Hollywood (11 page)

Sarah and I decided to visit the ghetto again. Since we still had the old Volks I decided to drive over in that.

Once there, it looked about the same except somebody had left an old mattress in the middle of the street and we had to circle around it.

The whole place had the look of a bombed-out village. On that day there was nobody in sight. It was as if at some signal everybody had gone into hiding. But I could feel a hundred eyes upon us. Or so I imagined.

I parked and Sarah and I got out, knocked on the door. The door had 5 bullet holes in it. Something new.

I knocked again.

“Yes?” I heard Jon’s voice.

“It’s Hank and Sarah. We phoned. We’re here.”

“Oh...”

The door opened. “Come in, please...”

François Racine was at a table with his wine bottle.

“Life is for nothing,” he said.

Jon put the chains on the door. Sarah ran her fingers through the bullet holes.

“I see you’ve had some termites...”

Jon laughed. “Oh, yes...sit down...”

He got some glasses and we sat down. He poured the wine.

“The other day they raped a girl on the hood of my car. There were 5 or 6 of them. We objected. They became very angry. A couple of days went by, then one night we are sitting here and bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, the bullets came through the door. Then it was quiet...”

“We are still alive,” said François. “We sit and drink wine.”

“It is just a ploy,” said Jon. “They want us to move. I refuse to move.”

“Someday we will never be able to move,” said François.

“They have more guns than the police,” said Jon, “and they shoot them more often.”

“You ought to move out of here,” said Sarah.

“Are you kidding? We leased this place for 3 months in advance. We’d lose all the money.”

“Better we lose our lives?” said François taking a big hit.

“Can you sleep at night?” I asked.

“We have to drink to sleep. And then you can never be sure. Those bars on the windows might not mean much. My neighbor has them. The other night he’s eating dinner alone and then there’s a man standing behind him with a gun. Somehow he got in through the roof. There’s some kind of passageway up there. They are under the house and in the roof. They can hear everything we say. They are listening now.”

Four loud taps came up through the floorboards.

“See?”

François jumped up and stamped on the floor.

“BE QUIET! BE QUIET! WHAT KIND OF DEVIL MEN ARE YOU?”

It was silent down there. I guess they just wanted us to know that they were there. They had no desire to get chummy about the whole thing.

François sat back.

“This whole thing is terrifying,” said Sarah.

“I know it,” said Jon. “They stole our TV but we don’t need a TV around here.”

“I thought this was just a black ghetto,” I said, “but I saw some Hispanics last time...”

“Oh yeah,” said Jon, “we have one of the toughest Mexican gangs here, the V-66. To be a member you must have killed somebody.”

There was a long pause.

“How’s the movie going?” I asked, mostly to break the silence.

“Pre-production is rolling. I’m there every day, many hours working with people. We’ll soon be shooting. As each day goes by, as Firepower invests more and more money, the film becomes more of a reality. But there are fuck-ups of every sort every day...”

“Like?” Sarah asked.

“Well, we went to rent a camera...”

“You rent a camera?”

“Yes. So we went to rent a camera and the company said they couldn’t rent it to us.”

“Why?” I asked, walking to the window and looking out to check on the Volks.

“Firepower hadn’t paid for the
last
rental. The company insisted that Firepower furnish them with a certified check for the use of the last camera and for the rental of the one we wanted to use.”

“Did they?” I asked.

“Yes.”

François got up.

“I am going to count the chickens,” he said, then left.

“Isn’t François afraid of this kind of living?” Sarah asked.

“No,” said Jon, “he is crazy. The other day he was sitting here alone and he looked up and there were two guys standing there. One of them had a knife. ‘Give us your money!’ said the guy. ‘No,’ said François, ‘you give me
your
money!’ He was drunk and he got his stick and he started hitting both of them with his stick. They ran out of the house and François chased them down the street beating them with his stick yelling, ‘YOU STAY OUT OF MY HOME! GO TO SOMEBODY ELSE’S HOME! AND DON’T STEAL MY CHICKENS!’ He ran after them all the way down the street.”

“They could have killed him.”

“He’s too crazy to realize that.”

“He’s lucky to be alive,” said Sarah.

“Yes. But I think being French instead of an American helps. It confuses them as they don’t have quite the same hatred as for an American. They sense that he is crazy and not
all
these guys are killers. Some of them are only human and just trying to get by.”

“Aren’t they
all
human?” Sarah asked.

“All too human,” Jon answered.

François walked in.

“I counted my chickens. They are all still there. I talked to them. I talked to my chickens.”

François sat down. Jon filled his glass.

“I want a castle,” François said, “I want 6 children and a big fat wife.”

“Why do you want all those things?” I asked.

“So when I lose at gambling somebody will talk to me. Now when I lose at gambling nobody talks to me.”

I wanted to suggest that when he lost at gambling maybe a fat wife and 6 children might not talk to him either. But I didn’t. François was suffering enough.

Instead I said, “We must go to the racetrack together sometime.”

“WHEN?” he asked.

“We’ll do it soon.”

“I have a new system.”

“We all have.”

Then the phone rang. Jon got it after the 3rd ring.

“Allo...”

“Yes...yes, this is Jon...”

“What? But this can’t be!”

He looked at us, still holding the phone.

“He hung up...”

“Who?”

Jon put the phone down. He stood there.

“It was Harry Friedman...”

“And?” I asked.

“And the movie has been cancelled,” he answered.

Several days passed. I wasn’t doing much, just going to the track, coming in and playing with the poem. I worked in 3 areas: the poem, the short story and the novel. Now, it was 4 with the screenplay. Or was it 4? Without the movie was I a screenplay writer?
Jim Beam
wasn’t dancing.

Then Jon phoned. “How are the horses?”

“They are all right. Hey, how are you, anyhow?”

“I’m all right...just wanted to let you know what’s happening...

“Yes?...”

“Well, after the cancellation, first thing François and I did was to get drunk for two days and nights...”

“A cleansing, right?”

“Yes. So, after that I went down to the Firepower building in an attempt to see Friedman and find out why he cancelled the movie. It was a shocker to me.”

“Me too...”

“So, I went down there. The guard wouldn’t let me in. Evidently Friedman had given orders for me not to see him.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Yes, he is sometimes. Anyhow, I went to the other entrance, there are two entrances...”

“Yes, I know.”

“I know the lawyer there. So I told the guard that I wanted to see the lawyer and he let me in. But I didn’t go see the lawyer, I went down to Friedman’s office and I walked right in there.”

“Good...”

“Friedman looked up and saw me. He said, ‘Why, hello, Jon, how are you?’ I told him that I was fine. I decided not to ask him why he had cancelled the movie. That was his business, anyhow. So I told him, ‘Now we are going to get somebody else for this movie.’ And he asked, ‘Have you gotten anybody else?’ and I told him that I hadn’t. Then I said, ‘Now we are going to get somebody. And when we do, I want your word on something.’ ‘Like what?’ he asked. ‘Well, when we get somebody we are going to have them pay you all your expenses up to date on your pre-production costs.’ ‘Good,’ he said. ‘But,’ I told him, ‘I want your word that you will allow the movie to go forward under those conditions and that Firepower will not ask for additional monies.’ ‘Fine,’ Friedman told me, ‘go ahead. Get somebody else. I agree to the terms. And good luck to you.’”

“And that was it?”

“Yes, we shook hands and I left. I believe that he was delighted with the possibility of recovering pre-production costs.”

“Now all we gotta do is find somebody.”

“We have...”

“What?”

“You see, all the time we have been dealing with Firepower, even after they signed to do the movie we have been secretly seeking other backers. We never quite trusted Firepower. So when one of the other backers found out the movie had been cancelled he jumped right in.”

“Oh? Who are these people?”

“It’s Edleman, a
big
real estate operator in the east. His west coast man is Sorenson. We’ve checked everything out. The money is there, it’s real. And they say, ‘Yes, we have the money. Yes, we want to do the movie. Let’s do it.’”

“Are you sure these guys are all right?”

“The money is there. They are established. We are better off than with Firepower. And they love the screenplay and the actors. They are ready to roll. The papers are being drawn up. We sign Thursday afternoon.”

“Beautiful, Jon. I’m happy for you. For me too.”

“The movie would have been made anyhow. I was determined about that. But now we can do it right away.”

“I’m proud of you, Jon.”

“I’ll keep you up to the moment. Goodbye.”

“Do that. Goodbye, Jon...”

The next phone call was a couple of days later.

“Son of a bitch!” Jon said.

“What is it?”

“Firepower has backed down! They know about Edleman and Sorenson. NOW THEY ARE DEMANDING BETWEEN $500,000 AND $750,000 EXTRA!”

“WHAT?”

“Friedman went back on his word. I got him on the phone, I said, ‘But you told me you wouldn’t ask for anything more! You gave me your word!’ “

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything. He hung up. Now I can’t contact him. He won’t take calls from me. I’m going on a HUNGER STRIKE!”

“What?”

“A HUNGER STRIKE! I’ve got my bottle of water and a little low-back chair and I’m going to sit out in front of Firepower and starve myself!”

“Now?”

“Yes, I’ll be down there in ten minutes!”

“You don’t mean it...”

“Of course, I mean it!”

When I drove down, there was Jon Pinchot sitting out in front of the building in his little low-back chair. There was the bottle of water. And a crudely made sign:

HUNGER STRIKE!

FIREPOWER IS

LIAR POWER!

I parked and went around to where Jon was. There were 4 or 5 people staring at him. I knelt down by him.

“Look, Jon. Let’s forget the fucking film. I’ll give you your money back. I don’t need it this bad. Let’s knock this shit off and go get stinko somewhere, huh?”

Jon reached into his coat pocket and handed me a piece of paper.

“I arranged to have this delivered by messenger to Harry Friedman. He got it. This is a copy.” And, he pulled out another paper, “Here is the release agreement.”

I read the first paper he had handed me:

Dear Harry:

Here are the two alternatives I told you on the phone. As you can see they are both acceptable to me. Believe me, when I suggest a solution where I get no money it is not only to save the project but also because
I love you
, much more than you can imagine.

O.K., now you decide. Please do so quickly because I have Edleman who is ready to take over the film and all obligations in all contracts. If Edleman who is ready to take over the film right away does not have this piece of paper (Solution #1 enclosed) signed by you by Thursday afternoon he will not be able to start production on the 19th. Ten important people will have to be hired before then. This leaves us only Tuesday and Wednesday for the takeover of the film by Edleman. If this is not done we will lose Jack Bledsoe as our lead in the film and you will lose around a million dollars. This is suicide for everybody, financially, at any rate. But I must go a step ftirther, as follows: if my movie is not freed by you by tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. like you
promised
me, Solution #2 is that I will start cutting parts off my body and sending them to you in envelopes every day. I am serious. You cannot afford to wait one more day.
It Is a Matter of Life or Death for the Movie.

love, Jon

The other piece of paper was called Solution #1 and was headed:

AMENDMENT TO LOAN-OUT AGREEMENT

FOR DIRECTING SERVICES OF JON PINCHOT

And having been written by a lawyer was almost unreadable, but it seemed to call for Friedman to release the film to Edleman and to keep the money that was coming to Jon.

I handed the papers back to Jon.

“What is Solution #2?”

“The cutting off of the parts.”

“You call that a solution?”

“I guess it should be called a resolution.”

“You aren’t going to do it?”

“Yes, lam. It’s all I know.”

“You’re crazy.”

“No. No. But come with me. I must prepare.”

“Prepare?”

“Yes.”

We were in Jon’s car. “I have the first part I need. The pain-killer. You see I had to go to a doctor for an ingrown toenail. He operated. Then he gave me a pain-killer afterwards. It worked great...”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see. Anyhow, I had to go back to get the toe checked. I said to the doctor, ‘That pain-killer was great, it lasted ten hours. Tell me about it.’ He told me about it. Then I asked him, ‘Can I see it?’ And he took me to this medicine cabinet and pointed it out. ‘Very interesting,’ I said. We talked a bit more, then I left. But I had a bag with me, a small traveling bag. I left it by the medicine cabinet. Then I left the office, came back. ‘Oh,’ I told the receptionist, ‘I left my bag.’ I went to get the bag and there was nobody around. I opened the cabinet and took the pain-killer.”

“You can’t do this,” I told Jon.

“I must,” he answered.

We were in a hardware store.

“Yes?” the clerk asked.

“I need a saw,” Jon said, “an electric chainsaw.”

The clerk walked over to a wall display and came back with this orange job.

“This is a Black and Decker, one of our finest.”

“Where does the blade go?” asked Jon. “How do you put it in?”

“Oh, it’s quite easy,” said the clerk. He got a blade and fitted it.

Jon looked at it. The blade had very large teeth.

“Umm,” Jon said, “that isn’t quite the blade I was looking for.”

“What kind of blade do you want?” the clerk asked.

Jon thought a moment. Then said, “Something to cut small pieces of wood with. A hard wood.”

“Oh,” said the clerk, “how about this?”

He attached a new blade. It had fine teeth, very close together, sharp.

“Yes,” said Jon, “that’s what I want. That will do.”

“Cash or credit card?” the clerk asked.

Back in the car and driving back to resume the hunger strike I asked Jon, “You’re not really going to do this, are you?”

“Of course, I am going to start with the little finger of the left hand. What good is it anyhow?”

“That’s what you use to hit the ‘a’ key on the typewriter.”

“I’ll type without using ‘a’s.”

“Listen, friend, isn’t there any way to turn this whole thing around and just forget it?”

“No. Not at all.”

“And you’re going to be there at 9 a.m.?”

“In his lawyer’s office. I will plug it in. I will do it unless the film gets released.”

I believed him. It was the way he said it: a simple statement of fact without melodramatic overtones.

“Will you wait for me before you walk into the lawyer’s office?”

“Yes, but you must be on time. Will you be there on time?”

“I’ll be there on time,” I said. We drove back toward Firepower.