must be a good friend. He gave me orders to break your spell.”
Ray wasn’t Hollywood’s top producer by mistake. He was right, she was the only one who could have. She did.
Moxie? This dame put the word to shame. In two days she moved in, lock, stock, and barrel. She had met Jack Clayton months before in New York. Jack told her that she’d make an interesting Jordan, the second female lead in The Great Gatsby. Being a cocksman, he must have told a hundred others the same. Heifetz’s finesse at the fiddle paled compared to Lois’s finesse with me. It wasn’t difficult, I was an open wound.
“If Ali’s not playing Daisy,” she’d sigh, “why, I’d just love to test for it.”
Schmuck that I was, I thought she dug me. Fuckin’ Gatsby was a double-edged sword. My desire to make it was now totally lost. Coppola’s script, Clayton set to direct, Redford desperate to sign on as Gatsby.
To Bluhdorn, Yablans, and me, Freddie Fields eeled, “I’m making it up to you, fellas. . . . How’s this for casting: McQueen and MacGraw together for nothing? Wants to do it as a gift for his ole lady.”
Bluhdorn panted, “Both of them together, for nothing? Freddie, I don’t like you, but I could kiss you.”
Guns were drawn.
“No way, Charlie. Forget it!”
“Are you crazy, Evans? Gatsby with the two of them? And a Coppola script. Paramount’ll have the biggest picture of the year.”
“I don’t care if it doubles The Godfather. I’m not going through any more hell. It’s them or me.”
The chairman stopped cold in his tracks, his trigger cocked, his glasses off, silently squinting.
“It’s your call, Charlie.”
Two minutes of silence from Bluhdorn. Never did his eyes leave mine.
“No. It’s your call, Evans.”
Moments like this stay with you forever.
The casting of Daisy Buchanan got more press than the search for Scarlett O’Hara. Every major actress wanted the part. Like Scarlett O’Hara, no matter how big the star, they all had to lower themselves to be tested. Not one actress refused. One morning I opened a letter and a pressed daisy fell out; the note read, “May I be your Daisy. Love, Mia.”
We narrowed the list of Daisys down to Mia Farrow, Faye Dunaway, Candice Bergen, Katharine Ross, and guess who? Texas moxie herself.
A few days before Christmas, I flew to New York, where the tests were being shot. Forty-eight hours later, the duel was to start, no holds barred. The setting? Gulf + Western’s screening room. The gunslingers: David Merrick, the film’s producer; his hired gun, Alan DeLynn; Jack Clayton; Frank Yablans; Robert Evans; Charles Bluhdorn. All our pieces were cocked. Making the first move, I stood up.
“Gentlemen, I’m setting the rules. We’re going to look at all the tests, then the order of critique will start with Mr. Clayton, followed by Mr. Merrick, then Mr. DeLynn, myself, Mr. Yablans, and last Mr. Bluhdorn. It’s my only dictate. When the tests are over, everyone can take their best shot. Let’s roll ’em.”
Close to an hour later the curtains closed, the lights came up.
“They’re all marvelous,” said Jack Clayton, “but only Mia has the right vulnerability. She’s spent her whole life being a butterfly. She’s the most haunting—”
Merrick didn’t let Clayton finish.
“They all stink! What are we playing games for? There’s only one person who can play Daisy—Ali MacGraw. It was bought for her, and we get McQueen as a bonus. Am I losing my mind? Why are we watching the minors, when we’ve got the biggest male and female star on a silver platter for nothing?” Fiercely eyeing me, he continued, “Let’s start being professional, Mr. Evans.”
His flunky, DeLynn, stood up. “I totally agree with David.”
Silence is a wonderful weapon. They could have screamed their fuckin’ lungs out, I held the ace. The 250-pound cleaning woman who scrubs toilets would play Daisy before Ali got the part. Bluhdorn’s not the type of guy to go back on his word. Did he love me? Sure. But that didn’t figure in his rationale. McQueen and MacGraw were just a single feature. I represented twenty to forty pictures and he fuckin’ well knew I’d walk. Holding aces, I was somewhat professorial.
“Candy Bergen has a regal quality . . . a breeding—”
Yablans quickly interrupted. “She’s wrong!”
Merrick’s voice cut through, “They’re all wrong! It’s MacGraw. Let’s get down to reality!”
Then Uncle Charlie jumped in. “Hold it! Hold it! It’s too important a decision. Let’s look at the tests again.”
Bluhdorn’s timing personified his success. The room darkened, the curtains opened again, and again the tests began, Mia’s the first to run. On her last line Bluhdorn stood up.
“Jack, I have to agree. Mia Farrow has a certain vulnerability, a mystical quality.”
“You’re right,” I authoritatively echoed, “absolutely right. She has that hint of spoiled arrogance—”
Apoplectic, Merrick jumped to his feet screaming, “Is everybody crazy? We have Ali MacGraw and Steve McQueen working for nothing. And we’re ending up with Mia Farrow?”
“I agree with David,” seconded his stooge, DeLynn.
Now Yablans growled, “You’re goddamn right he’s right! Is this a movie company or a lonely hearts club we’re running? I’d like to know, so I can tell my wife what business I’m in.”
It was tough biting my tongue, but I did. Because Yablans was right again.
Cutting everyone down to size, Chairman Bluhdorn interrupted, “Ali MacGraw is not doing the picture. Is that clear? Paramount owns the rights. Is that clear? If anyone wants to walk, have a Merry Christmas. Is that clear? Mr. Clayton is right. The best Daisy is Mia Farrow.”
Suddenly a hush prevailed. Bluhdorn didn’t make his bones being just another pretty face.
“Thank you, Mr. Bluhdorn,” said Clayton. “Let’s talk about the part of Jordan. May I suggest Lois Chiles? She has a wonderful throaty voice, a certain . . . masculinity.”
“I’ve had enough of this shit!” Yablans interrupted. “Evans’s wives! Evans’s girlfriends! Are we running a brothel or a movie company?”
“Hey, Frank, hold it! I didn’t suggest Lois Chiles for anything,” I said. “It’s the director who wants her, not me!”
“The only reason the broad got tested is because she spread her legs for you!”
Bluhdorn jumped up. “Apologize to Bob, Frank!”
Yablans apologize? He walked out. He was right!
“Jack,” said Charlie, “you want Lois Chiles for Jordan Baker?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, settled. Now can I leave for my Christmas vacation?”
“Lois, I’ve got a Merry Christmas for you. Get your ass up here real quick!”
She was at the Carlyle in twenty minutes. If I ever felt like a mogul it was then.
“You got the part of Jordan, Lois. Congratulations.”
She pulled away as I bent over to kiss her.
Her voice was one I’d never heard before. “Jordan? You’re telling me I’m Jordan? I want Daisy, do you hear me? I want Daisy!”
From seductress to witch in a blink. Shocked? Yeah.
“Thanks, kid, you just put me through college, you got the part. You earned it.” I walked to the door, opened it. “Now get the fuck out!”
She didn’t get it. “But we’re leaving for Acapulco tomorrow. . . .”
Cutting her off with the warmth of an iceberg, “You’re lucky the elevator’s near. Listen real close. I’m a memory. Got it! If we’re in the same room, you don’t see me. Got it! Now get the fuck outta my life. Got it!”