Hollywood Husbands (41 page)

‘Messages?’ she said irritably, not in a good mood at all.

‘Mrs White called at eight-thirty. Mrs Gooseberger at nine. Army Archerd at ten – he’d like you to return his call.’

Poppy listened, trying to decide who to call back first. There were seven more messages, including columnist Liz Smith in New York. Who to talk to? Liz or Army? Better see what Carmel had to say. Poppy dreaded the older woman’s pronouncement of ‘Disaster of the Year’.

Carmel Gooseberger did not say ‘Disaster of the Year’ at all. Carmel Gooseberger said, ‘Poppy! Darling! One of the best parties I’ve ever been to. I adored every minute. Did you
hear
Mannon’s wife? My God, I never realized she could
speak
, let alone come out with words even Orville never uses! And did you
see
Silver and Zachary Klinger? I don’t know if I was the only one to notice but—’

An hour later Poppy got off the phone. From the big mouth of Carmel Gooseberger to the hills of Beverly, Bel Air and anyplace else where you couldn’t buy a house for less than a million bucks – her party was a hit! A smash! A rip-roaring success!

She phoned Howard to give him the good news, but he was in a meeting. Shame. Last night she had really steamed into him, claiming everything was his fault. Poor Howard. Sometimes she knew she was too rough on him, only a little aggravation did him good, kept him alert. And he needed to be alert with that snake Zachary Klinger in town.

She wondered if Howard might feel like buying her a cabochon ruby and gold necklace she’d had her eye on in that divine new jewellery store Tallarico.

Ten minutes later she decided he would. After all, a hit party created
great
public relations, and she deserved a prize.

Without further ado she slipped into a simple Karl Lagerfeld suit, and Christian Dior sunglasses.

On her way out of the house she noted twelve flower arrangements lined up in a row, awaiting her inspection before being placed in the perfect spot. She plucked the small white envelope from the most extravagant basket, ripped it open and read it quickly.

You give great party. Can you join us for dinner Saturday?

Silver and Wes

Poppy felt a small glow of pleasure.
Yes, thank you, Silver. Howard and I will be delighted to join you.

Smiling with satisfaction, she hurried out to her car.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Howard hit the office like a mini-tornado after the meeting with Zachary. He shut himself in his private bathroom, telling his secretary, ‘No calls. I don’t care if it’s the friggin’ President!’

She knew when to leave him alone, and went back to reading a riveting article on herpes.

Howard took off his jacket and rinsed his face with cold water. His heart was racing, and so was his mind.

J
UST WHO THE FUCK DID ZACHARY KLINGER THINK HE WAS DEALING WITH
?

Howard Soloman.

He was Howard Soloman.

He was nobody’s office boy, and he refused to be treated like one.

What was this ‘I want’ shit, ‘pay ’em double’ crap? Was Zachary Klinger serious?

Yeah, unfortunately the dumb bastard was. And Howard Soloman was supposed to follow through.

Well, screw that. Howard Soloman did not jump rope for anybody.

He sat on the closed toilet seat, head in hands, and tried to think clearly.

Zachary Klinger paid him a vast amount of money to run Orpheus, and in the year he had been in power he had done exceptionally well. When Zachary brought him in, the studio was in deep shit. The asshole before him had been running up astronomical overheads with no product. Howard had stepped in, and within months made it an efficient operating company. He had pared overheads to the minimum, cut off the blood-suckers and go-fers on the payroll, and bought money-making outside product for distribution. Not to mention getting three pictures into production, and at least two dozen development deals.

So he didn’t have major superstars or world-renowned actors working for the studio. Big frigging deal. He had pictures that were going to make money. And wasn’t that the whole idea?

Now Zachary Klinger flies in and wants to play Father Christmas.
Pay ’em double. Give ’em points.

Howard had to turn this to his advantage or get out. There was no choice, otherwise he could end up looking like paid schmuck of the year…

* * *

Chuck Nielson had a black eye and a split lip. ‘I’ll sue that sonofabitch!’ he yelled when he awoke in Whitney’s bed.

‘Up and out,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘Today I’ve got two interviews, and a meeting with my new publicity people. I don’t think you should be here.’

‘What new people?’ he demanded disagreeably. ‘And why
shouldn’t
I be here?’

She hated it when he questioned her. After all, they weren’t married, and she saw no reason why she had to answer all his never-ending queries. The trouble with Chuck was that his once very successful career had ground to an inexplicable and sudden halt, and it was driving him crazy. It was also driving her crazy. She was definitely considering Zeppo White’s advice. ‘Get rid of him, kiddo. He’s an albatross around your neck. Dump the putz.’

It had to be done. And the sooner she did it, the better she would feel. But it wasn’t going to be easy. Chuck was like a big, excitable puppy one minute, and a jealous, aggressive nut the next.

He was jealous of her career – which was about to take off again nicely, thanks to Zeppo.

He was jealous of Mannon.

In fact, he was insanely jealous of everyone and everything around her.

Fortunately, they did not live together as such. She spent time at his home on the beach. He stayed the occasional night at her house on Loma Vista. She wasn’t locked into anything. Thank God!

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said patiently, ‘because it will be boring for you.’

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he admitted. ‘Who’s the new P.R.? And why? I thought you were happy with the one you’ve got.’

‘I am. Zeppo wants me to have a new image, so I’m going to Briskinn & Bower.’

‘What new image?’

‘More serious.’

He hooted with laughter. ‘Serious?
You
?’ he sneered derisively.

Her mouth drooped with displeasure. Chuck had no confidence in her ability as an actress. He hadn’t actually said so, but she knew it, and it irked her.

Zeppo was right. The time had come to disassociate herself from Chuck Nielson.

* * *

The cocaine blazed a trail. A trail of clear, clean thoughts. A lucid path through the machinations of Zachary K. Klinger.

Howard released himself from his bathroom a new man. He was moving into turnaround. Taking a crazy situation and making it work for him.

He buzzed his secretary.

She entered his office looking like a ripe kumquat, all quivering lips and an ample bosom encased in angora. ‘Yes, Mr Soloman?’

How come Poppy had let this one through the net? And then he remembered that his regular girl was on vacation – this morsel was only a temporary replacement.

‘Get me a list of the agents for Silver Anderson, Mannon Cable, and Clarissa Browning.’ No need to ask about Whitney: she was represented by Zeppo White – a legend in his own eyes.

‘Yes, Mr Soloman.’

‘Are you an actress?’ he couldn’t help asking.

She nodded.

Well, act on this
, he wanted to say. He had a hard-on. Must be the challenge of outwitting Zachary.

Taking a packet of toothpicks from his desk drawer, he broke one in half and vigorously attacked his gums. Add dentist to his medical requirement list. He was sure he had a loose crown and a cavity. Who had the time to go?

The secretary got him the list within minutes. He studied it carefully.

Clarissa Browning was with Artists, a large corporate outfit. Her representative was Cyrill Mace, a shrewd, no-nonsense type of man.

Mannon Cable paid his ten percent to Sadie La Salle. Ah, Sadie… the queen of the lady agents. She was always a pleasure to deal with.

Silver Anderson employed Quinne Lattimore. Small potatoes.

It was just past ten o’clock. He summoned his secretary again. ‘Get me Sadie La Salle,’ he commanded. ‘And after that I want to speak to Cyrill Mace, Zeppo White and Quinne Lattimore, in that order. I’m not accepting any incoming calls – including my wife – in fact, any of my wives.’

The secretary nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Soloman,’ she said obediently.

* * *

‘I think’ – Whitney’s striking face was very serious – ‘that the public perceives me as altogether too frivolous.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bernie Briskinn, the senior partner at Briskinn & Bower. He was old Hollywood, with a moon face, thick lips, and a black patch covering one eye. Rumour had it he had lost his eye in a skirmish with Humphrey Bogart over a woman.

Whitney gestured impatiently. ‘I’ve shown too much, too many times.’

‘Ever done
Playboy
?’ Bernie asked anxiously. He was nearing seventy, but still interested.

Norman Gooseberger cut in. ‘I think Whitney means that she’s travelled the scanty-outfit-decorative-role path as opposed to… uh… nude shots.’

Whitney’s face lit up as she smiled at the dark-haired young man who was so obviously on the ball. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of posing nude. I never have.’

Bernie Briskinn looked disappointed.

‘I understand the problems you have to overcome,’ Norman said, taking over the interview. ‘And I’m sure Briskinn & Bower can satisfy you in every way.’

‘Yes?’ breathed Whitney.

‘Certainly,’ replied Norman, with confidence.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’ she sighed.

Bernie Briskinn sucked on his false teeth. He was merely a figurehead, but never failed to attend first meetings with beautiful actresses.

‘How do we begin?’ Whitney asked eagerly.

Norman was quick to reply. ‘First of all we drop the Cable from your name. It always reminds people of your former husband, and there’s no need for that now. And then we cut the hair.’

‘What?’ Her voice filled with panic.

‘The hair is going to keep you exactly where you are today. So it’s goodbye Cable and goodbye hair.’

‘How about breast reduction surgery?’ she asked sarcastically.

‘Not necessary,’ Norman replied with a cheerful grin.

Bernie chimed in. ‘Thank God for that!’ he said.

Norman was hitting his stride. ‘You have your own identity,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘And before we’re through with you that identity will be as a strong and beautiful
actress.
Right now, with all due respect, you are viewed as a lightweight. When Briskinn & Bower have finished with you – well… dare I say it? Producers will think of you at the same time they think of Jessica and Clarissa and Sally.’

Whitney glowed. ‘Really?’

‘Don’t forget, Jessica Lange started out sitting in King Kong’s paw, and Sally Field was Gidget. If it can be done for them…’ Norman trailed off as if he were personally responsible.

Whitney was visibly excited. Bernie Briskinn nodded approvingly. Orville’s boy was a winner. He had the gift of conviction, and in the P.R. business conviction was better than gold. Bernie was glad he’d hired him at Orville’s insistence five years ago. Relatives usually turned out to be duds. This one was a winner. ‘We’ll talk price with Zeppo,’ he said. ‘Norman will handle your account himself. He’s one of our best. And I’m always available. Any time you want me. Any time at all…’ He sucked on his false teeth again and buried a fart in her white couch. ‘Welcome to Briskinn & Bower, Whitney, dear. You won’t be disappointed.’

* * *

In the space of two hours Howard was whistling. Not quite
Dixie,
but he had done a certain amount of creative manoeuvring, and saved his ass from mooning Hollywood.

Sadie and Zeppo were easy to deal with. They understood power, money, and deals. They understood ‘jerk me off a little and I’ll do the same for you’. Offering them a deal on the one hand, and a kickback to him under the table on the other, made sense to both of them. Sadie seemed to think she could convince Mannon as long as the script of
The Murder
was halfway decent. Zeppo said of Whitney, ‘She’ll lick your balls, Howard.’

He should be so lucky.

‘As part of the deal I want to be there when you tell her,’ he insisted.

‘We’ll do it together,’ Zeppo promised – and called him back with the news that they could do it at six o’clock, when Whitney was free.

With Cyrill Mace he played it straight. No creative moves with Cyrill. Just an out-and-out straight-up offer.

‘Send over the script, and the offer in writing,’ Cyrill said. ‘Are you feeling all right, Howard?’

‘Generous and well,’ Howard replied. ‘I need an answer within twenty-four hours, otherwise the offer is withdrawn.’

‘A week.’

‘No way.’

‘Clarissa’s in New York. It’ll take a day to get the script to her. Then she’s got to read it.’

‘For this kind of money she doesn’t have to read. She’s ten minutes on the screen, for crissake. I’ll give you forty-eight hours.’

‘Three days.’

‘You got it.’

Howard phoned Jack for extra insurance, telling him the deal, and urging him to talk Clarissa into it. When Jack informed him he was on his way to New York, Howard knew the timing was perfect, and messengered a copy of the script over for him to deliver personally.

Which left Quinne Lattimore – an honest, middle-of-the-road agent, with about as much fire as a stagnant pond. Howard trod carefully with Quinne. It was the honest sons-of-bitches who tripped you up every time. City Television, he had found out, were paying Silver Anderson far less than she deserved. Quinne had negotiated a contract that, quite frankly, stank. Howard decided to double the amount she received for six weeks’ work on
Palm Springs
, and try to get her on her hiatus. It was still play money, although it caused Quinne to almost choke with excitement.

By the time the offers were all written up, Howard felt confident about the structure of the deals. He had what was on paper, and he had his special arrangements with Sadie and Zeppo. They would both throw back half of their commission on the money above the established price their clients would receive. It suited everyone. Mannon and Whitney would have raised their going price by double the amount. Sadie and Zeppo could look forward to larger commissions in the future. And Howard got the stars
and
an added bonus. The kickback money was destined straight for his numbered Swiss bank account.