Steven Bochco (17 page)

CHAPTER 32

I don't mean to sound cynical, but in Hollywood a funeral is often like a premiere. You may not have any compelling reason to be there, but you want to show up anyway, just so everyone knows you have the clout to get in. Plus, let's face it—any big Hollywood event is a networking opportunity. So even though in the course of twenty-odd years in the business Bobby had met and worked with and for a lot of people, there's no way he even remotely knew all of the five hundred or so people who showed up for his memorial at Hillside Jewish Cemetery off the 405 South. And you know why I'm not cynical about it, even though I know most of them didn't give a shit about Bobby? Because of his mother, Esthelle.

It's a terrible thing for a mother to outlive her child, particularly an only child, and Bobby's death left Esthelle without family. No husband, no son, alone in New York City. At least, for this one day, she could take solace in the illusion that her son had all these close friends—that he was somebody, that he'd made it, he'd had success, and he was loved and would be missed by all these people, who were in the most glamorous business in the world, show business.

And if that wasn't exactly the truth, so what? It was certainly a version of the truth, and in this life some version of the truth is a hell of a lot better than no truth at all, especially if you're a mother who's lost her only son. Would she be better off knowing her son was a boozed-out hack whose wife was cheating on him and who wound up being murdered by a cop for his intellectual property (you should pardon the expression)? I think not.

Anyway, after Rabbi Baumgarten (who I assure you never met Bobby Newman in his life) gives an appropriately solemn and totally generic eulogy, offering all the appropriate prayers for the occasion, he turns over the microphone, to those of us so moved, to make a few remarks in memory of Bobby.

I go first, and I keep it short. I basically say I loved Bobby in spite of himself. I say the entertainment business is a lousy, dysfunctional family, but it's the only one we've got. I offer my thanks to God that at least Bobby died happy, doing what he loved, which was writing. I reflect on the irony of Bobby, who spent his whole career writing about crime, dying by it, and the further irony that somewhere out there a junkie too stupid and fucked-up to know it has Bobby's computer full of great stories and wonderful ideas.

Under the category Best Performance by a Hypocrite, the next person to speak about Bobby—hold on to your hats—is none other than Jared Axelrod. He must have been a frustrated actor at some point in his career, because this asshole gets up, starts to speak, and busts out crying. For the next five minutes, he sobs his way through an incoherent eulogy about what a great writer Bobby was, what a great friend he was, how much he'll be missed, and how it'll be a snowy day in July before Axelrod forgets everything that Bobby meant to him. This from the guy who'd been fucking Bobby's wife cross-eyed in suite 512 at the Peninsula Hotel two or three times a week for almost a year.

Next up is Vee, who won't make eye contact with Axelrod as she passes him on her way up to the podium. She speaks truthfully (more or less), albeit lovingly, about Bobby. She admits they'd had their ups and downs and that at the time of Bobby's death they were estranged. But she also acknowledges how much they'd loved each other, how they'd forged a life together, and—most important—how her life will forever be enriched for having had Bobby in it. Which is, to say the least, an understatement, given that because he died prior to their divorce she inherited his entire estate (though, in all fairness, money never was what the marriage was all about).

That said, the house is worth around a million-six and Bobby's various and sundry other assets (including his Writers Guild life insurance policy, plus his pension) are good for an additional 3 million bucks or so, giving Vee a grand total of well over 4 million. Maybe not a fortune by lottery standards, but she's not throwing it back.

There's an old joke about the Jewish guy who's dying at home, surrounded by his three loving sons. As the end nears, the old guy says, “Call the rabbi. I want him to bless you before I die.”

The sons call the rabbi, who hurries to the dying man's side. “Please, Rabbi,” the old man says. “Bless my sons.”

The rabbi asks the first son what his name is, and the son says it's Bernie. “What do you do for a living, Bernie?”

“I'm a furrier,” Bernie says, and the rabbi confers the appropriate blessing on his family, his kids, and his business.

Then the rabbi says to the second son, “What's your name and what do you do?”

The second son says his name is Milton and he's an attorney. The rabbi blesses his family, his kids, and his practice.

Finally, the rabbi says to the third son, “And what's your name?”

The third son says, “My name is Sol.”

“And what do you do for a living, Sol?” asks the Rabbi.

“I'm a Broadway talent scout,” Sol says, and the rabbi belts out the first sixteen bars to “Some Enchanted Evening.”

I tell you this joke by way of what I hope is some partial explanation for what Bobby's mother did when she got up to the podium to eulogize her son after Vee was finished speaking.

Esthelle is a little, silver-haired, belligerent woman with a biting wit who did battle all her life with anyone who'd stand still long enough to take the beating.

At the podium, her head barely poking up over the top, she takes a moment to look out over the SRO crowd.

“My son Bobby's death reminds me of an old joke,” she finally says. “The great Jewish actor Moscowitz collapses onstage in the middle of a performance of
King Lear.
After about twenty minutes, the stage manager comes out and says to the audience, ‘I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. Moscowitz has died.' From the second balcony, a voice calls out, ‘Give him an enema!' The stage manager looks up, annoyed, and says, ‘You don't understand. The Yiddish Theater has lost one of its greatest artists.' Again, from the second balcony, ‘Give him an enema!' ‘Sir,' the stage manager says, ‘Moscowitz is
dead.
It won't help.' And from the second balcony, the voice calls back, ‘It couldn't hurt.' “

Silence. People are stunned. Then there are a few titters here and there as Bobby's mom just stands there gazing out at the audience. And finally, as the titters give way to laughter and the laughter becomes a rolling, unstoppable avalanche, the place is up for grabs.

If you ever wondered why those idiots go on the Ricki Lake or the Jerry Springer shows to spill their worst, pathetic secrets to a predatory, contemptuous viewing public, there's your answer: just like everybody else, it seems, Bobby's mom wanted her fifteen minutes of fame.

And you wonder how come Bobby wound up in show business.

You'd think that would be the end right there. But you'd be wrong. When the laughter finally begins to subside, Linda Paulson gets up and approaches the podium. If you don't think that quiets the room in a hurry, guess again.

Eyes wet with emotion but voice strong, Linda says, “In case most of you don't recognize me with my clothes on, my name is Linda Paulson.” If you thought it was quiet before, now you can hear the proverbial pin drop. “You all think you've seen me naked. You haven't. You may have seen my body, and shame on you if you did, but Bobby Newman is the only man who ever truly saw me naked. He was the only man I ever really trusted or loved. He made me feel wanted, he made me feel smart, he made me feel like there really was something worth living for, and when he made love to me, I understood what it meant to be happy. I'm sorry he's gone. I'll miss him for the rest of my life. But I'll always be grateful for having had him in my life the short time I did, because he gave me back something I thought I'd lost forever—my self-respect. God bless you, Bobby.”

And that, finally, was the funeral.

CHAPTER 33

I'm sitting in my office one morning a few days after the funeral, leafing through the day's editions of
Variety
and
The Hollywood Reporter.
In the middle pages of each publication is a simple memorial ad dedicated to Bobby that reads
IN LOVING MEMORY OF BOBBY NEWMAN. I'LL MISS YOU ALWAYS
under a picture of him.

I've never understood those ads. First of all, the guy's dead, so he isn't going to see the ad or appreciate the sentiments of its author. Second, it seems to me that the ad is really more about the person buying it than it is about memorializing the deceased. It's as if the person is saying that his love is so fucking special, so entirely more important than
your
love, that he has to buy an ad in the trades to let you know about it. Plus, it's like pissing five thousand bucks down a sinkhole. Why not donate the money to charity instead, in the dearly departed's name?

Anyway, I'm sitting there curdling into a complete cynic right before my very own eyes when Dennis Farentino calls. We'd sat next to each other at the funeral, and when it was over, he'd said he'd like to call me in a few days if that was all right, and I'd said of course. Over the phone, he asks if we can get together for lunch sometime, so I suggest the Grill. He says when, I say today if you'd like, and that's how my relationship with Dennis gets started.

I've met, and known, a lot of famous people over the years, and I'm pretty used to it. It takes a lot for me to be starstruck, though I must admit I can get a little tongue-tied around famous athletes. I love sports, and it's not my end of the business, so on the rare occasions when I do meet a sports star, I begin to get a sense of how the average person must feel when he or she sees Brad Pitt in a restaurant and just has to ask him for his autograph, forget about the fact he's eating his dinner or in the middle of a business meeting. (Asking for autographs being another thing I don't get. I remember once stepping into an elevator that Shaquille O'Neill was in. Seven feet tall, 350 pounds is big anywhere, but in an elevator, it's absolutely
huge.
Plus, he's one of my all-time sports idols, I had him captive, and it
still
didn't occur to me to bug him for an autograph. I sort of nodded, he sort of grunted, and the ten-second elevator ride was one of the longest of my life.)

Anyway, the point being that while meeting celebrities is, by and large, run of the mill for me, there's something about meeting cops that I think most people (myself included) are very impressed by. Maybe it's the simple fact that they're wearing a gun as casually as you're wearing a necktie. Or maybe it's how safe being with a cop makes you feel, which is always a surprise, because you're never really conscious of how
un
safe you feel most of the time. Or maybe it's just that they know stuff—secrets—that most of us don't know and your personal relationship puts you privy to it. Like, for instance, what Dennis told me about Daniel Deveaux.

Daniel Deveaux is two things, and you might remember him for both: he's an actor and he's an asshole. He was also a pretty big television star for about twenty minutes, and I represented him (for about that same twenty minutes).

Daniel (God forbid you called him Dan or Danny; that would buy you a five-minute harangue) had been knocking around for years, getting small parts here and there, but never really breaking through. He was in his mid-thirties, not particularly good-looking in any traditional sense, but he had a certain quality that was appealing nevertheless. Plus, it didn't hurt that he was talented; I'll give him that.

Anyway, Daniel finally lands the big one—a lead role in a new TV series, and no question, it's the biggest break of his life. The reviews are great, the ratings are strong, and Daniel is the new flavor of the month. Every actor's dream, right? By all measures, his career is ready to rocket into orbit. So what happens? This idiot decides he's too big for television. He wants to be a movie star. He develops a serious attitude problem. He constantly denigrates the material (“Who writes this shit?” was a particularly galling quote recollected by the writing staff). He alienates his fellow cast members. When everyone should be enjoying the miracle of a successful new show, this jerk is poisoning the well.

One time, he punched out an associate producer, then locked himself in his trailer, refusing to come out till they sent for his shrink. The production manager got in touch with the doctor, who came right over, huddling with Daniel for half an hour in his trailer.

When the shrink finally came out, he said to the production manager, “Why don't you take an early lunch break, and when you're done, Daniel will go back to work.”

The production manager said okay, sure, what choice have we got anyway, and as the shrink was leaving, the guy said, “Doc, before you go, can you tell me what's his problem?”

The shrink stopped, turned back to the guy, and said, “What's his problem? He's
crazy,
that's his problem.”

And I'm in the middle of this shit storm. The producers are calling me to complain about Daniel, Daniel is calling me to complain about the producers, every movie studio in town is calling with offers of starring roles during the show's hiatus, and the general tension surrounding this guy's newfound fame is excruciating.

Somehow everyone survives the first season, and during the summer hiatus, with Daniel off making a movie in New York, the show is nominated for a couple of dozen Emmy Awards, including one for Daniel as Best Actor. Fat city, right? Fat chance is more like it.

Now he wants out of his contract so he can pursue his long-held dream of movie stardom. I point out to him that it makes no sense. I can get him a hefty raise. He can solidify his position as a star. He can make movies during the off-season. Look at Ted Danson, I say. Look at Alan Alda. (If
E.R.
had been around then, I would have said, Look at George Clooney.) All these guys are huge television stars, they make millions of bucks, plus they do movies, and everybody they work with loves them. How bad is that?

Nothing doing. Daniel wants out. I try to explain to him the consequences of his actions. They can sue him. Or they might retaliate by reducing his role to a glorified extra—believe me, I've seen it happen. Finally, as a cautionary tale, I invoke the two magic words: Pernell Roberts.

Pernell Roberts was one of the original three sons in the television series
Bonanza,
along with Michael Landon and Dan Blocker. Pernell decides after a couple of seasons that he's too big for television, and wants out of his deal to pursue a movie career. They finally release him,
Bonanza
runs about seventeen years, everyone becomes really rich and really famous (and, of course, in Blocker's case, really dead), and Pernell Roberts's career, for all intents and purposes, goes in the toilet.

Anyhow, to make a long story short, Daniel remains adamant. And, of course, by now there's also a manager in the picture, along with a big-shot entertainment attorney. So the three of us, including some punk associate the attorney drags along so he can bill an extra two hundred an hour, all troop over to the executive producer's office for a Big Meeting.

To be perfectly honest, I was against it from the beginning. I thought Daniel ought to be thanking his lucky stars he had a fucking job, for Christ's sake, instead of trying to weasel out of his contract, but hey—this is Hollywood. Everyone signs off on the contract knowing that in success there basically
is
no contract, that the actor has you by the balls, and if he (or she) is willing to be a complete shit and stay home, there's really not a goddamn thing you can do about it except give them the fucking raise. This is America, baby. Fuck the contract.

Anyway, there we all are in the executive producer's office, for one of the most uncomfortable meetings I've ever attended in my life. The room is jammed. There's the executive producer, of course, along with the president of the production company (also a lawyer, by the way), plus the production company's business-affairs guy (another lawyer), and with all those lawyers in one room, it won't come as a big shock when I tell you that the meeting gets testy almost immediately.

First, the manager says Daniel feels he's been persecuted all year; that because of his script complaints, the writers have reduced the size of his role. The executive producer says that's bullshit. Everyone—the public, the media, the producers themselves—acknowledge he's the star.

Then the president of the company cuts to the chase, wanting to know what Daniel's looking for. The lawyer, trying to hide the smirk on his face, says, “Our demands are based on the theory of diminished opportunity.”

“What the fuck is that?” asks the executive producer, and I can tell already this guy's not gonna last the whole meeting before blowing out his carotid.

“Diminished opportunity,” the lawyer explains, “goes like this. Daniel is currently in New York making a movie for seventy-five thousand dollars a week. Coming back to the series for a second season at the contractual rate of forty-two-five an episode represents a big pay cut—hence, a diminished opportunity.”

Now the executive producer starts to squirm around in his chair, he's so pissed off. “Let me tell you my theory of
enhanced
opportunity, counselor, which holds that if not for the success of this series, your idiot client wouldn't be in New York making seventy-five thousand a week in the first place!”

“That may be true,” says the lawyer, “but that was then and this is now.” In other words: this is a stickup; reach for the sky.

Now, I'm an agent. My job is to get the best deal I can for my client, and I like to think I'm not incapable of playing hardball when the occasion calls for it. But this has me squirming in my seat, too.

Finally, the president of the company, who happens to be the only female in the room, and a goddamn good-looking one at that, says, “What is it exactly you're looking for?”

Straight-faced, the lawyer ticks it off on his fingers: one, a hundred thousand dollars per episode. Two, Fridays off. Three, a thirty-eight-foot trailer. Four, an office on the lot. Five, a development executive of his own, to be paid (by the production company) a thousand dollars a week. Six, two hotel suites in New York when the company's on location. Seven, a dozen first-class plane tickets. Plus, eight, additional security to shield this clown from his adoring public. By now, the lawyer's running out of fingers. It's like the twelve fucking days of Christmas.

The executive producer laughs out loud. “You've got to be kidding,” he says.

Unfazed, the lawyer comes back with plan B. “If you're not willing to meet the first set of demands,” he says, “there's a second set of demands that would not make Daniel
as
happy but that he's willing to live with.” And then he starts with the fingers again.

“Sixty-five thousand per episode, Fridays off, the office, the development executive, the tickets, the suites, the trailer, and, last but not least, the final seven episodes off so he can have a larger window of opportunity for doing feature films during the hiatus.”

The executive producer is shaking his head in disbelief. Can you imagine letting the star of your show take a leave of absence for fully one third (and the final third at that) of the season?

“And, lastly,” the lawyer states, “if neither of the two options is acceptable, the third option is to release him from any further obligation to the series so he can pursue his feature film career full-time.”

By now the executive producer looks like he's ready to throw a punch. He's red in the face, and the veins are sticking out on his neck. “How about this,” he proposes. “Your fucking client has a contract, we've exercised his option for a second year at forty-two-five an episode, and if he doesn't report for work on August eighth, we'll sue his ass for breach of contract.”

Needless to say, that was the end of the meeting. I won't bore you with the rest of the story, which you can probably figure out anyway.

Pernell Roberts ring a bell?

There's another story about Daniel Deveaux, which is where Dennis comes in. Before he became a TV star (for the aforementioned twenty minutes), Daniel was having an affair with this actress named Wendy Marx, who was also a highly regarded acting teacher. Like Ramon Montevideo almost twenty years later, Wendy had a habit of taking her students as lovers, and Daniel was her hump
du jour.

One night after class, Daniel and Wendy were confronted by a gun-toting junkie in the parking lot adjacent to the building she taught in, and tragically, Wendy was shot and killed. Dennis Farentino, then a young homicide detective, caught the case.

The local publicity from the case was considerable and actually brought Daniel to the attention of the director who finally cast him in the TV series that made him a star, so in a sense you could say Daniel Deveaux turned a lemon into lemonade, big-time.

Dennis tells me over lunch that when they finally caught the kid who killed Wendy Marx, he said the shooting was an accident; that instead of just forking over his wallet, Deveaux was trying to be a hero, and in the ensuing struggle, the gun went off and Wendy was killed instantly.

So this asshole Deveaux not only was responsible for Wendy's death but he used the publicity from it to parlay himself into a career. I suppose the fact that, being an asshole, he finally parlayed himself
out
of a career qualifies as ironic justice, of sorts.

During that period of time before Deveaux imploded, however, he befriended Dennis, who'd never actually gotten close to a celebrity before, and they spent a fair amount of time drinking and gambling and womanizing together. Dennis provided Daniel with a degree of personal security he wasn't used to but quickly learned to enjoy (and take advantage of), and Daniel gave Dennis an entrée to Hollywood he'd never enjoyed before. This is called symbiosis, kids, and Dennis and Daniel, pretty much the same age, were a mile up each other's ass.