Sailor & Lula (56 page)

“Africa wasn't called the dark continent because of the color of the skin of most of its inhabitants, Flower. It's because it was one of the last places the Europeans got to. ‘Dark' referred to unexplored and unknown.”

“Phil, you always know about everything.”

“That's why I'm such a popular guy.”

“Oh, sugar, everyone thinks you're the smartest man in Hollywood.”

“As Daffy Duck said, ‘Ridicule is the curse of genius.' ”

“Anyway, I'm seein' Clark now.”

“Westphal? What happened to Suki?”

“He thrown her out before Africa. She's suin' him now, of course. But they weren't never married so he says she can't get much. Clark made her sign a paper while they was livin' together said she couldn't make no claims on him. He done it with all his women.”

“I think Clark may be just a tad brighter than I am.”

“He sure has more money, Philly, that's the truth. Not as much hair, though.”

“He can buy some.”

“Don't need to, now the natural look is in. Thinnin' hair is a sign of maturity, you know.”

“Spell maturity for me, Flower.”

She laughed. “Sugar, ten years ago when I came to California from Mobile, I had me a choice between practicin' spellin' or keepin' my lips over my teeth when I give head. Can't have it both ways in this town.

“Look, I gotta run,” Flower said. “Clark's takin' me down to his place
in darkest Mexico tonight, the house he bought from Jack Falcon, the famous old director who died last year?”

“I know who Jack Falcon was, Flower.”

“Oh, of course you do. Prob'ly you and him went boar huntin' together and everything.”

“As a matter of fact, I think I still have my boar rifle around here somewhere.”

“I got to go shop now, honey. Happy birthday, even though it's the wrong day. I'll call you when I'm back from Mexico. You still hangin' at Martoni's?”

“Once in a while.”

“We'll meet for drinks. Bye!”

Flower hung up, so Phil did, too. He suddenly flashed on the bathtub scene in
Señor Rafferty
, where Flower Reynolds, as the crazed transsexual Shortina Fuse, wearing only a pair of red panties, tosses the sulfuric acid into Rafferty's face. The camera remains fixed on Flower's red triangle while she laughs and Rafferty screams, holding until the final fade. It was Flower's laugh people remembered later, not Rafferty's screams. She had a great laugh. Phil had always regretted not having used it in
Dog Parts.

Phil had an 11:30 with Arnie Pope at Five Star. The meeting had been set up for him by Bobby Durso, who, during Phil's European hiatus, had become a powerful agent despite his lack of affiliation with an established agency. Bobby operated on his own and specialized in handling writers. Actors, he'd decided, were—with few exceptions—essentially undependable and insecure; dysfunctional people, his shrink called them. Writers, Bobby found, were the hardest-working, most clearly focused and dedicated individuals he'd ever known.

Bobby had been Phil Reãl's A.D. on
Death Comes Easy,
then gone back to UCLA, where he'd earned a degree in American history, worked as a bartender for a couple of years, gotten married and begun his present career by representing his wife, Alice, who wrote screenplays. The first script of Alice's that Bobby Durso sold,
Goodbye To Everyone
, wound up grossing over two hundred million for Paramount, and the sequel,
Hello To Nobody,
did equally well. Since then, every producer in town found time to talk to, if not openly court him.

Bobby was not intending to represent Phil Reãl, however. At least not in any official capacity. The meet with Arnie Pope had been arranged as a favor, and that's where Bobby wanted to leave it. He hadn't even read Phil's screenplay, if he had one yet, or allowed Phil to describe the story. Phil, Bobby knew, would want to direct the picture himself, and there was no way a studio would allow that. Bobby dealt exclusively with the majors, he didn't touch the independents, and he'd explained his position to Phil, who said that he understood completely.

Arnie Pope was Bobby's brother-in-law—Alice was Arnie's sister—he and Bobby got along all right, and when Bobby asked him to take a meeting with the Leopard Man, no strings attached, he said okay. After all, Arnie figured, the man was a kind of legend in the business, and it could be interesting. Arnie told his assistant, Greta, to reschedule his shiatsu for 11:45.

Phil appeared in Arnie Pope's outer office at 11:29. He did not bring the screenplay with him. Greta buzzed Arnie, who asked her to show in Mr. Reãl.

“This is a real pleasure, Mr. Reãl,” said Arnie, as he stood up and leaned across his desk to shake hands.

“Phil, please.”

“Arnie. Sit.”

They both sat down.

“This is really great,” Arnie said. “I can still remember the first time I saw
Face of the Phantom.
At the Riviera in Chicago, when I was fourteen. Scared the piss out of me. My girlfriend wouldn't even look at the screen. Kept her head buried in my right shoulder the whole time.”

Arnie rubbed his right shoulder with his left hand. Phil noticed Arnie's diamond pinkie ring.

“It was great, great,” said Arnie.

Arnie smiled and Phil nodded.

“So, what's this Bobby says you've got? Have to tell you, though, that since the Germans bought Five Star, all we've been able to push through are one-namers.”

Phil looked puzzled.

“You know: Rheinhold, Dirk, those guys. Muscle men. Put a title underneath, like
Death Driver,
all that's necessary. So, it's 11:31:35. Tell me.”

“This is a special picture.”

“They're all special, Phil.” Arnie again looked quickly at his watch. “Got a title?”

“A mute's someone can't talk, right?”

Phil nodded. “The title is meant to be ironic.”

“Ironic, yeah, sure. I got it. So, what happens?”

“It's about a writer-director who was at one time very successful, when he was young, and then his career slipped away from him. He drinks, takes drugs, he travels, and finally returns to make one last picture. Nobody believes in him anymore except for a girl, a woman, who began her acting career in his early films. She's become a big star and gets him a deal, based on her agreement to play the female lead.”

“Good. I was waiting for the girl. What does she do?”

“Sells tickets.”

“I know. I mean in the story. She helps the guy get back on his feet, cleans him up, marries him, what? Where's the big play come in?”

“He shows he can still pull it off. The picture's both a critical and box office success.”

“What about him and her? In the end?”

Phil shook his head. “They don't get together. She marries someone else.”

Arnie Pope looked at his watch and stood up.

“When Nick Ray made
In a Lonely Place
he had Bogart,” Arnie said.

“Gloria Grahame made the picture work,” said Phil.

“Phil,” Arnie stuck out his hand as he came around the desk, “I gotta be Japanese in five minutes. Less. Have Bobby send me the script. I promise I'll read it.”

Phil stood and let Arnie pinch the fingers of his right hand. Greta appeared.

“Almost time, Arnie,” she said.

“Greta,” said Arnie, “when Phil's script arrives, read it right away.”

Arnie turned and looked directly into Phil's eyes.

“I'll never forget
Face of the Phantom,
Phil. Never. It's a classic.”

Arnie nodded and grinned. “Janet Coveleski,” he said. “That was her name.”

“Whose name, Arnie?” asked Phil.

“The girl I took to see your picture at the Riviera.”

Arnie walked out of his office, followed closely by Greta. Phil stood without moving for twenty seconds. He remembered the last frame of
Phantom,
where the man who has never slept with his eyes closed finally closes them, knowing he'll never wake up. Phil closed his eyes.

Nobody in Hollywood has a past that matters. What counts is what someone is doing right now or might be doing tomorrow. The film business is open to anyone, and that was the great thing about it, Phil thought, as he drove home from Five Star. A person could be a multiple murderer escapee from prison or a lunatic asylum but if he or she had a bright idea that was considered do-able, and the proper pieces fell together in the right hands at the right time, that person, certifiably depraved or otherwise, could have a three-picture deal in less than the lifetime of a Florida snake doctor.

If one of them is a hit, the escapee could be running a studio within a few months, and as long as the people kept buying tickets the studio lawyers would do everything they could to keep the authorities at bay. A big enough flop, though, and the
wunderkind
would no doubt be back doing laps inside a padded cell before it went to video. Phil loved the strangeness of it, he really did. Hollywood was a wrangler's paradise: the cattle either got to market or they didn't. Rustled, died of thirst, train derailed, didn't matter. No excuses, no prisoners. That was the law of the bottom line.

Driving along La Brea, Phil decided to stop at Pink's. He parked his leased Mustang convertible around the corner on Melrose, got out and joined the line at the outdoor counter. When his turn came, he ordered a double cheeseburger with chili and a black cherry Israeli soda. As he waited for the food, Phil looked across the street. A middle-aged bum had disrobed and begun doing jumping jacks on the sidewalk, his long hair and beard flopping around. Pedestrians passed on either side of him. A swarthy man came out of the convenience store on the corner and walked swiftly toward the naked bum. The swarthy man, who wore a thick black mustache and a square of hair in the center of his chin, pulled a small-caliber revolver from a pocket, pushed the nose of it into the bum's left ear and pulled the trigger. The bum fell down and blood gushed from his head. The swarthy man ran back toward the convenience store.

Phil picked up his cheeseburger and soda, paid the Mexican girl who'd served him, walked to his car, got in and drove away. The bum had looked familiar, Phil thought. He made a mental note to check the newspaper the next day for the story, to see if the bum had been someone he'd known in the old days.

Phil was typing when the telephone rang.

“Pick that up, Pace, will you?” he shouted.

“Philip Reãl's line,” said Pace.

“Pace, it's Bobby Durso. Phil there?”

“Just a moment, Mr. Durso. Phil, Bobby.”

Phil stopped typing and picked up his extension.

“Hey, Bobby.”

“How'd it go with Pope?” Bobby asked.

“Thanks for your help but my take is that Five Star wants something I don't have.”

“And what's that?”

“A brain-eater.”

“A brain-eater? What's a brain-eater?”

“Bobby, I'm about the devil in disguise to Arnie Pope and his people. And it ain't much of a disguise, either.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning they see right through me the same way I see through them.”

“Phil, I love the way you talk but I don't always get the message so easily. I take it you and Arnie didn't get along.”

“Oh, on the contrary. Turns out he's had a crush on me forever. But it's one of those two-cars-at-a-stoplight romances. We checked each other out but then he took a right and I was in the left lane.”

“So?”

“Light turned green and the cars lined up behind me were honking, so I did the only thing I could.”

“Yeah?”

“Drove straight ahead and here I am, same as ever. Not even a fender bender on the way back.”

“Well, I tried.”

“I appreciate it, Bobby, I really do. You know, I had a dream last night where I was driving an old pickup truck that had ‘Al and Popeye's
Hauling Service' painted on the door. I only had one arm, my right, so when I shifted gears I had to be quick about grabbing the steering wheel again. It was hot outside, in the dream, and the breeze through the rolled-down window hit directly on my left armpit, there not being a biceps to block it. I was real cool.”

“Phil, you are cool, but I don't know what to tell you.”

“Tell me about what, Bob?”

“How you're gonna make it now in this town. If you think I can help, call me.”

“Sure thing, Bobby. I'm taking off for a little while but I'll talk to you when I get back. Thanks again.”

Phil hung up and closed his eyes. Slowly he raised his left arm until it was entirely vertical and let the air hit his armpit. He reopened his eyes.

“Pace, you make our arrangements for New Orleans?”

“Done, Phil. We leave tomorrow out of LAX at one. Be in N.O. in plenty of time to have dinner at Dooky's. Have Miz Chase make us somethin' special.”

“Where are we staying?”

“The Rinaldi, on Gravier, just off the Quarter. Got you a junior suite and me a room.”

“Speak to your folks?”

“Mama says they're lookin' forward to meetin' you.”

“Maybe they can help me fill in some background for the story. I figure New Orleans is a properly exotic location for
The Cry of the Mute.
”

“Spend enough time down there you just might want to change the title to
The Cry of the Mutilated.
”