1
‘Gentlemen . . . ’
Promising start.
‘We're in one hell of a bear
trap here and we're shit out of ladders.’
Lousy diagnosis, even lousier
prognosis. It was understandable. The facts were as plain as the hand-written
missives etched into the gaps in the patterns in the company's art deco company
wallpaper - an indulgence at a time of growth, now emblematic of the company's
troubles. The figures were in and they
were as unshakable as the Republicans' ten year stranglehold on the Congress ;-
profits tanking, slate as bare as a hooker's diary over thanksgiving weekend,
not to mention a forecast as gloomy as the Cubs prospects for the playoffs. That said there was no better man for the
task of helming the Goliath through the amorphous swell than it's current
admiral-in-chief. Squat, uncompromising
and resolute in a way that made the upper floors of the Chrysler building look
like they might buckle in a force seven Nor'Easterner, Luther Van Crane had in
spades all the traits necessary for the job of steering the old ship through
the stormy seas of uncertainty. Switching
themes from nautical to geological, the very tectonic plates of the industry
were shifting ; re-aligning themselves in a way that not even the founder of
the great Parallax Pictures could predict.
If the company was at the center of the geologic tumult, then Luther Van
Crane was straddling the San Andreas itself.
The malaise might easily have been transposed onto celluloid. What odds on the song emanating from the
grand in the wings - being tapped out doughtily by the vaudevillian all-rounder
Delilah Louisa Dalrymple - being 'Bad times are here again and they ain't on a
short-let' - Larry 'chumpers' Levine in the lead ? Short.
No, the bags had been packed, cabins reserved, deck chairs stacked ;-
White Star's finest was about to set sail.
Only there were no icebergs ahead, only the bleak finacial forecasts
that not even the number-crunchers in the back room could tweak. And like that vast megalith in white, if this
month's didn't get you, next month's would.
Last quarter's numbers spelled out just how much of a flea-ridden pony
Parallax had become. It wasn't quite
skidsville as one former President had opined but it wasn't far off. The bean counters had signed off on the
accounts and it was only a matter of time before the trades got wind. So who among the great and good could step up
to the plate and revive flagging fortunes ?
Who amongst those present would produce the golden goose that would save
this turkey from Christmas ? Not
everyone need talk at once. Heads
remained lowered, ties caressed and handkerchiefs pocketed and
re-pocketed. Had there been a lady
present, no doubt a hemline or such would have been adjusted. As for the boss, he chose for the moment not
to elaborate on the stark analysis.
Instead he paced. Nervous backsides
squirmed against moist leather upholstery.
It was a fact that most men ensconced in positions of authority developed
mechanisms to reinforce their authority.
A vocal style, a facial gesture, perhaps an interpersonal approach that
carried with it the threat of sanction.
LVC was a pacer. A squat man, it
was a style he'd made all his own. If a
particular mood or sensibility had to be conveyed, Luther needed nothing more
than a length of carpet. And what he
gave away in height he more than made up for in girth. He digested the faces of the characters
around the table, instinctively lapsing into his best Jimmy Cantor from 'An
Angel on My shoulder, a Dame on My Arm'.
Incidentally, for the range of movies that Jimmy signed on for it was
perfect for an edgy desperado on the run.
The old man might have a lazy eye that had kept him out of front line
conflict in the Great War but his one good peep-hole could sub-contract for
naval intelligence. Accordingly he
scanned the faces of those around him for a flicker of inspiration or a moment
of genius which might alleviate the fortunes of a company teetering on the
brink. Nada. Nothing.
Zilch. So things had come to this
had they ? Parallax Pictures in trouble
? On the verge of bankruptcy ? You'd better believe it. Only the press and the networks didn't know
the half of it. The company was leeching
money away like a drunk with a Friday paycheck and no amount of spin or PR
could glam-up those kinds of numbers.
The half-yearlies were out and not only did they not look good but they
had the kind of albino pall that wouldn't have disgraced the average emergency
room on a Saturday night.
So how had things come to such
a pass ? Only a few years ago Parallax
had been riding the wave, pushing forward the boundaries of a new genre of
film-making ;- bringing enlightenment, and more importantly entertainment to
the massed ranks of movie-goers across America. Not so long ago, Parallax had had it's pick
of actors and actresses. Whatever it
wanted to do, it did. If the company
wanted to work with someone, it happened.
'Director or actor wanted to put a project through the Parallax lens
? It went into production.On the flip
side, career taken a downturn ? Same
deal. Casting calls no longer blotting
the diary ? Agent on vacation ? No problem.
Try Parallax. At Parallax the sky
was the limit . . . Once ascendant
careers could be revitalized on the outcome of a single telephone call to the
Parallax front desk.
'Oh, she's just done a picture
for Parallax. Well why didn't you say
? Sure, we'd love to have her come in
and and see us. What's good for her ?'
Or, 'What's so-and-so doing now
? I heard he couldn't get arrested . .
. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Parallax, you say ? Really ?
You'll have to give me his number.'
Luther Van crane was the
executive every other executive wanted to sit down and shoot the breeze
with. First choice at 'Spando's' or
'Marguerite's', he had it on the arm with every restaurant and club in
town. And that was when proprietors
didn't seat Luther's party 'a la maison', which wasn't often. Nothing was a barrier to Parallax's meteoric
rise. For a decade or so, little
happened to suggest things might not continue in that vein. The company expanded, even threatening the
majors, all too frequently besting them at the box office and sending a shudder
down the collective industry spine. But
like a casual laborer living high off the hog during the boom times, Parallax
couldn't resist taking it's eyes off the road ahead. And sure as eggs were eggs until they hit the
bottom of the bowl, Parallax didn't see the precipice until it was too
late. Within the space of four weeks,
the company went from 'Great Fright Hope' (L.A Gazette) to 'Locker Room Dope' (Washington
Chronicle) Ticket booth and trade alike,
no-one wanted to know. Product from
Parallax, was, as they say, cold. In a
town where 'Superman' was the new buzzword, anything that the company touched
turned to kryptonite. For a perilous
moment in it's history, the house that Crane built was on its uppers, with only
it's glorious past to reflect upon.
'End of the decade and
Parallax's feature 'Armageddon in a Small Town' was
up against stiff competition from it's downtown rivals. Indeed, in just seven weeks, it would do it
all for real-and in front of a live audience-at the industry's showpiece event. The centerpiece of the motion picture
calendar. The 'Annual Film Awards'. Named in honor of the great revolutionary
South American bandito Cesar Oscarino - who would inspire his men with graphic
renditions of great historical leaders and their foibles - the night rightly
reflected theatrical talent. Traditionally
the majors swept the boards. Leviathans,
they dictated what product made it into the big-town theater screens, and by
the same token what the hacks contented themselves with in their brick-facade
corporate offices downtown.
'Distributors in the pocket. Stars in the bank. Votes in the can.'
It might have been the motto on
the four paperweights on the desks of the respective heads of the big four
studios. Since the inauguration of the
event, they had enjoyed a ninety five per cent plus hit rate. From 'Best Picture' to 'Third Assistant
Costume Director' you were on safe ground betting with the form book. If the majors didn't disappoint then neither
did the judges. It was the coziest
relationship in Hollywood since
Barrenbaum & Schultz, eponymous dilettantes to the shmutter business. How queer then that Luther Van Crane should
look to upset that form book. His baby
'Armageddon' would go toe-to-toe with offerings from each of his heavy-hitting
rivals. To wit, three of the bigs had
feelgood war films up for examination.
The plots of the three extravaganzas were by-the-numbers ; strapping
American heroes defying entire platoons of enemy aggressors, hoisting aloft
American flags from hills, mounds and trenches - wherever the enemy might labor
under the delusion of it's futile grand plan.
Either that or our brave hero was invalided home after honorable service
in the face of insurmountable odds. The
nationalistic spirit was epitomized doggedly in, 'In the Face of the Enemy',
'Leopards of War' and 'Yellow Hell'.
Only Vistavision moved away from the nationalistic-cum-xenophobic mood,
with a forgettable melodrama starring the ever-schmaltzy Dana Devine. Over at Parallax, the anticipation was
palpable, much like a love scene from the Dana Devine playbook. As the weeks passed so the hub-bub
intensified. The questions rolled off
the presses as easily as the quips escaping from the pens of the monologue
writers working for Lyndon Laing at the United Broadcasting Company. Was gore a wholesome medium for mass
entertainment ? Was there sufficient
moola behind the Parallax muscle ?
Luther would answer them all in turn.
Right now he had a long-overdue vacation to take. Ten days in the sun and he would come back in
good time to face his critics. True to
his word and ten days later and suitably refreshed, Luther returned from a
sun-drenched Caribbean idyll
to face the melee. Tanned and brimming
with exuberance, the boss of the most exciting prospect in town denied rumors
that the trip had been a ruse to prolong the suspense. Instead Luther indulged his audience with
speculation as to this year's host and master of ceremonies. The fact that it had been in the bag for
weeks was immaterial. Fatty 'Fats' Carmichael would
be doing the honors A journeyman actor and
comedic turn, Fatty had been around for an eon - which in showbusiness terms
was a lifetime plus ten. He'd played
just about every spot in town and had a residency at the 'Laugh-Inn' on Sunset. A shoe-in he'd hosted twice in the previous
three years. A bout of intestinal pain
had forced him to defer the privilege just twelve months ago. All in all he was shrewd enough to take the
Academy's cent and mosey on down to the bank Monday morning, a spring in his
step and a bulge in his wallet. Besides
which, Fatty's agent, the infamous Hollywood savant
Marty Pinkel was no spring chicken. An
industry lifer with two heart attacks under his belt, or rather above it, as
well as several unattested bouts of angina, old 'Pinkel Toes' would have
swiveled in his leatherette armchair at the news that Fats had turned down the
hottest gig in town. The
larger-than-life entertainer had been many things over the course of his
career-comic, jobbing actor, promotional groundhog, stuntman - but one thing he
wasn't, was a killer.'
' . . . And so ladies and
gentlemen'
Fatty Carmichael
reveled in the pomp, rolling the audience through his fingers like a physician
conducting his umpteenth examination of the nether regions of one of his
patients. For the most part Fatty stuck
to the script, ad-libbing only if the urge proved irresistible, teasing his
audience by holding back from revealing some of the more salacious details of
their private lives. In that respect
Dana Devine had good reason to be thankful.
If the truth had been known about her multiple bigamist marriages, Hollywood might
have better understood the impulse that lay behind her particular brand of
screen theatrics. Fats was the epitome
of discretion. Naturally when eventually
it came time for the awards - the anti-climactic finale for legions of Fatty's
fans - the trinkets went with the short money.
Best actor and actress went to Harry McLean and Lucille Loeb, Moviescope
stalwarts whose national service on the epic, 'In the Face of the Enemy' was
rightfully being recognized Harry and
Lucille sat down to applause, clutching their awards, hands unconsciously
having been locked in that position since the start of the evening. For Luther, the hard work, the tight budgets
and the ass-kissing were about to pay off.
Guest award-presenter Marvin Deane, star of 'The Marvin Deane Show'
opened the envelope.
'And the award for best
director goes to . . . '
Luther Van Crane's world
morphed into slow-motion cartoon form.
His body went into the equivalent of automatic writing and within the
space of five minutes he'd risen and sat twice, collecting awards for 'Best
Picture' and 'Best Director'. It was the
grand slam. 'Bottom of the ninth squeeze
play, homer in the twelfth. Luther
floated Seraph-like through the auditorium, an observer outside his own body,
congratulated by colleagues and strangers, the culmination of years of hard
work. When finally he fell back to
Earth, he was the man of the moment.
Lauded, praised and unquestionably in the ascendancy. The industry had decided to reward courage,
fortitude and creativity. It might be
the case that outside industry circles few had heard of 'Armageddon in a Small Town' but
what they didn't know about the film, they'd soon learn about it's
director. In honor of it's win, the
Hollywood Inquisitor threw a themed party for 'Armageddon', guests turning up
in full slasher garb. It was a hoot from
start to finish. When Luther arrived,
think Mario Lanzini climbing onto an ad-hoc stage, microphone in hand at the
annual Italian-American festival on Mulberry
Street and you were in the ball
park. Everybody was going 'Armageddon'
crazy. The merchandising deals were
inked in time for the Easter weekend. A
rubberized version of Luther's homemade protagonist was made into a twelve inch
replica toy. The stores sold out in a
fortnight. Parents fought so frequently
to best one another to get their hands on one of Luther's little monsters for
one of their little monsters that police across America had to
be recalled from leave to patrol malls and main streets in order to keep the
peace.
Armageddon in a small town,
indeed.
Luther paced. He was getting nothing out of his cadre of
lieutenants and inspiration was as unforthcoming as passing trade to the
shoe-shine boys of thirties Wall Street.
Sure, difficult patches had been weathered in the past but there was an
air of terminality about this one. If
that was even a word. The elephant
cadaver in the corner of the room was testament to that. Talking of things that had died a death and
were now stinking up the place, the studio's last three pictures were still
padding out copy in the entertainment sections of the dailies, each a poignant
case study in how to blow it in the movies.
They hadn't so much tanked as been hauled out to sea, loaded down with
lead weights and left to sink to the bottom of old Davy's locker. If a salvage team ever chanced upon them,
pity the luckless insurers putting up the front money. It all begged the question no studio director
or company C.E.O ever wanted to ask.
Was the outfit in so deep a hole that it couldn't dig it's way out again
? Was the firm really having it's last
hurrah, drinking in the last chance saloon, grabbing the last bottle from the
shelf only to find that the town wino had got there first ? Boss of Parallax Pictures and Chief Executive
of long-standing Luther Van Crane was never apt to shirk a challenge but
questions like these were unpalatable to a man who'd only known success. Anyone who could read the broadsheets could
see in painful luminosity the jaundiced hue that distinguished the company's
finances from it's competitors. Luther's
culpability or otherwise for it weighed heavily on his mind. And so cometh the hour, cometh the man.
‘When I founded this company,
everybody said it couldn't be done.
Everybody.’
His voice rose as he spoke,
much as a barometer might in a boiler room that had sprung a leak on labor day.
‘No-one gave me a hand-out,
no-one gave me a leg-up and no-one ever gave me a dressing-down. You know why ?’
His audience deferred.
‘Cos I didn't take any shit !’
The finger went up. Trademark Van Crane.
‘Every step of the way, every
decision I made, there was someone waiting to tell me it couldn't be done. Aaah, some kid wet behind the ears, who do
you think you are ?' You come out here
and tell me how things should be done.
You don't know jack about this industry.
'Need a studio behind you. 'Can't
be done by one guy. 'Can't do it without serious money. But I took it on the arm, called in a favor
here and there and you know what . . .’
Rhetorical question. Silence.
‘I pushed through that
barrier. 'Even started to get a little
recognition. Yeah. A little respect. Finally.
And then the next wave of naysayers.
'All telling me I'd got lucky.
'Got lucky once kid, won't happen again.
Can't make it without studio backing.
But you know what ?’
LVC broke into a grin.
‘I did it anyway.’
It was a speech Luther had
given a thousand times, a thousand more in his own mind as a pep talk at times
of limp morale - his own as much as anyone else's. The grin broadened as he strolled. The room offered ample opportunity for both.
‘But I didn't spend forty years
of my life building this company up to see it collapse after a couple of bad
years. And that's all they've been
! A couple of bad years. Okay, so we took a gamble on the European
market. It didn't pay off.’
His tone was part accusatory,
part inspired general on the eve of battle rousing tired and half-hearted
troops.
‘You take risks in this
business to make money. Some pay off,
others . . . ‘
It was a sentence he didn't
finish. Much like Napoleon facing an
unlikely last-gasp return from Saint Helena, he
knew when the game was up. And like the
diminutive great man, Luther's problems originated fully three thousand miles
away. As per his embattled counterpart,
Van Crane had not shirked an imperial foray to secure new markets. He'd hot-footed it over to the old country on
a mad three week bender, pressing the flesh, jetting back and forth across the
continent in a mad rush to ink deals with the heads of the five big theater
conglomerates.
'The Blood and the Fear.' 'Invasion at Midnight.'
'Tremors Underfoot.'
They would launch in the
Italian market. It met the right
demographic and Luther waited for the news stateside. Initial reports were promising but they
proved to be a false dawn. Parallax took
a hit on the markets and pulled out after six months. It was a learning curve experience and Luther
had grown as a result. It was what he
did best. He acclimatized.
‘What was that series we ran on
real life execution-style beatings ?’
LVC's manner changed as a
flicker of inspiration charged his thinking.
‘Blood in the suburbs.’
‘Exactly. Blood on the sidewalk. 'Suburbs, whatever it was. Went down a storm. 'Public loved it. 'Herald a new era of gruesome real-life
dramas. 'Memorized the headline. Even got it framed. 'Turned out to be bullshit, but it put us on
the map. And that's what I'm
saying. Right now, we're off the map,
off the radar.’
Forty years ago a summer news
story had caught the eye of a young go-getter on the Associated floor.
'Fourth woman murdered in
series of brutal slayings. '
Nearly half a decade later and
Luther Van Crane was still drawing from the same creative, if macabre well.
‘We need something to put us
right back in the middle of things.’
He clenched his fist and
slammed it onto the table.
‘We need a hit !’
It was a call to arms. The behemoth, as it was once affectionately
known, was certainly due one.
2
1929.
Boom times for the average
American. Sub Median-income or
millionaire, you couldn't fail to be affected.
Stock prices were on the crest of a ten year wave and there was
collective optimism about the forthcoming decade, just a few months around the
corner. A new type of jet propulsion
system looked certain to revolutionize travel and baseball's home run record
had been smashed two years in succession.
Model 'A's were rolling off the production lines like they were
blueberry muffins at Lucille's mom-and-pop bakery and labor-saving devices that
helped free the average housewife from her humdrum shift at the grindstone were
all the rage. 'Why tie yourself to the
kitchen sink ?' . . . 'No more dishpan hands !' . . . 'Housewives, experience
the exhilaration of food in an instant with the new 'Micro-Cook' from
Varlon.' Even more thrilling than Mr.
Ford's new roadster, the Insta-Cook and the joys of watching two of baseball's
greatest sluggers go head-to-head in the run up to the playoffs, was the new
pastime a-la-mode. The motion
picture. Now with added sound ! Sure, movies had been around for donkeys
years but with the advent of technicolor and the teen-friendly 'drive in', nine
out of ten adolescents looking to get away from the 'squaresville' work-a-day
routine of family life could 'hang out' and catch a picture at the same
time. With the President's bill to put a
movie theater in every small town across America by the
middle of the next decade, the clarion call had gone out to the motion picture
industry-and everyone connected with it-that the public was eager for
entertainment. It had a buck in it's
pocket and a seat on the passenger side for anyone who was looking for a cheap
thrill. On the other side of the silver
screen, a generation of starlets and soon-to-be household names were about to
be introduced to kitchens and living rooms across the nation. The very thought of it was tantalizing. Imagine the housewife's glee in discovering a
Roscoe Arbuthnott or Rudolph Valenzuela in her living room Mondays, Wednesdays
and Fridays. Well, quite. Movie stars brought glamor and pazzazz to
lives that were devoid of glamor and pazzazz.
Flick through any copy of 'Entertainment Today' or 'Star Spotlight' and
you could knock yourself out on the gleaming white smiles and perfectly
coiffured hairpieces of the blessed and the beautiful. And this was betting without the new craze
for 'talkies'. The name was a gimmick
and like the technique of sound incorporation, it was uncertain whether it
would find a home in mainstream society ; but one thing was clear - 'star'
value was here to stay. As if the new
entertainment craze needed a testament, the West coast recorded the foundation
of thirty seven companies dedicated to the motion picture industry - together
with it's ancillary support services in just the month of August alone, each of
whom had an eye to the main chance.
Carry on at this rate and a decade from now, practically the entire
state would in some way be connected with showbusiness and the movie
industry. That said, anyone pitching up
in the dog days of the decadent decade was sitting down at a game whose high
rollers had so deftly stacked the deck that the life-expectancy of a new player
at the table compared unfavorably with that of a manager for the Blue Jays
charge with breathing new life into the rosta.
It was an open secret that the movie industry in 1929 was sewn up. To all intents and purposes, tighter than a
duck's behind and more conservatively-run than Washington's
inner circle. Associated, Moviescope,
Cinetone and Vistavision. Between them,
they constituted the 'big four' and together, were the movie industry in 1929.
And if you were sitting down at that table with a weak ace or a pair of
deuces, then you'd better have more a high school diploma in the subtle art of
bluffing. Put simply, if you wanted to
get a movie made, you went to one of the majors. And that was never more true than for an
actor of the caliber of Douglas Freebanks.
Only Associated could ink a two picture deal with the great man and
still have cash left over to buy out his contract from Cinetone. Only Moviescope could bring an actress like Lucinda Lake on
board. And boy, when she was on board,
did the picture fly. Think of it like
the evils of liquor and ways one might employ to get around the official
embargo. If you wanted the go-ahead to
operate a club or open a flesh parlor then you had to sit down with one of the
top enchiladas from one of the five families.
Same with the movies. Sit down
with Big 'Al' to work out the take on a new gambling joint or shoot the breeze
with the boss of Moviescope about a points split on a three picture deal. You paid your money and you took your choice,
or in 'Al's case, you paid your money and hoped to come out of the place in one
piece. Associated, Moviescope, Cinetone
or Vistavision. You choose. Of those thirty seven companies that came
into being in the late summer of 1929, some twenty eight filed for bankruptcy
within six months, leaving only a pallid eight to offer post-production
facilities to the majors. A single
outfit bucked the trend and chose to swim in shark-infested water. That outfit was Screenscape ; run by the
one-time protege of Moviescope head F.M. Murray, Larry Lipton. Lipton or 'Larry L.' to his friends was an
extravagant S.O.B prone to occasional bouts of artistic genius. Too sporadic for Murray's
liking, Larry was eventually let go but what Larry L. inherited from his
praetor was a penchant for lavish pictures.
And that was fine - on the kind of budget F.M. could pass down to his
'Beaux Du Jours' but even Larry Lipton's dog and pony show, ably financed by
the great F.M Murray could not withstand the pressures of a marketplace
dominated by the 'big four'. Others
presented the collapse in less prosaic terms.
Whereas Murray had
been the kind of work-hard, play-hard, good-to-be-around guy who unfalteringly
got the best out of his people, Larry had been the exact opposite. If Forester M. (the 'M' stood for Mordant) Murray
brought the requisite gravitas to his dealings with his employees, Larry hadn't
been able to see past his own ego. Added
to which, he spent like a pharaoh For
the compilers of the official record, Larry Lipton skulked back to the Moviescope
boardroom, any animosity between him and Murray brushed aside for the benefit
of the public relations crowd. Murray
retained a 'We felt Larry's talents weren't being fully utilized in that area'
facade for the trades and networks.
Backstage, Larry took it like a man, chastised for his wayward operation
of the Moviescope purse strings, but in practical terms it was back to the
normal rules of operation. As you were
then. In the midst of all this, Parallax
Pictures was a name no-one caught up in the hullabaloo of movie-making could
rightly have been expected to have heard of.
Gore, though it had yet to be classified by any single moniker, had yet
to infuse the popular consciousness.
Slasher films, though lauded by a tiny minority of arrivistes in the
undergraduate community were still very much a 'niche' market place. Understandable. Undergraduates were nothing if not
'niche'. But thanks to the habits of a
generation of teens and drop-outs sequestered on campuses and dormitorys across
the nation's colleges, gore was undergoing a ghoulish rise in popularity. Indeed, the entire appetite of cinema-goers
was changing. Infused with the profits
from two decades of feeding the public what it wanted, the major studios had
got fat on the rich pickings of force-feeding the public a diet of bland
pap. Though no one knew it, gore was
about to replace the twee, dainty romance yarns that had made actors like
Freebanks and Salenzuela household names.
Instead of saving our heroine from imminent danger, our protagonist now
put the fear of God into her, escorting her to some godforsaken domain before
unleashing all manner of horrific torment upon her. After a full two years of flying under the
radar and with every last brick and square foot of concrete mortgaged to the
hilt, Parallax's first feature opened in the fall of 1928. Could a movie studio owned and run by
twenty-something Luther Van crane really challenge two full decades of
dominance ? America was
about to find out. As it was, 'Vampire
Hordes from Space' was nothing to write home about artistically. It represented far more in terms of the
ambitions of it's young creative producer-director. A trickle of diehards bombarded daily
showings looking to get scared out of their wits. Some stayed, catching two offerings a
night. The nation's youth had developed
a bloodlust, albeit an underdeveloped one.
Parents expressed their unease.
But theaters were duty-bound to do nothing if not follow the almighty
dollar and where the money went, so did the market. In keeping with the mediocre response,
Parallax's next four pictures flopped.
At least three were barely watchable, and following several walk-outs
from paying customers, theaters across the state closed the show on the 'Gore
Factory', at least temporarily. They
lost money, as did Parallax, but Parallax C.E.O Luther Van Crane was on a
learning curve. Failures were many
things to many people but they were at their most valuable when they were
springboards to success. Two more
failures followed - in quick succession.
Luther learned something valuable from each. And each time, he made adjustments. For his seventh picture-and what many
predicted would be Parallax's final foray into film-making before it's CEO
resumed a mid-level management position in marketing-Luther went back to basics. He borrowed and begged for the cash, such was
his economic standing within the financial community. It would be a hometown mom-and-pop
affair. Your standard,
'alien-from-another-world-masquerades-as-a-stand-up-member-of-the-community-gaining-its-confidence-before-unleashing-terror-on-a-grand-scale
kind of set up. 'Armageddon in a Small Town' came
out on time and under budget. The
company, as well as Luther's assets, were on the line. 'Movie News Weekly' hit the nail on the head.
'Make or Break for Freak Show
Central'.
‘ . . . And we haven't had one
in God knows how many years. That's God
knows how many years too long. When I
started this company, you made films and people watched them. 'Flocked to the theaters. We couldn't make enough of them. I remember we churned out twenty nine, thirty
films in one year. Broke the record. 'Public loved 'em all.’
LVC was apt to infuse his voice
with a richness of tone when he was reminiscing.
‘Who can forget the great
period in this company's history, thirty nine to forty nine.
‘And what's more, it lasted a
decade. We were number one for fifty
four straight months . . . Parallax.
Number one. Fifty four !’
He eased back on the throttle.
‘Now no one can tell me the
public's lost it's appetite for entertainment.
Damn it, we need to start doing what we do best. We're in the entertainment business, people. Let's start acting like it.’
He strolled as he glanced. Another fist, another table.
‘Don't buy into the hype. 'Public doesn't care for it anymore. Appetite diminished. Bullshit.
You know what I say ?
Garbage. BS. If there's one thing I know, it's the public
- and I know it's appetite for the honest-to-goodness blood and guts slashfest
has not diminished.’
There was a silent murmur of
enthusiasm from the board. Either that
or fear had a voice.
‘We get back to doing what we
do best and we'll be back on track.
Christ, you have a bad patch in this industry and everyone writes you
off. Go through a bad spell and the
obituary's ready to roll.’
More pacing.
3
1930.
The frugal decade had chugged
into view, like a tired-out old jalopy from one of Mr. Ford's factories. A lousy pun for a lousy end to the decade for
thousands of middle Americans.
Late-breaking hurricanes had hit Christmas night. Farmland in three states had taken the brunt
of the destruction and no-one felt in the mood for celebration. Communities were suffering. Like a premiere that had had it's run slashed
at the single stroke of an embittered critic's pen, party-goers had packed up
the decorations, decanted the punch and put furniture into long-term
storage. Nevertheless erstwhile
commentators rushed to pen their visions of the coming epoch. War was a continent away and the nation was
savvy enough to remain out of the conflict.
Depression was a decade away ; at least it was if you were rounding
down. Perhaps the years to come would
sweep away the old ways ; boom and bust.
Poverty and penury The generation
that had lived through one of the worst decades in the nation's history was
certainly caught up in the rhetoric of new-found co-operation and can-do
optimism. In that vein the president had
delivered. As a second-term big spender
he'd already gone down in history.
Whoever came in had big shoes to fill.
Take 'leisure' for example ; the new past-time 'a la mode'. Businessmen could head off to the golf course
or private club and spend a couple of hours with like-minded souls, swinging
away on the fairway or working up a sweat on the squash court. Back in the sweet magnolia-scented bosom of
the white-stuccoed family home, housewives were no longer tied to the sink or
slaving away to put a meal on the table.
Strange wonderful new devices were accomplishing the same tasks in a
fraction of the time. 'Labor-saving' had
become 'labor-eradicating' with the new Omniplex(TM) Multiserve(TM) and the
Homechoice(TM) De-Clutter-Vac(TM).
Imagine what the country could accomplish if it set it's mind to
it. The scourge of prohibition was no
more and boy did America need a
drink. At the bar of America's hopes and
dreams, a pick-me-up consisted of seventy two minutes of thrills, spills and
heart-stopping terror. Pure terror. And we weren't talking the rebirth of the
Republican party here. No, the movie
business had stepped up to the plate.
That pipe dream to put a theater in every town might still be a ways
off but the majors were attempting to
make up for the dour state of the union.
In fact, they were all too often their own worst enemies ; saturating
the market with a glut of titles that no serious movie aficionado could ever
hope to wade through. Speaking of the
majors, four had not so long ago become five.
Another chair had been put out at the table ;- a gold-embossed
invitation to the golf club hand-delivered and praise lavished on a director
who'd barely learned to tie his own shoe laces.
One scandal mag told it like it was.
Now by way of backstory, the Hollywood
'Inquisitor' was the rag du jour when it came to the more salacious coverage of
Hollywood's
scandals and exposes. And since exposes
were Hollywood's
stock-in-trade, the 'Inquisitor' didn't need to go far to fill it's weekly
quota. Depending on whose counsel you
courted the 'Inquisitor' was a no-holds-barred, take-on-all-comers down and
dirty gutter rag with barely enough morals to qualify in the broader category
of news. That was, unless you were in
federal court, in which case the platitudes might not be so respectful. But whether on street corner or corporate
office, the 'Inquisitor' was rapidly earning a reputation for itself. In a town famous for pandering to the lowest
common denominator, the 'Inquisitor' set a high benchmark. It was the paper that snapped first and asked
questions later. If the readers were
demanding the latest scoop on the new Lothario ; the dope on the ditzy blonde
fresh from rehab, the paper spared them none of the sordid details. And there was usually plenty to go
around. One case in particular blew the
roof off . . .
Giordano Anselmo was your
average run-of-the-mill low-rent bagman for the Chicago mob
who, having got himself out of sorts with his padrone, had ventured to California and by
a convoluted series of misadventures embroiled himself in the movie
business. Nothing out of the ordinary so
far. Plenty of mob laundry washed up
'out of state'. Only this particular
laundry service had one or two very high-profile clients. When the story broke the connection between
mob and movie industry was nothing to get your Pulitzer's in a twist
about. What was surprising was the
supporting cast. To wit, the
co-conspirators. The 'Inquisitor' placed
three very firmly in the frame. Ronnie
Dillman, head of the Artists and Actors Union, Lou Pynchon, Senior
Vice-President of Kruft Finance, a chief underwriter to the movie business and
Troy McGarry, part-time mainstream movie actor and a-hem 'dick' for hire in
certain underworld productions whose titles might not be a million miles away
from 'Denny Does the (Dallas) Cowboys' and 'Harry Steam and the locker-room
Gang'. So for the literate-minded we had a lineup that included out-of-favor mob
enforcer, union lackey, insurance jock and part-time stag john. It was the
unholy trinity. Plus guest. The 'Inquisitor got it's ducks in a row and
went to print.
'Mob muscles into Movietown.'
If trade weeklies were to be
judged on the success of their first home-run headlining splash, then the
'Inquisitor' had just banked it's survival into the next decade. The hows and whys of the story got lost in
the archives of the LA criminal justice system but the one thing that stuck
were the names. For the pedagogues out
there Mcgarry had been the main conduit between Anselmo and his cohort. Extra-curricular activities had brought in
Pynchon and Dillman and like rats in a sewer they'd coalesced for mutual
protection - and in this case, advancement.
Each ended up cutting a deal implicating the other. Step forward an old-style beak from baptist
country and you had yourself a stink the likes of which hadn't been since a
firebrand preacher from Louisiana had
had the gall to suggest that great apes weren't all that great at all. As for the set-up itself, it couldn't have
been simpler. Anselmo's mob cash would
be funneled through Pynchon's various finance companies and from there into
productions green-lit by Dillman who would also supply the acting talent. All they needed was the talent. Enter stage left Troy McGarry. McGarry was a heard drinker and party fiend
who'd hooked up with Anselmo at a notorious LA haunt. The Mob took a dim view. Dillman took it worst. Family man, three kids, home by six
kind-of-guy. Golf course on the
weekend. Classic closet case. The key element, as far as the 'Inquisitor'
was concerned were the union and financial angles. It amounted to nothing less than money
laundering. A couple of off-kilter mob
guys funding gay porn was nothing to get excited about. Union corruption and fraud were high
level. The paper was resolute on it's
editorial line. A late night visit by
unnamed union heavies to the 'Inquisitor' offices ramped up the stakes but the
paper held firm. For the first forty
eight hours the presses didn't stop rolling.
Copies were flying off the shelves.
The networks could do nothing but run with it. McGarry largely was unaffected. For Dillman, the allegations-and that was all
they were-of marital infidelity were enough to sow the seeds of professional
and personal destruction. However for
his Cosa Nostra cousins, Anselmo's public 'outing' was a step too far. His body was discovered in an abandoned meat
truck tucked under a freeway overpass out of town. Let's just say that of all the corpses hung
up in the refrigerated section when the police opened the doors, there was one
meat hook jammed into one cadaver that health and safety officials had good
cause to query. Pynchon took it where it
hurt the most. In the pocket. The only remaining judgment was made by the Investigative Journalists Academy, who
chose to award the paper with it's 'Award D'Excellence' for outstanding
journalistic performance on a matter pertaining to current affairs. And that, in a nutshell was the
Anselmo-Pynchon-Dillman affair. It was
the 'Inquisitor's high water mark, the case having met the official criterion
for 'probing journalism' whilst simultaneously fulfilling the much higher moral
prerequisite of satiating the public's lust for salacious gossip. Murk and mire ; the 'Inquisitor's'
stock-in-trade. Now flick through that
copy of the 'Inquisitor' and take a closer look at the name on the last-but-one
page, gold embossed and the subject of his own editorial. Luther Van Crane. Three words, but what a one-two
combination. For the time being, Luther
was the golden child. He could do no
wrong and the 'Inquisitor' knew it. Last
year's 'Armageddon in a Small Town' was
the breakthrough hit for Parallax Pictures and was still doing respectable
business. No mean feat considering the
sharks swirling in the same water. The
merchandising sideline 'Armageddon' had spawned was a runaway success. Dolls, masks, wigs - you name it. Kids everywhere were going nuts for the
stuff. It was all heat beneath the
Parallax saucepan. The up-markets
intellectualized on the issue.
'Crane builds on success.'
'Crane swoops low to conquer.'
For all those die-hard cynics
predisposed to the 'can't follow it up' thesis, Crane was about to answer all
the 'Got lucky once, kid' skeptics and nay-sayers.
'Iron Maidens Ride !' was an
out-and-out biker flick and spanned the worlds of gore and glamor deftly.
Whatever respect 'Armageddon'
had failed to garner in terms of it's mainstream credentials, 'Maidens' made up
for in chutzpah. It was a sensible
departure from the pure blood and guts milieu, offering plenty of full-breasted
heroines and glistening choppers, for the discerning movie-goer of course. For others of a less neutral disposition, the
rise of Parallax presented something of a dilemma. Four high-rollers had recently had their
collective jaws put out of joint. They'd
been forced to give up a share of their end to a kid still wet behind the
ears. In plain English, certain heads of
certain studios were starting to get angsty.
A comparison with the situation back East proved ruefully apposite. Consider the intensifying mob rivalry in the
nation's first city. Certainly if Albert
Aristopolou's 'Murder Ltd' was anything to go by the West coast could
momentarily burst into a bloody battle for supremacy. Aristopolou, was the notorious founder of
'Death Inc.' - the nation's premier 'for hire' waste-disposal solution. You got a problem ? 'Stone in your shoe ? Well for a price, you could get the
satisfaction you were looking for.
'Murder Ltd' had later become 'Death Inc.' but for those for whom the
metaphors were too cryptic, Albert was a stone-cold killer.Whether you believed
them or not, urban myths abounded about the young boy's antics growing up on
the mean streets of the nation's premier melting pot. Take the time he'd had an enforcer for a
rival outfit stuffed into a garbage pail, limb by limb. Now the poor victim's only crime, beyond his
chosen lifestyle, had been to once mistakenly shake down Albert's aged father. The offending collection agent had made the
single mistake of confusing the names Aristopolou and Antonescu. On the upside, there was one relieved
Albanian bakery store owner waking up the next morning to learn that his
tormentor had been taken care of 'Death Inc.' style. Or how about the time the Bronx Bombers had
won the title and amidst the ticker parade through the city, Albert had
threatened to cut off the fingers of an errant employee and scatter the remnants
ticker-tape style from the tallest building available. Needless to say the boss had no trouble from
said employee 'going forward'. All in
all Albert's career had progressed along a tumultuous if predictable path. The prohibition years were a much freer place
for the entrepreneur operating outside the strictly-defined limits of allowable
commerce. Albert's crew had taken
advantage by offering decent hard-working Americans what they couldn't get in
the stores. All in a convivial atmosphere. You could almost say Albert and his crew were
offering a public service. The late
thirties saw Death Inc.'s most fruitful period of operation. Albert moved into a palatial upper East Side
brown-stone building. With a party practically
every other night the police were the only unpredictable element in the
equation, arriving as they did only to partake of the free-flowing booze before
their shifts began. Some said Tammany
Hall was the villain of the piece. Yeah?
- Try Apartment 109, DeMauncey
Street. 'Round 2am. Business was good too. Long-term rivals Anthony 'Lemons' Lemansky,
Chuckie 'Egg' Benedictus and Sylvio Stinett met their demise in just the
opening five and a half months of 1938.
The Commission met for a sit
down. Albert was on the agenda.
'Death Inc.' had become a rogue
outfit and the vote went five for and none against. Albert had to go. Two zips from the old country made the trip
over. Ianiello 'Dead Eye' Marangaza
& Luis 'Loopy' Garamanzia. Names to
fear – both figuratively and lietarally if you were not of the requisite linguistic
standard.
Albert's first mistake had been
to isolate himself from his mafiosi compatriots. A lone wolf with a three ninety batting
average was still a lone wolf. His
unwillingness to play ball would put the stiletto in 'Dead Eye's capable
palm. The laws of physics would take
care of the rest. For the narcissistic,
Albert's second-and no less decisive-mistake was forgivable ina nyone’s book.
To wit, his vanity. Albert's knew no limit. He met his demise doing what he loved
most. Actually, make that doing what he
loved most second. Lorenzo's Shave and
Barber Shop gave the best hot towel shave in town. Albert was a regular. Tuesdays and Thursdays. The kid they liked to call the 'Executioner'
arrived early. Albert's vanity put him
there even earlier. The fates were in
motion. By 10:02am Albert's body was cooling on the linoleum
floor, blood pouring from a single entry wound to the back of the neck.
R.I.P Albert Aristopolou.
Now Luther Van Crane's troubles
might be serious and no less financially troubling but one element that didn't
apply was cold-blooded murder. Contract
killing had never been on the company agenda and that was unlikely to
change.The ritual disgorgement of hapless victims-invariably female-might be a
stock in trade but limbs in garbage pails wasn't a subject for polite dinner
parties, certainly not in the circles in which Luther circulated. His problems were of a more 'arithmetic'
nature. Consider the following
equation. Four into a hundred gave an
even twenty five per cent. Throw another
fish into the barrel and each quarter share was down to an even twenty per
cent. Now, five per cent was five per
cent less than ten but it was also five per cent more than certain studio
moguls were prepared to hand over to a johnny-come-lately wet-behind-the-ears
interloper-type. Something, or rather
somebody would have to give.The only question worth asking was, Who would show
aggression first ?
'Associated Pictures signs
Ulvaessen twins.'
The headline was as stark as
any movie headline from the past decade.
And for anyone unaware of just how exclusive scoop it represented, the
Ulvaessen twins had just been voted joint number one hottest product in 'Teen
Dream' magazine. And that wasn't
all. The pair had been recipients of
lifetime achievement awards from the academy.
Repped by the no-nonsense 'Creative Management Inc', the girls had been
keen to maximize their potential. In
plain speaking, they were holding out for as much moola as possible. Associated stepped up to the plate. Six figures each with a four picture deal on
the slate. Their schedule would be a
tight one and Associated would press the girls hard for a return on their
investment. The 'Big A' had come out
strong, clearly making a play for it's weaker rival. In turn, the girls were treated to a tour of
the Associated lot, press on hand to cover the momentous event and capture the
two starlets signing on the dotted line.
Chalk one up to Associated. The
company that Samuel Greenback had founded at the turn of the century could only
tolerate the loss of so much market share.
A line had to be drawn in the sand.
A stand had to be taken. When you
were down two nothing in the bottom of the ninth, a play had to be
manufactured Bloop single into center
field or wild pitch, it didn't matter.
Take a bean from the pitcher.
Anything. In mob speak, one of
the five families was about to lose it's seat on the Commission.Luther van
Crane nearly choked on his cigar as he read the headline.
'Teen Vacation' would be
followed by, 'I Love that thing you Do' and it's sequel, 'I Hate that thing you
Do'. The intention behind the rushed
schedule was clearly to cash in on the girls' popularity. Van Crane threw his newspaper to the floor,
rising out of his seat and storming onto the lot. Everyone present was given a dressing-down
and a geeing-up. With the other studios
spreading the risk of the investment in exchange for a percentage of the box
office, Parallax was facing an assault from not one, but four of it's
rivals. It was Edison Vs. Westinghouse
all over again. The only difference this
time was that there was no pitiful William Kemmler Esq. to play guinea pig for
the maniacal megalomaniacs The privilege
had fallen to Luther himself. Other than
lacking an advocate of the caliber of Darrow himself, Luther also lacked a
clear plan of action. Slasher-pics were
fine but in a war of attrition, you had to appeal to the wider body
politic. Parallax needed a crossover
hit.
4
Itinerant laborer and
occasional carpenter Boris E. Lebowski had done the tour of movie sets in
southern California by the
time Thanksgiving 1929 rolled around.
His emigration to a country he knew simply as 'Cal-E-ForN-E-A' had
coincided with a boom in the twin industries of construction and
movie-making. Sound stages, lighting
rigs, corporate offices - Boris had his pick of the jobs. The work suited his mindset ; fast-paced and
unconstrained by the pressures of working for a suit. At Parallax, nothing less than expansion was
on the agenda. CEO Luther Van Crane was
in ebullient mood. The lot was
expanding. A larger lot, enabling
greater production and more rapid turnover would put Parallax on a more
competitive footing. It might even give
them an edge on the majors. Workmen,
carpenters, bricklayers and electricians were all busy making it a reality,
collectivity putting the studio onto their shoulders and inching it up over the
parapet to stare in wonderment into the future.
For those of a futuristic bent, the lives of the two men shortly to
catapult Parallax's fortunes were about to traverse the same orbit. The day and hour were unremarkable ; the
circumstances workaday. It just so
happened that on one of those days when Parallax CEO Luther Van Crane, having
nothing better to do, had deigned to take a stroll around the lot to cast an
eye upon his empire-in-the-making, an archer named Fate fingered it's bow from
it's vantage point in the wings. Most of
the labor had gone home. The sound of
machinery coming from a recently constructed stage caught Luther's attention.
‘Knock knock.’
Luther uttered the words as he
tapped them out on the open forecourt door.
The scene was one of planned disarray.
Parallax's main stage was in a state of mid-deconstruction ; tools and
timber laid out in a de facto obstacle course on the wooden floor. The obvious cause was a single worker,
sequestered on the far side of the room, saw in hand, machinery operational.
‘A-hem. Hello.’
Boris jerked his head, missing
not a single beat as he deftly trimmed an over-sized piece of timber.
‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to .
. .’
The saw in Boris' hand vibrated
vigorously. It left Luther a little
cold.
‘Excuse please ? My English.
Not so good.’
‘You know it's gone five o'clock. If you want you can . . .’
LVC fumbled.
‘ . . . go home.’
‘I see. You vant I go home.’
Boris hung his head. Live power saw in hand, he started towards
the door, shaking his head, mumbling something in a thick Eastern European
accent.
‘I do good work. I don't know why you fire me. I like work here.’
Well by a combination of
non-verbal gestures and unilingual half-sentences borrowed from the phrasebook
of last resort, Luther managed to halt his employee's departure. Confusion overcome, the more accomplished
speaker of their not-so-common language undertook the pleasantries.
‘Luther, by the way.’
He thrust a hand at his taller
co-worker.
‘Boris.’
Lebowski fumbled with the tool,
putting it down for what might well have been the very first time since his
first day of work on the lot.
Predictably it was an awkward moment for both men, forced politeness
being quite alien to both.
‘Anyway, I don't want to hold
you up.’
Something about the dedication
to work made an instant impression on Luther.
It all kind of reminded him of a young go-getter he'd once known. He made a mental note. In the meantime, Boris' work on the lot
continued. An appreciation of films
coupled with a slow-burning interest in improving his English endeared him to
those co-workers who could offer an insight into the former and a grounding in
the latter. In no time Boris was
spending his days wielding planes and hand saws and in the evenings being
coached on the finer points of lens choice and camera operation. Sure, it would have been a gross
overstatement to say that in no time at all people were talking of Van Crane
and Lebowski in the same breath as Abilene and Castillo, the infamous Latin
pairing of the silent era, but a synergy had definitely bubbled from the
primordial soup. Boris Lebowski had just
found his calling in life. The point
would not be lost on a public that was in the midst of a Parallax feeding
frenzy.
‘Well ?’
LVC ventured, again more
hopefully than expectantly.
Silence.
It was becoming a familiar
routine. Question followed not by answer
but by silence. Not a single one of the assembled
creatives-cum-executives had anything meaningful to contribute. Not a single one could offer up the magic
formula that would lift collective spirits.
What odds on one of the wise heads around the table suggesting a course
of action that would revitalize flagging fortunes and put the finances on an
even keel again ? Long. Had you been looking to place a bet on the
disgraced 1929 White Sox team, you might have got better odds from any one of
the fly-by-night bookies lurking beneath the bleachers just before
game-time. Nope, the creative well was
dry. It all pointed to an unassailable
conclusion. The glory days-or gory days
if you preferred-were over. Parallax was
facing the worst crisis in it's history.
Even the stenographer had shut away her equipment and left the building.
‘It's like that is it ?’
LVC wasn't a man given to idle
speculation and certainly not one in the habit of delivering wildly optimistic
prognoses about the future. Accordingly
he brought the meeting to a close.
Doleful board members got to their feet and shuffled out of the
room. CEO and chief creative force
behind the company Luther Van Crane was alone in his kingdom. It gave him an unrequested moment of solitude
to survey his ailing kingdom. Very few
positive thoughts filtered into his mind.
Instead it was a chance to recollect moments from the company's
history. If the future looked bleak, the
past at least offered an opportunity to look back with something akin to
fondness.
If Parallax was riding high
with it's new directorial star-in-the-making -and undoubtedly it was-Associated
had unwittingly sewn the seeds of it's own downfall with it's risky investment
in the 'glam-slam' Ulvaessen twins. The
deal represented a high water mark in the nation's appetite for the teen
flick. In the fall of that year, 1931,
'Sorority Summer' hit the theater screens with all the bravado and hype
Moviescope could muster. Though it's
box-office didn't break any records, it did good enough business for the
company.But, as with the changing seasons, so with the public mood. When Cinetone's' 'My Heart belongs to a Rodeo
Romeo' arrived in time for the Christmas holidays, a wind of change was in the
air. True to the climatological change
in conditions, takings stayed flat. The
kids stayed away. Not only had Romeo
fallen from his horse, but the company had jumped off it with him. It was an about-turn for a studio that had
publicly endorsed the Ulvaessen deal.
The glam had drained out of the 'glam-slam'. Plus, true to the maxim that bad luck came in
threes, pundits suggesting that the genre would go the same way as Romeo and
Cinetone were shortly to be proved right.In fact the next offering in the canon
would bomb so spectacularly that Moviescope pulled the plug days into it's
national run. They'd bet the piggy bank
on the production in question and this particular porker was stinking up the
place ! Bad news for Moviescope but on a
wider note, it would be a full decade before another teen movie would inspire
the kind of investor confidence that got pictures through the pre-production
stage. The fallout was drastic. A generation of pre-pubescent kids slid into
a decade-long depression. Movie critics
scrambled for copy, many suffering the fate of the Cinetone executives who'd
greenlit 'Sorority Summer'. Worst of
all, banks and mortgage companies began to foreclose on mom-and-pop theaters
across the country. Their only mistake ? 'Banking the farm on a slew of teen sensation
offerings from the majors. As ever, it
wasn't the big boys who suffered, but the little man. He'd paid his nickel and bought into the
dream and the bubble had burst.
Associated, who'd effectively staked their 'teen' colors to the mast,
took a seventy five per cent hit on the markets. A slate of upcoming teen sensation flicks had
to be scrapped. Eighteen months
production down the drain. The company
looked for a way out. Like poor old
Albert Aristopolou, Associated had taken a bullet for the industry. Parallax paid it's respects at the wake. The Ulvaessens survived, taking the flack in
the press but like the true starlets they were, bounced back. A year of penitence on the daytime
confessional circuit absolved them from blame.
As Parallax's star had risen, Associated's had dimmed and on December 31 1933, with
Parallax pictures mortgaged to the hilt, Piers Patterson signed his thirty
three per cent shareholding in Associated over to Luther Van Crane. With it went the Associated lot. Lot, stock
and barrel, so to speak. The big five
was the big four again. Instead of
smooching their way through ninety minutes of romantic clap-trap, teen starlets
would soon be getting ripped to pieces and scared senseless - often in that
order. Even the Ulvaessen twins weren't
above having their requisite share of innards removed for graphic effect. Starlets who'd previously occupied the
screens for companies like Moviescope and Cinetone were now happily filing into
the Parallax lot to spend hours in make-up, dripping liberally-applied bile and
guts to assuage the public's new-found bloodlust. Gore had arrived and it was here to
stay. The gorier the product, the better
the box-office. At the center of the whirlwind
were two men. Luther Van Crane and Boris
Lebowski. Lebowski had some months
earlier become Lengel. In politically
sensitive times, a carefully-adjusted vowel or consonant could make the
difference between career success and political and social ostracization. Horowitz's and Derschowitz's everywhere had
become Howlands and Duttons. Why should
a Lebowski not become a Lengel ? And so,
for the cost of a morning's toil, the change was made permanent. From here on out it was the Luther and Lengel
show. Luther Van Crane had the sinking
feeling of isolation. It was an
unfamiliar feeling. Ordinarily the
Parallax boardroom was a high peek from which to survey the also-rans toiling
in the valley below. Certainly it was a
venue which had served as the focal point for every deal and conference of any
import in the company's history. A brief
survey of the imposing studio lot did not assuage his downbeat mood over the
company's fortunes. He ran down a
checklist of the options. A financial
solution was out of the question.
Accounts at this stage were poison.
They laid bare the full horror of the company's finances. No bank in the world would touch Parallax with
a ten foot pole. He'd have more luck
convincing Mr. Darrow to accept his predicament and take him on as a client.
'Your honor, what we have here
is a wretch ; the lowliest of the low. A
man who, having run his business into the ground was not content until he'd
dragged down each and every one of his employees . . .'
Nope. Even someone of Darrow's caliber was out. Thinking outside the box was required. Some sort of publicity coup might restore
flagging investor confidence even if fundamentally it bucked the Parallax
philosophy. Gimmicks themselves weren't
uncommon in the industry. Successful
ones were rarer. Take the example of
Moviescope spending ten million dollars launching itself onto a hostile market
in 1916. The great star of the silent
era, Charlie 'Butterbean' Horatio (Fat Charlie to his friends) had died
tragically the year before and many were predicting that movies wouldn't last
the season. Such was Charlie's draw that
theaters-profitable ones at that-had started to sell off their assets. Charlie had been the entire industry for the
first half decade of it's existence. He
was charismatic, talented and nudged the scale at two hundred pounds in his
birthday suit. Large in those days. Charlie liked to play multiple parts in his
films, and was an early proponent of the 'auteur' school of film-making Not only did he act, but he directed, wrote,
produced and operated the camera. If the
script required it, Charlie would handle it.
And where his female co-stars were concerned, Charlie frequently
did. As his career had progressed, so
Charlie's stunts and set-ups had become more outlandish. For his last film, though no one knew it
would be his last at the time, producers and director had him suspended from a
train, the Westbound Pioneer in fact ; a freighter which ran coast to coast and
took passengers on a sightseeing tour of the country's largely unoccupied
hinterland. It was a luxury liner for
the well-heeled and Charlie had taken the route many times as a valued guest
and occasional promoter for the company.
From a safety point of view it was the most assured method of travel at
the time. Not for Charlie. A scene required him to launch himself from
one moving carriage to another, young starlet in arms. Well the starlet in question, whose name
history would ultimately choose to disregard, made the leap, but Charlie did
not accompany her. An unfortunate train
coupling latched onto the toe end of Charlie's boot, his remains later to be
scraped from the undercarriages of cars seven, eight, nine, ten and
eleven. His funeral well attended, a
memorial was erected on the very spot he was thought to have died. Moviescope announced it's entry into the
field of film-making on the first day of a week long period of national
mourning. Lunacy to be sure. Nevertheless the gamble paid off. Moviescope ended up using Charlie's passing
as motivation to continue the grand plan that he had embarked upon. The cheek of it. But a gimmick was a gimmick Luther took a moment to consider the
inauspicious beginnings of his own empire.
The days at Associated, staring up from the gutter but seeing only the
stuccoed ceiling of the mail room. The
joy at founding his own company. The
sinking feeling when three pictures in a row sunk without trace. And then the breakthrough. 'Heaven's Haridens'. Risky some said. Gutsy others said. Iconoclastic undoubtedly. But in the same way that Amalgamated
electricals made the same product year on year, it didn't matter how many
'WonderBelt TMs came along, the American housewife just kept coming back to
what she knew and understood. Name
recognition. It was what Fatty had had. Parallax too, in the good old days. If this particular valley was to be
surmounted, a tour de force of the scale of Charlie Butterbean's was in
order. A real headline-grabber. LVC surveyed his domain from the open
window. The concrete below stared back
at him.
Herschel Klein's resume read
like the kind of Harvard-educated pen-pushing homely to good-old-fashioned hard
work and the Protestant work ethic resolve that any parent could be proud
of. In that respect the mail room might
not be the first place one equated with unrelenting ambition. But consider it's function. The mail room allowed lines of communication
to flow. Without communication, business
ceased to operate. Ergo, mail was
essential if capitalism was to flourish.
Herschel Klein was therefore a vital cog in the cycle of commerce. That said, the rumors were enough to make him
question that simple equation. Could a
movie studio with over thirty years good standing and public acclaim, and whose
product and success was legendary really just fold like a linen suit at the
bottom of an overpacked suitcase on a long-haul slog tucked away in cattle
class ? Shut down by the bank ? Canceled like a bad cheque whose owner was
out of favor at cocktail hour at the annual luncheon ? Of all the indignities Then again, they'd done it to Marsha
Mancuso. One of the town's biggest reps
back in the thirties, she'd handled half of Hollywood's
heavy hitters from Bingham Cobb to Harrington 'General' Lee. Lee, an avowed racist had caused ire and
indignation at a time when the nation was looking to put aside past differences
and heal the wounds. Marsha took the
call. What that woman couldn't do for a
client in a spot wasn't worth jotting down on the back of a matchbook. 'Mancuso the miracle-worker'. But even the great Marsha Mancuso wasn't
without her Achilles heel. And on one
fateful mid-March day the poison-tipped arrow struck it's target. Who came forward to the authorities is
immaterial. What they had to say was of
more interest. The IRS took the details
and resolved to investigate. So a Hollywood mover
and shaker had failed to declare income.
Big deal. The papers scooted over
the story. And then a couple more
skeletons fell out of the closet. And
sure as moss on a hillside eventually peeled away under the impact of a rolling
stone, it wasn't long before Marsha's clients' financial arrangements were
being poked into. With all her contacts
and vast artillery Marsha couldn't control the story when it hit. The headline was a lousy one, 'Top Hollywood
talent scout in payola payoff scandal.'
Marsha gnashed her teeth. She
could have done better in her sleep.
People, if that was the right word to describe the low-lifes coming out
of the woodwork to testify against her, spilled their guts in exchange for
immunity. And since the town was nothing
if not a court of public opinion, Marsha didn't stand a chance. She would have to sell the house. The furniture went along with the
horses. 'Creative Artists' pulled the
plug. The names in the contact book went
the way of the pool ;- siphoned.
Everything dried up. Narcotics,
booze and prescription drugs filled the void.
In the end, Marsha's self-destruction was just about as cataclysmic as
any of the notorious clients she'd represented.
Now if the banks could do that to the indefatigable Marsha Mancuso, what
fate Parallax ? Certainly past successes
cut little ice with the money men in gray suits counting out the dimes in the
back rooms. A lump lodged in Hersch's
throat. Was he inadvertently playing a
part in the downfall of a company for which he'd been a lifelong fan and
sometime bit part player ? 'Bringing
down the final curtain on the last act of the Parallax story ? If ever there was a time to spare the
messenger this was it. Hersch stared at
photographs of the greats - alive and dead - lining the walls of the Parallax
atrium. Few places could boast an
atrium. Parallax's was a shrine of
endorsements from the great and even greater.
Actors and actresses ran the gamut with politicians and dignitaries Climbing the stairs to the first floor he got
an eyeful of Lucinda LeGrande and Marilyn Fenstra. Jerry Kerzy.
Sid Gustafsson. Luther was cheek
to cheek with many of them. No offense
to Sid and Jerry but the ladies were rather easier on the eye.
‘Oh just go right on in honey
!’
Belinda Bourne-Bodine. Parallax stalwart. As long as Bel was sitting behind the desk,
Parallax was in fine fettle. The day
BeBe packed her things away in a tight A-line cardboard box was the day
everyone might as well pack it in.
Hersch stepped over the threshold into the boardroom.
‘Are you from Oscar's ? They said they'd send a kid over.’
Hersch spun on the spot.
‘The accounts. You've got the accounts, right ?’
‘Er, no. I'm not.
That is, I'm from the mah . . .’
What Hersch meant to say was, 'Er, no sir. I haven't.' Instead it came out as 'I'm not.'
‘You're not making any sense
kid.’
Hersch moved aside to reveal
the cart.
‘Oh.’
Luther Van Crane hid his
disappointment. True to the creed that
bad news come in multiples, he was about to receive a more depressing financial
forecast.
‘Sorry I thought you were someone
else. So, the mailroom huh ?’
Hersch tried to relax as far as
his body would permit. It wasn't a good
look.
‘Yes sir.’
LVC dipped his hand into the
mail cart, as though by doing so he could extract the wheat from the
chaff. It was all chaff.
‘The mailroom, huh.’
Hersch kept quite like a novice
on opening day parade. The red hat and
uniform might convey the de rigeur look but the trumpet was a dead
giveaway. He didn't play a note.
‘Say, I've gotta take a walk
onto the lot. Why don't you tag along. 'Give me the low down on all things
mailroom-related.’
‘I usually take the cart back
with . . .’
‘Leave it. Someone’ll deal with it later.’
Okay. A walk-talk with the boss. Off-the-cuff.
Spontaneous. No strings. A slow tsunami threatened to rumble up from
his esophagus
‘So, the mail room. You like it down there ?’
‘Well it . . . can get pretty
hectic.’
‘Yeah, I guess it's got that
stepping stone feel to it. 'Started
there myself.’
Hersch played it significantly
less than cool. The sunshine was a
help. The effort of squinting made it
harder to concentrate on conversation.
‘You know this was the first
building we had.’
LVC pointed across to a disused
stage which could have used a lick of paint.
‘Back then it was an office,
studio and edit room all rolled into one.
'Never needed to go far to do any work.
You could arrive at work at eight in the morning, stay in the same
building all day and have a picture finished by six. Five if the cogs were turning.’
Luther whirled his forefinger
at his temple.
‘Some of them we got through so
quickly, it wasn't much more than that.’
‘You mean like 'Tremors
Underfoot' or 'Maidens of Death.'’
Hersch was going out on a limb
but as a virtual encyclopedia of the company's past history it would have been
criminal not to. LVC threw him a
knowing, if slightly suspicious smile.
Nevertheless the younger of the two-and by some years-allowed his host
to undertake a virtual tour of the company premises The adjoining buildings and stages that had
played host to such a glorious past. The
stage where 'Rites of Revenge' and 'Lust at Sea' had been conceived and brought
to such lurid fruition. Luther diverged
onto the subject of acquisitions - specifically the time the studio had bought
up a piece of land formerly owned by the 'Experimental Theater company' which,
finding itself down on it's luck had decided to wind up it's operation, it's
principal participants going their various ways. The pair walked and talked. Much in the same way mob boss Luca Maranzano
might deign to take a young lieutenant under his wing. And like our Italian emigre the subject soon
got around to the matter of the company finances - specifically the flat and
depressing production schedule that in no way looked set to revitalize those
finances.
‘'Course we're not dead in the
water yet.’
It was as upbeat as Luther Van
Crane's mood had got all week.
‘Say, I didn't catch your
name.’
‘It's Klein sir. Herschel Klein. People call me Hersch.’
LVC gave the kid an up and down
look. Three names was a mouthful for
anyone. LVC picked the latter.
‘So what's new around the
place, Hersch ?’
Hersch resolved to play it cool
by acting dumb. Careers had been made on
less.
‘Y'know, gossip. You must know what the word is.’
Was he being sounded out ahead
of a series of snap dismissals ? Fired
for daring to speak his mind ? If the
rumors were true, the company would certainly be looking to cut dead wood. And what was the mailroom if it wasn't just a
collection of stacks of dead pulp.
Whatever the case, it wasn't the time to start second-guessing the
boss. 'Better to shift the focus of the
conversation.
‘I heard Global picked up Larry
Schneider for a five-picture deal a couple of days ago.’
‘Uh-huh.’
The thought cogitated inside
LVC's head for as long as it took Joe Austin to conceive the knockout punch
that floored Roberto Duarte in the Heavyweight Championship at Madison in
'44.
‘Larry Schneider !’
Van Crane spat the words out.
‘I thought they kicked that bum
out of town for good. I remember when
that prick worked a broom over at Vista. No offense kid. A pain in the ass. So Global gave the guy a hand-out did
they. Gees, what the hell is this world
coming to ? Pardon my French by the
way.’
LVC's words came out in full
rat-tat-tat mode ; verbal nebelwerfers firing off in no particular
direction. It gave him an opportunity to
run down form and function on everyone from Larry himself to the Secretary of
State.
‘Maybe there's something to be
said for the 'Global' approach.’
Hersch finally ventured.
‘Huh ?’
‘Global. Larry Schneider. 'PR' coup.
That sort of thing.’
Hersch was overstepping the
mark. He resolved to constructing
sentences of no more than four words, five at the max.
‘Uh-huh. ‘Could be an idea. 'Got anyone in mind ?’
Hersch ummed and arrghed. He couldn't think of anyone right now. No matter.
LVC grinned.
‘Klein, eh ?’
‘Yes sir.’
The prejudicial reference was
lost on Hersch.’
Herschel's got a nice ring to
it. We'll stick with that.’
5
‘Kid, you're up.’
Hersch stood, straightening his
legs to follow his soon-to-be ex-boss into the boardroom. Inside, think 'Jury of Righteousness', the
Jimmy Cantor picture. Twelve executioners
and one sacrificial peon.
‘Take a seat Hersch.’
Hersch sat. The blindfold he figured would follow.
‘You know it comes to something
when I have to learn about the state of this industry from a low-level employee
in the mailroom. No offense, kid.’
LVC threw a glance at Hersch.
‘Larry Schneider ? Global ?
Anyone ?’
Blank faces.
‘We had a cosy little
chat. Just the other day. Talked, ooh, about a number of things. 'Seems Hersch here is someone who likes to
keep his ear close to the ground.’
LVC paused for effect.
‘Unlike certain executives for
whom the only time they get close to the ground is picking a ball out of the
eighteenth hole at the Beverley Hills Golf and Country Club.’
Luther could cut straight to
the heart of the matter when he had a board member in his crosshairs, or
twelve.
‘He might be from the mailroom,
but he knows more about this place than any of you. In light of that, I'd like him to say a few
words.’
Hersch felt like the kid being
pushed forward for the school football team when really all he wanted was a
shot at band practice ; coupled with a stomach that was doing somersaults over
a suspended high wire as a congregation of pressed-for-time office workers
looked on from the intersection below.
‘Well, as I saying to Mr. Van
Crane, it might be . . . I mean it's just an idea . . . I'm not suggesting . .
.’
He wasn't suggesting anything
yet.
‘. . . Well since 'Global' just
rehired Larry Schneider, everyone's been on their case. Press.
A couple of the trades. Now I
know the last time, well, let's just say it wasn't such a harmonious
partnership.’
Luther grinned. As for the rest, blank faces. It was only to be expected. Hersch hadn’t really yet uttered a
comprehensible word.
‘Well everyone's falling over
themselves wondering what all the fuss is about. What I'm saying is, perhaps there's something
to be said for a 'Larry Schneider' approach.’
‘Exactly. Look at the stunt Darrow pulled out of the
bag on that kidnapping case. Practically
dragged the whole of the Chicago outfit
into court. 'Turned the whole case.’
‘Quite.’
Hersch began, unsure of the
argument he was now making.
‘He's right. The publicity factor. Take the propaganda films during the
war. Okay, so the military's no Harvey
Kordell . . . But they had a war in their corner. Look at the Suburb Slasher series. ‘Grabbed the public’s attention. You think we should go with the shock and awe
approach Hersch ? Blood, guts ? Risky.
'Public might not go for it.’
‘Well . . . .’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘How about bringing a Larry
Schneider-type on board.’
‘I didn't know there was a
Larry Schneider-type. Who you got in
mind Hersch ? Victor Margolis, Merle
Edwards ? Both did good work in the
past. Blast from the past. Too low-ball, whattaya think ?’
Luther was a freight train when
he got going.
‘Okay, how 'bout Nathan Van Der
Beek ?’
‘Too . . .’
Hersch searched for the right
adjective. ‘Long-winded’ was the obvious
choice.
Collective heads ruminated.
Hersch came at it from another
angle.
‘Look, when was the golden
period ?’
Nothing forthcoming.
‘Forty Three to Forty
Nine. Seventy eight pictures ; twenty
two of which made the top spot in 'Screen Illustrated.’
‘What did I tell you about this
kid !’
Luther chomped on a cigar.
‘During that time, one director
more than any other hit the top spot.
And on more occasions.’
Hersch overplayed the suspense
and got a ‘come along’ look from his boss.
'Give us a name Hersch.’
‘Boris Lengel !’
Somewhere an old town clock
suspended over a saloon struck noon, any townsfolk not smart enough o have left
already scrambling for the last stage. A
dustball rolled into view and in the distance, a posse of too-long-in-exile
no-quarter outlaws rode majestically into town, shotguns mounted across
rough-hewn saddles. Hersch glanced at
his feet, catching the reflection from the starred bronze sheriff's badge on
his lapel. It hung limply.
‘Boris Lengel ! You mean Boris Lebowski ?’
For those not in the loop,
Boris Lengel had pioneered film-making of a kind that didn't exist anymore and
indeed hadn't existed for some time. His
contribution to the canon could fairly be described as seminal. A couple of board members mumbled
unenthusiastically. The remainder
twiddled with fingers and peered at the carpet.
The silence was palpable and somewhere a murderous posse of outlaws
closed in on their target.
‘Why not Lebowski ?’
LVC said after an age.
‘He's perfect. We need a fall guy. A headline.
Why not drag the old bastard out of retirement. What is it ?
A decade ? Two ? He's still alive for Chrissake ! He's still alive, right Hersch ?’
‘Well, er . . . ‘
‘Exactly. Hersch has done the research. I say we put the offer to the old
bastard. Come back, direct a picture or
two, be seen around the place, press the flesh.
'Trades'll love it. Whaddaya say
?’
The board murmured amongst
itself. No one had any counter to the
suggestion and it was the assent LVC was looking for.
‘It's the match-up this place
has been looking for.’
Whatever their past history-for
good or ill, Parallax and Boris Lebowski were two names eternally entwined in
the minds of film fans everywhere. So
Lengel might have publicly admitted to hating Luther Van Crane's guts, but that
aside, the camaraderie was of the ages.
A new sitcom, 'I Love Lucille'
was debuting on the Thursday night schedule and two Goliaths from the world of
motion pictures were lined up to appear side-by-side on the ersatz chat show of
the moment, 'The Bob E. McQueen Show.'
The Bob E. McQueen Show was, to borrow a phrase from the young
generation, 'where it was at.' It was a
big week for radio all round. Bob E.
opened his monologue with a line about the Republican nominee, politics being
the gift that kept on giving, it teed up the show nicely. He was having a hard time of it in the press
and allegations of indiscretions dating back to more youthful days were causing
embarrassment to family and party alike.
Speaking of which, if only 'Bob E.'s audience knew a little of the
entertainer's backstory themselves then the boot may have been on the other
foot.
‘Ladies and gentlemen . . .
you've heard of my next two guests I'm sure.
If they're not lurking on Sunset . . .’
The audience chuckled. It was an old reference to an even older
joke.
‘ . . . they're picking up
awards at every show in town. Ladies and
gentlemen, Luther Van Crane and Boris Lengel.’
The audience went wild. The two headliners strolled on stage,
leisurely taking their seats, smiling broadly for the audience and camera.
‘Let's start with an easy one,
fellas. Tell me, what's it like to be
bona fide superstars ?’
The audience let rip with a
barrage of laughter and applause. Luther
and Boris flipped glances at one another.
Luther and Lengel - it would be a while before those two words were
decoupled in the public consciousness.’
‘So where does this kid fit in
?’
The board found it's skepticism
in a single defiant voice.
‘Gene, you know I love you but
for fuck's sake, don't you see ?’
Evidently nobody did.
‘He's perfect. 'Knows everything there is to know about the
guy. Herschel's a goddamn movie
encyclopedia forchrissake. I had to go
down to the mailroom myself, 'check this guy out. He's perfect.’
LVC was apt to embellish for
effect.
‘Exactly, this kid was
languishing in the mailroom. Moreover,
he knows the Parallax philosophy inside out.
'Can't lose. More importantly,
'can't fuck things up more than they're already fucked up.’
In a roundabout way it was a vote
of confidence.
‘And what's more, he's not
jaded like a room full of overpaid accountants sitting not a million miles away
from me.’
It was a Van Crane
trademark. Couch the best from your
people by ritually abusing them.
‘Do we know where this guy
lives ?’
Silence.
‘Never mind. We'll find out. 'Old fuck likes the sun too much. Always tell you it's too hot. Bullshit.
Don't believe a word of it.’
LVC was taking the fences two
by two.
‘Hersch, cancel whatever
mailroom cockamamie you're doing. Get a
few new suits. Smarten yourself up, no
offense Make yourself presentable. We'll get the old warhorse in and see what
the press has to say about the place then.’
LVC made a play to the gallery.
‘Hersch is the man.’
More mumbling.
‘Look, when Buddy Black told
the Rangers' in 51, I'll be back, did he come straight back in '52 ? Hell no.
He waited. Not a year, not two
but five. Five years. And when he returned, not only did he win the
next year's pennant with the Dodgers but after two world series wins, bought
out his old team. 'Sacked the entire
board, by the way.’
The room was quiet.
‘Hersch is our Buddy Black.’
It was classic
Luther-speak. Impenetrable.
‘Agreed ?’
It was a fait accompli. The details would take a couple of days to
finalize All things being equal, Hersch
was the new Parallax point man. There
was a story Boris Lebowski liked to tell to anyone who cared to listen about an
occasion, not long after Parallax had put him on contract when mobsters had
showed up on the lot, intent on shaking the place down. The way Boris had it two larger-than-life
enforcers from the Elefante crime family had muscled into town, all cheap suits
and linguini hair, 'middle of a heatwave, staggering onto the premises, puffing
breathless like a whale beached on the shore.
Summer could do that to a three hundred pound man. What it could do two three hundred men didn't
bare thinking about. At the very moment
the Elefante boys deigned to pay their visit Boris was doing post production on
'Message from Beyond', his concentration buried in reels of film tape, swirls
of it hanging from cameras and makeshift stands. There was a polite but insistent knock at the
door.
‘Come back later.’
Another knock.
‘Can't you hear ? I'm busy in here.’
The door thudded inwards under
the pressure of a twenty pound shoulder.
‘Whoa, what the hell ?’
Swirls of film tape flew in the
air and drifted back down to Earth in a ticker-tape parade of celluloid. The door hung off it's upper hinge. Two huge figures, knuckles scraping on the
floor blocked out the sun.
‘Vat ze hell is zis ?’
Boris slipped into the old
country accent as easily as bristling at criticism. From his account, the conversation went as
follows.
‘Are you the boss around here
?’
‘That depends ?’
‘On what ?’
‘On who you ask.’
‘Well we're askin' you.’
‘Then yes I am ze boss.’
‘In that case, we'd like to put
a little business proposition to you.’
One of the men unbuttoned the
lower button of his shirt to reveal a small caliber gun tucked into his
pants. Boris would have settled for a
higher caliber weapon if the gun had been unloaded. His luck was out.
‘I hope I don't need to tell
you I know how to use this.’
‘If it's the thirty eight
caliber, you don't. Otherwise I might
need the brush-up.’
‘Pal, I'd cut the chat if I
were you. We're not here to joke around. Now, about that business proposition.’
‘Please, sit.’
Boris pointed to an unoccupied
chair. The quieter and more ample of the
two sat.
‘Thanks.’
‘Get up you fool.’
The fuller-figured of the two
reluctantly got out of his chair. It
wasn't as easy a maneuver as it sounded.
‘Listen buddy, I suggest you
pay attention.’
The Elefante trigger man went
on to detail how the movie business was enjoying a renaissance of sorts. Accordingly, profits had been realized Monies were, how to put it, liquid. Boris was getting a shakedown and an
economics lesson at the same time.
‘With that in mind, we think it
would be un-charitable not to redistribute some of those profits.’
‘Gentlemen, that is interesting
but let me put an alternate perspective to you.’
Boris went on to outline the
good standing in which the Italian American community was held within the film
community. How it would be advantageous
to keep that relationship on a status quo basis. How rocking the boat might not bode well for
all concerned. All the while, a pudgy Elefante
hand rested on cold steel. At least that
was the way Boris had it. One thing
wasn't in doubt. He had the kind of
chutzpah the Elefantes understood. Call
him cantankerous, call him a genius but one thing Boris Lengel was not was
flaky. Think of Boris' fronting-up to
the Elefante family in terms of one-man's stand against corporate intransigence.
By anyone's reckoning, Las
Vegas wasn't the kind of place suited to anyone
looking to ease himself into a life of gentle retirement or failing that,
anonymity. For those interested in the
statistics, the metropolitan area registered annual sunshine hours of thirteen
point five per day - higher in the summer months. The town itself was barely a decade old. A couple of penny-ante casinos and resort
hotels aside it was a layover in the middle of the desert for sunshine-seekers
and GI-types, comfortable with the poolside resort atmosphere and laid-back
in-house entertainment. The story had it
that When New York high-flyer Lou Dietz was looking for a project out West, the
availability of a large plot of land for sale in the backwater state of Nevada proved
too tempting an offer to resist. Dietz
immediately saw the potential. A lazy
hick town with an airport catering to GIs on furlow and a steady stream of blue
rinse widows looking to offload generous endowments translated into opportunities
to earn. Dietz's immediate idea for a
single venue stop-over, cashing in on passing trade, soon escalated. Plans for a 16-bed motel expanded to incorporate
what Lou and his friends hoped would be the swankiest resort west of Chicago. Naturally Lou needed money. Luigi 'Loopy' Luziano was the biggest player
on the East coast. An inveterate
gambler, he had an alchemist’s touch when it came to investments and risky
decisions. Anything he touched . . .
well, the saying was an apposite one in ‘Loopy’s case. Lou adopted his best salesman’s patter and
took the trip back back East for an audience with his paymasters. Dietz sold the place like a professional. The Pelican Casino & Holiday Resort was a
haven in the middle of the desert ; a chance for the mob to broaden it’s appeal. It was another state to add to the list of
areas of control. ‘Loopy’ would come on
board. He would advance half the money
for a thirty per cent share, an arrangement which all parties agreed to. Well a creative genius with an eye for the
spectacular Lou Dietz may have been but a natural with numbers he was not. It was not infrequently remarked that fifty
per cent or half of Lou’s marks on the street routinely stiffed him on the vig
; not through any acute chicanery but rather down to Dietz’s sheer incompetence
with figures. Lou, not wanting it
getting around that his intellect wasn’t up to Einsteinian standards never
spoke about it, preferring the veneer of financial respectability. It left only one snag in the context of the current
arrangement. Lou was in sole control of the
budget for the Pelican. In fact he
managed it like an incumbent mayor in a sleepy Southern state four weeks out
from electoral annihilation. He spent
like a Sultan. There were no limits and
no oversight. Needless to say it wasn’t
long before the numbers filtered back East, landing up on the desk of the
watchful-and if needs be, vengeful-‘Loopy’ Luziano. 'Turned out, Dietz owed close to a hundred
thou’ and it was money the old mustache Petes couldn't forget - or
forgive. Lou would have to make
restitution. The Pelican opened January 1st, 1947. Dietz made it to opening night but
disappeared shortly thereafter. No one
ever found the body and theories trickled forth as to the specifics of Lou’s
demise. Had he high-tailed it to Rio with a
suitcase full of green in tow ? Perhaps
he’d taken a slow boat to China to ponder life's imponderables. Lou was of an age where men were apt to
question their life choices. Actually
the answer was much simpler. In light of
his love of the Pelican-or perhaps in spite of it-it was decided that Lou be a
permanent fixture – a six feet in a Southerly direction kind of fixture. Lou Dietz would remain an integral part of
the Pelican Casino & Holiday Resort, a memorial in the very concrete he’d
sweated to get built.
Of course the town had come a
long way since Dietz's vision had risen phoenix-like from the desert sands. These days the Pelican was just another
resort complex amongst a coterie of resort complexes ; catering to a population
whose mean average age was sixty two - and that included the resort staff. That number came down during the average GI
furlow, but you got the picture. Given
that mean age of sixty two the Sunset Lodge was aptly-named. If it had a failing, it all too often
resembled the cancer ward of a residential hospital on a bleak Thursday in late
November. One resident with more reason
than most to take advantage of the quiet and ambling approach to whiling away
one's retirement, not least to cure a persistent hypertensive problem, was
Boris E. Lengel, former filmmaker and delinquent, not necessarily in that
order. The pool he could take or leave
but the average yearly sunshine hours were a deal-breaker. In his case, retirement was a well earned
chance to reflect on a life lived. And
whilst the 'Apple Core' crocheting circle that met Thursdays in the community
center wouldn't describe themselves as devotees of Lengel's particular brand of
filmmaking, they nevertheless appreciated an acclaimed auteur living amongst
them. Boris reciprocated with anecdotes
of on-set bust-ups and barbs too salacious to be heard outside a
courtroom. And then there was the Friday
night card game. Boris' idea, an avid
card player - he still retained a keen eye for the main chance. Any opportunity to earn a dollar - or dime in
this case. Four way, no-limit hold 'em
with three of the community's finest sharps never to have graced a world series
table. Alphonse De Angelo, Meyer
Linscombe and Howie Zimm. You could
usually find the group on Monday and Friday afternoons in the Lounge bar of the
Pelican and most afternoons and evenings in between.
6
Herschel Klein held a miserable
umbrella aloft. It was raining and
dark. A thin covering of fabric was his
only defense against an improbable plan and an even less likely signature on a
dotted line. For a place that listed
year-round sunshine as one of it's ticks in the win column, Las
Vegas needed to work on it’s approach to
welcoming folk to town. Added to which
it was three hours later than he'd intended to arrive. A delayed flight and a cab ride that took in
more of the local sights than was strictly necessary added to his unease about
the whole venture. If you wanted an analogy,
take the Yankees trade to the Reds for Bobby Blundell in ‘33. A blunder whichever side you looked at
it. He just had to hope his acquisition
was gonna pay better dividends.
‘Herschel Klein. To see Boris Lengel. Lebowski.
Actually Lengel.’
‘Well which it is ?’
‘Lengel . . . Also known as
Lebowski.’
‘Kid, I don't have all day.’
‘Lengel. It's Lengel.’
The rain was sliding off the
fabric of his umbrella, angling back towards the gap between his pants and
shoes.
‘We normally don't like to
bother our guests. Especially this late
at night.’
‘I'm sorry. I didn't intend to arrive this late.’
‘Perhaps you should have left
earlier.’
‘Right.’
He was getting wetter and
wetter. Time for a little hardball.
‘Can you keep a secret ?’
Vacant stare.
‘I work in the movies. Mr. Lengel used to direct at the studio I
represent.’
Hersch showed him a business
card with the Parallax logo on it that could have been dropped on any sidewalk
by any nutcase.
The guard looked at it like it
was a candidate’s pledge card, mildly amused by the typeface but otherwise disinterested.
‘So ?’
‘So ?’
The first day Bobby Blundell
had arrived in the clubhouse, Lou Meigs had taken him out to meet the regulars
at Yankee Stadium, a few trusted press on hand to convey the good news to the
reading public. Bobby’s first question
did not go well. Asked whether he wished
his new team well for the upcoming season ‘Ballpark’ Booby had declared that
the Reds were a shoe-in for that season’s pennant. Never an over-acheiever in the brains
department, it was several seconds before one of the press men was able to
point out that Bobby was no longer with the Reds and protocol demanded – at
least hinted – that he throw his not inconsiderable support behind his new
team.
‘I can’t say too much but
between you and me I’m here to negotiate a substantial pay-off to Mr. Lengel on
the basis that he return to Parallax and resume his directorial career.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You got it.’
‘Substantial ?’
‘Yep.’
‘How ‘bout I grease the wheels
for ya’
A hand stuck itself out in
Hersch’s direction. In far less time
than it had taken Bobby Blundell to realise his mistake, Hersch/the kid was
mentally scolding himself for a case study in how not to negotiate.
‘How much ?’
Hersch fumbled for his wallet,
umbrella resting precariously against head and shoulder. Bobby, Bobby, Bobby.
‘I see at least ten bucks in
there.’
‘Barely.’
‘Ten’
The hand made it’s thrusting
move again. Hersch maintained an
emergency fund. Y’know – for things that
might come up. Overnight stay in a hick
town, food, cab ride to the airport. Say
ten bucks all in. Hersch handed across his
emergency fund, receiving in return about as much as the Yankees did for the very
season in question.
‘Second floor. Take the stairs at the end of the corridor.’
The gate opened just wide
enough for him to pass. Hersch didn't
bother collecting the card.
The interior was sparse but
modern. Of the age you might say. A few decorative touches but nothing to
distract or trouble minds that were in the final stretches of contemplation.
‘Pssst. Hey.’
Hersch stared upwards through
the bars in the stairwell.
‘Hey, you down here. Yeah, you.
Are you here to take him away ?’
Hersch put a foot on the step.
‘No. Don't come up. I'll come down.’
A nervy figure clutched at the
railings, siddling down from the upper floor.
‘I watched you from the
balcony. Getting out of the cab. No-one takes a cab. I figure you gotta be government or mob. Let me guess, the guy owes money.’
‘Which guy ?’
Hersch took the initiative.
‘Mad Boris. The Looney tune. He just got done playing cards. They do it every week.’
Hersch glanced at his watch.
‘So have you come to take him
away . . . or put him away ?’
The figure, older, hunched,
addressed him square-on, eyes squinting double-time.
‘You mean Mr. Lengel ?’
Hersch settled on dumb but
polite.
‘Lengel. Huh !
Is that what he calls himself.
Lengel. Lebowski. All I know is he's nuts !’
The last word came out in a
whisper.
‘And you are ?’
'Me. Don't worry about me. It's you I need to know about !’
Hersch's inquisitor pointed a
finger at him.
‘I'm a colleague. That is I used to be. I mean I work for the company Mr. Leng . . .
Mr. Lebowski used to work for.’
‘'Sounds like a lot of bullshit
to me.’
'I assure you, I have no
ulterior motive.’
‘What ?’
‘I'm not here to take him
away.’
‘'Shame. 'Drives me nuts. I think he's trying to get into my
psyche. Y'know, phase me out.’
The little man tapped furiously
at the side of his head.
‘One minute he's all up on the
movie business, the next he tells me he's got plans to get back at every
motherfucker-his word-he ever met in that goddamn business. You know a Larry Crane ?’
Hersch prevaricated, settling
on a less-than-convincing shake of his head.
‘I tell you, that guy sure
sounds like one gigantic son-of-a-bitch.
The way Boris tells it, this Crane royally screwed him up the . . .’
The little man pumped his fist
repeatedly.
‘Up the ass if you know what I
mean.’
Hersch nodded. He did.
‘So you ain't here to take him
away ? Take him to the big house ? Shame.
You know what 'zen' means ? It's
a kind of philosophy. That guy is beyond
'zen'. He's like karma personified. 'Wore a dressing gown to dinner once. Undressed down to his you-know-what and stood
on the table, hands full of mashed potato.
Warden had to beg to get him down.
And you know what ? He got us
fresh fish twice a week. Hey, if that's
what it takes, I'll smear custard on my privates. 'Guy from the next block along tried the same
thing two weeks later ; they took him away in a sheet. 'No one seen him again. Not Boris.
Boris gets what he wants. And what
he wants is to get me out. Out !’
Hersch checked left and right
for exits.
‘He's sending messages about
me. He's got this link with the guards. Telepathic.
It's why I wear a protective helmet.
I got it in my room. You wanna
come see ?’
‘Maybe another time.'
'You'd only try and take it
from me. Use it for your own
protection. If you're who you say you
are, then you're gonna need protection.
Anyway I gotta go. He can't see
me when he comes out of the restroom. If
he does, I lose my protection.’
The small, wizened figure
scampered back in the direction from whence he'd come. Hersch mentally counted down from twenty
before taking the stairs. On the top
floor he paused a moment outside the door to Lengel's apartment.
‘Can I help you ?’
A pallid man appeared from the
restroom, threadbare towel wrapped tight around his waist, the rest of his skin
uncovered. Steam was rising off his
shoulders and thick white hair zig-zagged out from the top and sides of his
head.
‘I was er, just er . . .’
Hersch was a natural stumbler
in situations he hadn't prepared for.
‘Well ?’
‘I'm here to see Mr. Leng . . .
that is Mr. Lebowski.’
‘'Don't know any Lebowski. Now move aside.’
The man barged past Hersch and
opened the door to Lengel's apartment.
‘Are you sure ? It says downstairs that . . .’
‘That's wrong. They gotta fix that. Now move out of my way. I need to close my door.’
‘Perhaps you can tell me where
Mr. Lebowski lives ?’
‘I think he left. Government flunkies kept coming around. I think they gave him a heart attack in the
end.’
‘I'm not with the government.’
‘You're not from the IRS ?’
‘No.’
‘You know if you are, you gotta
tell me. If you don't, it's entrapment.’
‘I swear.’
Hersch held his hands up. If it had been a Charlie Butterbean picture,
his braces would have snapped causing his pants to fall down. As it was, his dignity held.
‘You look like you are. Either that or you're trying to sell me
insurance. I got it already, kid.’
The tall pallid man gently but
forcibly thrust the door against Hersch's foot.
‘I'm from Parallax.’
The grasp on the door eased and
the frame visibly lost a couple of inches in height. Added to which, a fraction of the hostility
dissipated through the damp patches beneath the feet.
‘My name's Herschel Klein.’
‘'Don't know any Klein.’
The voice was soft.’
I haven't been there long.’
‘Neither was I. So ?’
‘You might want to hear what I
have to say.’
‘I doubt it.’
Hersch was in his second Bobby
Blundell situation of the night.
‘Can we at least do this
inside.’
It was two outs and Hersch was
determined to swing. Make contact and
who knows what. Strike out and you were
gonna lose anyway.
Lengel sighed, moving inside
the apartment.
‘Well ?’
Impatiently Lengel/He called
back to his younger tormentor
Herschel followed his host
inside. Lengel double-locked behind him.
‘As I said, I'm here on behalf
of . . .’
‘I heard what you said, now
what are you doing here ?’
‘Well I wondered if we could
talk.’
‘We are.’
‘Perhaps I . . .’
Boris motioned to an armchair.
‘Thank you.’
‘I meant stand over there. The chair’s for me.’
‘Oh.’
Hersch remained standing.
‘So whaddayou wanna talk about
?’
‘Well, I know you enjoyed a
long period of success with Parallax.’
‘Ancient history.’
‘We thought it might be nice to
touch base. See how things . . .’
‘Bullshit. Why are you really here ?’
Hersch tried a different tack.
‘The thing is . . .’
‘I hate people who start with
'To tell you the truth, 'To be honest', 'The thing is'. They're either going to lie to me, have
already lied to me or want something.
They don't allow liars into the building and I don't have any favors to
give. That in mind, please carry on, Mr
. . . ?’
‘Klein.’
‘Ugh !’
Lengel flipped his arms into
the air theatrically, as though advising an actor on the rudimentaries of a
particular scene.
They're everywhere ! I tell you there isn't a part of this
god-forsaken business that isn't run by them.
I advise you to get out now kid - while you've got your sanity.’
‘Is that why you left ?’
‘Leave ? Leave ?
You think I left ? I didn't
leave. The phone stopped ringing and
suddenly my pass wasn't good at the gate.
Six years making money for people and that's how they tell you
goodbye. There's no resignation speech
and no pink slip. Several million
dollars I made for that company. 1930s
money remember. Several million dollars
in 1930 is not several million dollars today.
I don't know what it is but whatever it is, it's a lot of money.’
Hersch nodded.
‘Well that's what I wanted to
talk to you about.’
Lengel began combing his hair.
‘It's the studio. They're . . . how can I put it ?’
‘Apologetically ! And from a far-away destination.’
‘ . . . in financial
difficulty.’
‘Hah.’
‘I don't know if you've heard
anything . . .’
‘ . . . And so you thought
you'd pay me a visit . . . sound me out about coming back, am I correct ?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Ha. I knew it.
So the boss told you to come out here to sound me out, huh ?’
‘Well not exactly.’
‘Well tell me exactly.’
‘Well Mr. Van Crane . . . ‘
‘Crane !! Crane ?
You mean that asshole still runs things ?’
Herschel nodded.
‘That tight-wad, ass-clenching,
heart attack Kraut bastard ?’
Hersch shifted his weight from
one leg to the other.’
You come up here on the orders
of that shit-stirring ego-maniac, son-of-a-bitch ? Listen kid, that is your name right, kid, go
back to your penthouse apartment and tell fat-boy Crane that he can stick his
offer up his ass. And I mean his anal
rectum if you know what I mean ! Good
day.’
Lengel marched to the door.
‘He's willing to make it worth
your while.’
Hersch was floundering. The conversation wasn't going according to
plan. Not having a plan to start with
didn't help in that respect.
‘How worth my while ?’
Lengel had his hand clutched
around the door handle. It could go
either way.
‘What would you want ?’
‘An apology. From that bastard. And that's just for starters.’
Hersch was tight-lipped, not
that it mattered now. Any advantage he'd
wielded on the way up here had been washed away with the unseasonal weather
conditions.
‘Done.’
‘But more importantly, I'd want
my old job title back. My former
position at the studio.’
Hersch wondered what Lengel's
position had been.
‘I don't know.’
‘Well who does know ? Perhaps they should be here instead of you.’
‘I mean, I'm not sure.’
‘You mean you're not sure
you're in a position to negotiate or you're not sure if you should be here at
all. Never mind. Here's what I want. My old position, in case you need to ask,
'Director-in-Chief'. Second, my old salary
- adjusted for inflation.’
Hersch wasn't sure if the post
of 'Director-in-Chief' existed anymore. Lengel
held a single digit aloft as he spoke.
‘ . . . And I reserve the right
to amend the arrangement at any time.’
It was true to say that the
negotiations, if they'd ever been that, were running away from him. Touching base was one thing but he was in
danger of getting picked off in a force-out at the plate.
‘I guess that would be okay.’
‘Now please leave I have things
to do.’
Lengel made a declamatory
statement, opening the door.
‘So I can say you'll at least
think it over.’
‘Like I said, if my conditions
are met, I'll think about it.’
Hersch was in danger of looking
pitiable.
‘Look, come back in a couple of
days. If that asshole Crane is prepared
to lay out the red carpet, I'll consider it.’
With that the conversation was
over. Lengel retired to catch the
evening news, Herschel for a cab that would take him to the airport. All told he'd spent a total of less than six
hours upstate. After the awakening of
being in Lengel's presence, the red eye home was a relief.
7
‘So he agreed to it ? Or he didn’t agree to it ? I gotta know.
Which is it ?
‘Sort of.’
‘Sort of what ?’
‘He wanted certain conditions
met.’
Luther stopped dead in his
tracks.
‘Explain.’
‘Well, there was one minor
thing.’
‘What ? What did he want ?’
Luther was insistent.
‘An apology.’
‘What ?’
The rising inflexion gave the
lie to Van Crane's compliance with the arrangement as it currently stood. His color shifted from dahlia to burgundy
rose in two shades and as many seconds.
‘That asshole wanted an apology
! If that old fuck thinks he's getting
an apology out of me he's more deluded than I thought.’
‘Well, he had a particular view
of how things were left.’
‘Let me tell you about how
things were left. He walked out of this
place. No-one pushed him. I didn't ask him to leave. In fact, I asked him to reconsider. You know what that son-of-a-bitch said ?’
Hersch knew better than to get
in the way of a rolling stone as it was gathering moss.
‘You can stick your lousy
company. I vant nothing more to do viz
it !’
LVC had a mimic's instinct.
‘I don't suppose he told you
that did he ?’
'We didn't get that far into
the discussion.’
‘Kid, I thought we agreed you'd
pay the guy a visit. Listen to a couple
of his old bullshit stories, finesse the prick a little and put the offer
? Listen to me. If you don't think you're up to this, let me
know. 'Cause if you're not, I can put
someone else on it.’
‘It's okay. Don't worry.’
Truth be told, there was no one
else, at least no one with Hersch's encyclopaedic knowledge of Lengel's
celluloid career. Van Crane knew it.
‘Okay, okay. This isn't unrecoverable from. Go back, tell him I'm amenable to sitting
down and talking things through. Be
vague about the apology. If he presses
you, tell him I signed off on it. If we
can get him down here, we can put him up at the Rialto, maybe the Continental. He'll soon get re-acquiant himself with the
place, the old fuck Trust me, no-one
gets to the top, sinks that low and then doesn't want a shot at the big time again.’
Luther's non-cigar hand waved
demonstrably.
‘You go back up there and put
the offer again. Tell him he can have
his old job, old salary - adjusted for inflation of course. And anything else unresolved we can talk
about when he gets here.’
The boss always blew a
contented puff of smoke straight up before he veered off at a tangent.
‘You know it was '32 and we
were up against it. Boris was in the
saddle. 'Industry was expecting
something special. And I mean hot. Well there were only two words on anybody's
lips. Abilene and
Alvarez. The hottest names in town. Both wanted top billing of course . 'Thing was, if we gave it to one, the other
was gonna walk. 'Threatened to sign for Vista. 'Would have been a zero sum game. And Shit Central for us. Boris went nuts. No picture of mine canceled because of
actors.’
LVC mimicked the accent.
‘Not von of my projects
derailed because son-of-bitch actor got ideas above his station.’
Accent and intonation were dead
on.
‘Wanted to bang both kids'
heads together. Now since both of
them were staying at the Belmont at the
time and since neither was prepared to sign on the dotted line, Lengel put hiw
own deal to them. 'Slapped it right on the
table. Or rather, under it.’
LVC smiled quizzically.
‘He arranges a sit-down with Abilene ;
'tells him Alvarez is on board. 'Tells
Alvarez the exact same thing. 'Draws the
whole thing up. Bare-faced lie, of course. 'Could have cost us six months in civil
court. Anyway . . .’
LVC's tone lightened.
‘. . . We ended up getting them
both - and for just over half the money.
Everybody saw the funny side in the end.
'Movie was a hit. Cocktails all
round.’
Luther's tone shifted again.
‘Listen, come back with the
package and I’ll have something for you.
Otherwise, you might wanna consider talking a permanent vacation in the
sticks, if you know what I mean.’
It was Hersch's turn to go a
shade close to scarlet. For whatever
reason, he had the name Lou Dietz in mind.
As if to make up for the
unseasonal precipitation earlier in the week, the thermostat was registering
maximum and Las Vegans had put away overcoats and decamped to the pool. Suddenly it was easy to see why this place
was a perennial favorite amongst vacationers.
The ride over from the airport had been long, hot and sweaty and
Herschel Klein had the feeling of being a stranger in his own country. Added to which Luther's ultimatum had hit
home, much like Jerzy Sizmenko's world-series winning hit in the series of 1904
- a shindig notable for little else.
‘I assume the cards are gonna
deal themselves ?’
‘Are you looking at me ? Why is
he looking at me ? Am I the one holding
up the game ?’
‘Did I say I was looking at you
?’
‘No, but you were looking at
me.’
Monday evening. Lounge room of the Pelican. Boris Lengel plus three. Remember that card game ? Well, meet Alphonse De Angelo, Meyer
Linscombe and Howie Zimm. Antes in. Fourth hand.
‘Of course I'm looking at
you. Everyone is looking at you. You're making a fool of yourself.’
‘But you were looking at me
before, implying that you thought I was somehow responsible for this cockamamie
arrangement.’
‘Cockamamie arrangement ? You seem happy to play each week.’
‘Name something else to do
around this place !’
‘So you admit you were at fault
?’
‘I admit nothing. Except that you were looking at me.’
‘I can look where I want.’
‘Fine. But don't make an accusation at the same time
you stare directly at someone.’
‘Accusation ? Who's making an accusation ? No-one here is making an accusation. Perhaps guilt is getting the better of you ? It wouldn't be the first time.’
‘Guilt ? You think this is guilt ? Try exasperation !’
‘Guilt or no, it's your deal.’
‘I dealt last hand.’
‘Did you ?’
‘Yes. I see your memory as well as your manners
have deserted you.’
‘I forget sometimes.’
‘Why didn't you say ?’
‘I just did.’
‘Before I mean.’
‘Do I gotta tell you everytime
something happens ? Maybe I should tell
you what hand I got, so you know what to bet . . . That way, you might win a
hand.’
‘I do just fine.’
‘Yeah ? You thought it was my deal.’
‘You put me off. I lost my train of thought.’
‘Will you two can it !’
The dealer dealt the hand. Each player got four cards face down, in
turn. The pack was replaced in the
center of the table.
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down
horse. What is this ? Four cards ? What are we playing now ?’
‘Any slower and we'd be playing
the previous hand.’
‘I thought we'd switched.’
‘Yeah, but to what ? What game do you get four cards ?’
‘The game we happen to be
playing. The game we've been playing for
the last two and a half years.’
‘Alright, alright, everybody
calm down. He needs another card. Everybody needs another card.’
‘We're still playing poker
right ?’
‘We've been playing poker for
the last half hour. You don't remember
?’
‘I remember just fine. I was just in two minds.’
‘That explains how you bet.’
‘I can bet how I like.’
‘Sure, you can bet on the
Phillies, if you want. It don't make it
sensible.’
The first of four antes was
thrown in.
‘I'm in.’
‘Me too.’
‘Me too.’
‘So just to clarify gentlemen,
the game is five card stud. One dollar
minimum raise. Twos are wild.’
‘Not jacks ?’
‘Why, you got a jack ?’
‘You got a deuce ?’
‘One dollar ? What if I want to raise another dollar ?’
‘I thought we had this
conversation.’
‘We did. He knows it too.’
‘Every time ! You don't specify a minimum raise and
everybody wants to raise nickels and dimes.
We end up playing for six hours and precisely six dollars changes hands
all night. This way, we keep it nice and
simple.’
‘So I can't raise a buck fifty
?’
‘Ah-ha ! So he has got the
deuce !’
‘Why ? Are you looking at my cards ?’
‘I'll take two.’
‘Same here.’
‘I'll take five.’
‘Five ?’
‘So he doesn't have the deuce
?’
‘What is it with my hand ? Don't you have cards of your own ?’
‘Maybe he does have the deuce
and he's bluffing.’
‘Why would he bluff ? He's throwing the hand away ?’
‘Look, is anyone going to give
me five cards ?’
‘And I'll take one !’
The dealer took a card.
‘Two pair ! I bet it's two pair !’
‘Would you stop trying to guess
my hand. It's not the object of the
game.’
‘There's an object to any of
this ?’
‘Just one for me.’
‘Another two for me and I still
say he's got two pair.’
‘Five !’
‘Five ?’
‘I just gave you five.’
‘So I want another five. You got any rule against that ?’
‘Five it is.’
‘And I’ll take one.’
The dealer exchanged one card
from the deck for the one in his hand.
‘Two pair. I hit it on the nose. And by the look on his face, I can see he's
still got two pair.’
‘Are you gonna shut up ? I'm tryin' to deal here.’
‘You just dealt yourself two
pair !’
‘Whoa, are you accusin' me of
cheating ?’
‘Calm down, calm down. What is it with you two ?’
‘I say we get someone else to
deal. Permanently.’
‘There's four of us - what are
you gonna do ? Have someone else join
the game just to deal the cards ?’
‘It if meant gettin' a fair
hand . . .’
‘He's doin' it again.’
‘Alright, you shut up - and
you, you with your two pair, you just deal.’
‘Gees. I got everyone puttin' me on a hand here.’
‘I'm in for another buck.’
‘Me too.’
‘I fold.’
‘You fold ?’
‘In that case, I'm in too.’
‘Wait, I don't fold anymore.’
‘You just folded ! You can't take your hand back.’
‘Ah, whatever.’
‘On their backs gentlemen.’
‘Ace high, ten kicker.’
‘I got nothin'. Busted flush.’
‘Two pair !’
‘I told you he had two pair !’
‘Hang on, you got nothin' but a
busted flush ? How come you didn't fold
? You throw in another dollar with a
busted flush. What kinda strategy is
that ?’
‘Maybe it's a strategy above
your head !’
‘Maybe it's the strategy of a
lunatic !’
‘Better a lunatic than a
spectator.’
‘Lunatic or spectator - I don't
care. As long as I don't go broke making
a move like that.’
‘So who's deal is it now ?’
‘Ouch, let's not have this
conversation again.’
‘I think I'll split.’
Boris pushed out his hand to
cover the cards in the middle of the table.
His companions turned to him as one.
‘What's up ?’
‘I'm a little tired.’
‘We're all tired.’
‘I've got more reason to be.’
‘Why ? 'Cos you're losin' ?’
‘Alright. I'll stay.
Just to show you I'm not a bad loser.’
‘Boris honey we know you're a
bad loser. It's just the manner of the
tantrums that concern us.’
‘In that case, gentlemen I
think I'll split.’
‘What ?’
This time Boris was amongst the
doubters.
‘Well if he can go, so can I.’
‘He's not going anywhere.’
'That's not what he said a
minute ago.’
‘Look, no-one's going
anywhere. Not 'til I get a chance to win
back some of my money.’
‘It ain't even your money.’
‘You owe me fifty bucks from
last week.’
‘Fifty bucks which will be duly
repaid in the fullness of time.’
‘Fullness I don't have a
problem with. Time is another
matter. None of us are getting any
younger. I don't think it's an
exaggeration to say that you're not getting any younger faster than the rest of
us.’
‘And you think I'd hasten my
own death just to cheat you out of fifty bucks ?’
‘I see how you play poker, I
wouldn't put it past you.’
‘I see. It's good to know the quality of one's
friends.’
‘I suppose it takes one to know
one.’
‘In which case, maybe I am
better off with my maker.’
‘Huh.’
‘Huh, what ?’
‘You think he'll take you ?’
‘You think he'll take you ?’
'I ain't planning on meetin'
him any time soon.’
‘That arrangement can be
amended.’
‘Oh yeah.’
A chair scrapped backwards and
one senior citizen followed by another got to their feet as dramatically as old
bones would permit.
‘Calm down, calm down.’
‘What are you two gonna do
? Knock each other's false teeth out
? Stamp on them a little ? You know what dentistry costs these days ?’
‘Okay. Let's everybody calm down. Now who's gonna deal ?’
‘I thought we settled this.’
‘No we settled a few things but
this wasn't one of them.’
‘Hang on I've just seen
somebody.’
Without warning, as seemed to
be the modus operandi of the game, Boris got to his feet and started across the
room.
‘Where's he going ?’
‘I thought he wasn't quitting
?’
‘In which case gentlemen, I
think that makes the game null and void.’
The cards-and cash,
approximately six dollars of it-were scooped into a single pile.
‘So I take it you're not gonna
give me a chance to win my money back ?’
‘This again ? How can I ? There's only three of us left.’
‘So, we play something else.’
‘What do you suggest ? Snap ?’
‘Snap ? Now why would I agree to play snap with a guy
who doesn't wear his own glasses ?
Taking candy from a kid ain't my idea of entertainment.’
‘A kid ? You think of me as a kid ?’
‘Without your glasses I don't
think of you as much of anything at all.’
‘Then put your money where your
mouth is.’
‘You want me to call the cards
out as I deal. Y'know, in case you can't
see them ?’
‘I didn't expect you back.’
Across the other side of the
room, Boris Lengel addressed his younger visitor.
‘That makes two of us.’
‘What did he say ?’
‘If I didn't sign the deal I
might like to consider a permanent relocation.’
‘I see.’
Boris mulled the thought over.
‘By the way, on the subject of
a permanent relocation I can recommend the Pelican. They have excellent rates and encourage
residents looking for the long let if you know what I mean.’
Boris bent low to address him.
‘Not many of them stay the full
term.’
‘Hey Boris, who's the kid ?’
‘Yeah - long lost relative ?’
‘None of your business.’
Boris shot back.
‘He play cards ?’
‘Ignore them.’
Boris advised Hersch.
‘It looks like I'm
interrupting.’
‘No interruption kid. Take a seat.
We could use an extra hand.’
Against his better judgment,
Hersch sat.
‘Not that anyone gives a fuck .
. .’
Boris began imperiously.
‘But this happens to be the
senior vice president of production at Parallax Pictures.’
‘Senior ?’
‘The kid's a fast learner,
which is more than I can say for some.’
‘Ain't that the place you used
to work at ?’
Boris dismissed the jibe with a
wave of his hand.
‘He's here to discuss a proposition,
which, though I can't say much about it, will mean me spending less time
arguing around a table with a bunch of deadbeats.’
‘Speaking of spending time with
deadbeats, you in or not ?’
‘Two more hands.’
Boris sat.
‘You play poker, kid ?’
‘Well’
Hersch fumbled.
‘A little.’
He knew the rules.
‘In which case, he's in.’
‘If that's alright with pops
over there.’
‘The kid, who happens to have a
name, can speak for himself.’
‘Straight poker. No wilds.
Nickel ante.’
The cards were dealt. Hersch let the first few hands drift by. He had a pocketful of loose change and didn't
mind offloading it. As the evening
dragged on, the final hand came around.
For the record, it went as follows : Alphonse De Angelo took a nine,
ten. Clubs. Hersch took a four six off suit and
mucked. Better to keep his powder dry
for the battle proper. Meyer and Howie
kept cards close to respective chests, indicating strength. Boris was blank, offering no
information. The flop came deuce, five,
six. As you were. 'Turn comes Jack helping no one. Three checks.
River ten. Alphonse checks, two
raises - back to Alphonse. He folds,
leaving Boris and the Zimmster to duke it out for the spoils. Boris misses his fifth diamond but collects a
pair of tens as reward for his charitable mood ; Zimm does likewise on his
straight leaving him sevens but wishing he was looking at a pair of
ladies. Incidentally, the last time
Howie was looking at a pair of
ladies, Ethel and Myrtle were in the lunch queue, a period of time sufficiently
far back for Howie not to remember in any event. Betting reaches a buck fifty. Two bucks.
After no time the pot hits six bucks.
Howie's nerve deserts him first and the two men lay it down. Tens versus sevens. Boris takes a moment to soak up the
glory. As for Hersch, 'not an ace or eight
in sight. It was an omen.
‘'Kid turned out to be a
mascot.’
‘No luck. Pure skill.’
‘In which case you won't mind
me bringing my own lucky charm next time we play.’
‘Whatever soothes your
ego. Now in case any one of you bums has
forgotten I have other business to attend to.’
‘Oh yeah, the big film deal.’
‘Not so big I hear.’
‘What do you hear ?’
Boris demanded.
‘Very little if his doctor has
any say in it.’
‘You don't even know my
doctor.’
‘I knew the last one. Until he died.’
‘Aaah.’
Boris threw an arm in the air.
‘Come on.’
Hersch followed, nodding an
acknowledgment to the remaining card players.
They passed into the foyer of the Pelican lounge, billboards and stands
advertising forthcoming attractions ; stars of stage and screen, past and
present.
‘Look at this crap.’
Lengel fanned his hand to
indicate that a critical mass had been reached.
‘They got Lewis Clarkson comin'
in to do a run. Lewis Clarkson ! That asshole was never any good. And now look ! They book these washed-up no-goodniks as if
the place was a kindergarten. He was
penny-ante even back then. Why they
gotta dig him up and wheel him on out here beats me. I remember the day he came by the lot. 'Even asked for my autograph. 'Said he loved all the old stuff. Huh.
'Kid couldn't act to save his life.
And what he did to a Trixie Montell number, ugh !’
Lengel drew his index finger
across his throat, his tongue hanging out to complete the visual image.
‘We were doing 'Harlots in
Scarlet' at the time. 'Remember it like
it was yesterday. Now that was a
picture.’
It was one of Hersch's
favorites. He let Boris draw back the
curtain and shed a little light on the magic.
‘A long-dead coven of 'harlots'
is reawakened Halloween night. Returning
to the village that spawned them they vow to dispatch the menfolk. Only the purest maidens can drive the
banshees back to the nether world. Gradually
the townsfolk succumb.’
Boris wove his hands majestically
as he knitted the story.
‘Anyway, the inhabitants
steadily succumb as emasculated peasant girls take up pitchforks to wreak
justice against the horde. Castles,
moats, villages, haystacks - the whole caboodle. Firewood at the end of it but good enough on
the day. Anyway, where was I ? Oh yeah, the catfight. We had blood, guts, hair, teeth, shiffon. And what's more . . .’
Boris had a glint in his eye
and a finger in the air.
‘Veronica DeMille !’
Two words, but what a
pair. Possessing the enviable ability to
drop a jaw at thirty paces, Veronica drove lust and adulation into the hearts
of her leading men in equal measure.
Five feet one in neck-to-toe green velvet, she was harlot enough for any
man. Boris might justifiably be accused
of being a ladies man, but she was right up there on a very short list.
‘Anyway, the final scene. The lead - I forget his name. Some kid.
'Prepares to meet his doom at the hands of the coven in the crypt of
none other than Baron Von Blood. What an
exit from the land of the living !
Veronica was beautiful. Nominated
in two categories. Overlooked in
both. Criminal. You think there's any justice in that ?’
Lengel eyed Hersch up and down.
‘Why am I asking you ? Is it true about old Schneide-face? Is he back in town ?’
Hersch answered in the
affirmative, passing on the bad news.
‘Ugh !’
‘'Place gets worse every year.’
The truth of the matter was he
never went away. As to the accusation of
general decadence, they had a word for it.
Several in fact. La-La land. Tinseltown.
Freaksville. Grab a soubriquet at
random and the chances were it didn't do justice to the place. The town was falser than any of the bon mots
it had accumulated over it's relatively short history. When Jacqueline Du Vries had hosted her
mammoth end-of-decade party in the twenties, a shindig that incidentally
stretched down from her hillside home into the annals of Hollywood lore, no one
knew for certain whether the gathering was an ironic nod to postmodern excess
or a celebration of a zeitgeist that looked set to engulf popular culture. For Jacqueline's guests the event was pure
debauchery. For the workaday scribes on
the trades it was a moment for exaltation ;
a second-coming which would herald the plagues and earthquakes hinted at
in the great book. Reading the bylines
you might have thought the world was coming to an end. It was Rome under Nero all over again.
‘As to the Larry Schneider
situation maybe what it needs is someone with an artistic vision. 'Correct the balance.’
Lengel humphed. You got that for a slow fastball left over
the plate.The late evening air was warm but with a breeze simmering. For all it's wilderness qualities the desert
sure could lower collective expectations.
Dietz et al. were the exceptions.
For most people Las Vegas was a place to come to retire and then, well .
. . face the inevitable.
‘If I were to return my terms
would be the same.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Salary - adjusted for
inflation. Plus . . .’
Lengel hesitated.
‘An apology.’
‘I'll work on it.’
‘See that you do.’
Hersch felt a weight lift from
his shoulders. Maybe places could rise
in the estimation. If so, then maybe he
should take a partial leaf out of the Dietz playbook and invest a little time
in Las Vegas.
8
The next few days on the
Parallax lot were like the dog days of Summer in the middle of a drought that
wasn't gonna shift anytime soon. Soda
pop vendors were the new bootleggers and ice was grade 'A' moonshine. Kids were huddled over hydrants too bent out
of shape to fight back and it was hard to tell where the melting street signs
ended and the bubbling tar began.
Parallax hadn't been spared.
Nothing had been made official but everybody was in the loop. Something big was about to happen and it's
name was Boris Lengel. It was
unimportant who leaked the information.
Like brandy spilling out of a drunk's glass at closing time, 'news'
invariably took the path of least resistance.
A retired former filmmaker was about to dip his toes back in the
water. Boris was coming to the plate
with plenty to prove. What seemed like
only yesterday he'd been a retired ex-filmmaker, quietly living out his
retirement away from the grind of industry sniping and grossly-inflated
salaries. Premieres and primadonnas were
once again within his orbit. The man
dubbed the industry's most ingenious auteur and twice overlooked for the best
director statuette was back. The media
opened up it's collective filing cabinet of corny quips. Ageless vampiric monstrosities and ghouls
were resurrected in quick order. One
couple taking the opportunity to have a little fun at Lengel's expense were the
American Broadcasting Network's Barry and Berry,
eponymous leads of the 'Barry and Berry Merry-Go-Round'. The show played up news stories from the
week, mocking wherever possible-and it was always possible-winners and losers
in the weekly battle of press clippings and column inches. The two leads bumbled onto the stage
ploughing through the same schtick from the week before (names altered wherever
appropriate) - an act incidentally which paid lip service to the greats but
never reached the high water mark of performers such as Arbuthnott, Allenby or
Inman. Lengel predictably was one such
deserving target.
‘ . . . I noticed your wife in
the waiting room outside.’
‘You were looking at my wife ?’
‘I saw her, yes.’
‘Oh, so now you're seeing my
wife ?’
‘No, but I will if you
recommend it.’
‘Leave it with me, I'll make
the call.’
‘By the way, if she's in the
waiting room when I leave I'll see her again, fair enough ?’
‘How 'bout I throw in an extra
fifty and you take her to the opera Friday night ?’
‘Sorry, no dice. I've got a date.’
‘Don't tell me, the blonde girl
from the bakery ?’
‘The bakery hired a blonde ?’
‘As of last Tuesday. She was a brunette the week before that.’
‘That's odd. I switched to white bread about the same
time.’
‘So if not the blonde, the brunette,
how 'bout the redhead ?’
‘They've got a redhead at the
bakery ?’
‘No, she's at the haberdashers
next door. I met her the time I went in
to have a pair of trousers taken in.’
‘You certainly were !’
Audience laughter.
‘Speaking of which, don't tell
my wife about this will you ?’
‘I thought you were getting a
divorce.’
‘I am but my wife decided to be
a sleeping partner in the arrangement.
She perfected the art during our marriage.’
‘I'm sorry to hear that.’
‘I'm not. The sooner she's out the door, the better.’
‘You're not letting her take
the house ?’
‘No, it's staying where it
is. We thought it would be too difficult
to move the foundations.’
‘What about the lawyer ? Is he any good ?’
‘We dated a couple of
times. He wasn't my type.’
‘Surely a good lawyer can make
the difference between winning and losing in the courtroom.’
‘That's true but don't call me
Shirley. Talking of winners and losers
did you hear the line-up for the 'Talkies this year ?’
‘No. Who made it to the playoffs ?’
‘I think the Red Sox. But what's that got to do with the movies.’
‘I thought you said the
playoffs. So who's in line for the
statue this year ?’
‘Joe Stalin I think, but it's a
closed vote.’
‘Okay. Who else ?’
‘Only Luther Van Crane.’
‘The composer ?’
‘I think you're thinking of Ludwig
Von Beethoven. He's dead.’
‘If you think that's bad, you
should hear what they say about Luther Van Crane. So who's in line for best director ?’
‘They say Boris Lebowski is
looking good ?’
‘I've seen him look better.’
‘You know some of his films are
in the comedy section ?’
‘That's some joke’
‘You think that's funny ? Take a look at the audience.’
‘Speaking of the audience,
whattaya think of this bunch.’
‘I've seen better.’
‘I agree. Last night, much classier. You could tell by the seats. They left them behind when they left.’
A quick scenery change and we
were in the doctor's surgery.
‘Knock, knock.’
‘Come in.’
‘Doctor, I'm living with a
terrible pain.’
‘I see you've met my wife. I suffer from the same condition. So what can I do for you ?’
‘Well the pain seems to radiate
from my midriff. I think it may be
intestinal.’
‘I'm sorry to hear that. You must pass on my condolences to the
family.’
‘That's very kind of you but I think
it could be my appendix.’
‘If that's the case you should
see a librarian. Personally I'd advise
some tests.’
‘Fine. Should I roll my sleeve up ?’
‘Does that help you relax ?’
‘I thought you might want to
take my blood pressure.’
‘Maybe later. First we should concentrate on the
tests. I thought we'd start with general
knowledge.’
‘Can you give me pie to three
places ?’
‘Why ? Is this is a restaurant ?’
‘Perhaps we should move on to
history. What's the date of independence
?’
‘If you mean my divorce, a
couple of years ago. I haven't looked
back since.’
Banter over, the two leads left
the stage. A few of the trades
speculated as to the real reason for Lengel's return from oblivion. Was Parallax in the soup ? Had Lengel been made an offer he couldn't
refuse ? If he had, was there an old
school New York
connection behind it ? Nobody wanted to
go back to the back old days of Albert and his cronies. 'Movie News Weekly' cheekily sent Boris an
advance invitation to the premiere screening of Vistavision's 'The Crooner' - a
story about a washed-up lounge signer given one last chance at stardom. Somebody was trying to send him a
message. In other news, network quiz
show host Larry St. Croix had had his divorced finalized earlier in the week
while notorious crime boss Vincenzo Manganeze was due in court nine am, Monday morning to face
charges of racketeering. Speaking of
keeping appointments, man of the moment Boris E. Lengel, filmmaker, pioneer,
and other sundry roles was due within the hour.
To wit, Luther Van Crane was doing his nut, pacing up and down a stretch
of carpet in the Parallax executive lounge ; the carpetincrementally molding to
the pattern of the soles of his shoes.
It was Friday. Boris was a full
day late. If it had been a movie and the
script had called for a dramatic intervention, the phone would have rung. It did.
‘Hello !’
Luther barked carelessly in the
direction of the receiver.
‘ . . . Airport . . . Hold-up .
. . Fly . . . Thursday.’
The line went dead. Luther cursed. He picked up on the second ring.
‘Where are you ?’
‘Grand Central Station.’
Herschel Klein's voice was
clearer this time.’
Where ?’
‘Grand Central. Downtown.’
‘I don't know that airport.’
‘He doesn't like to fly on a
Thursday. We had to take the overnight.’
‘The overnight what ?’
Hersch relayed the relevant
information.
‘A train ? You took the train ?’
‘It was the only alternative.’
‘Gees, what are you trying to
do ? Get this guy here in installments
?’
‘It was the train or
nothing. I figured under the
circumstances . . .’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Is he there ?’
LVC was impatient.
‘He's here.’
Luther's blood-pressure slumped
like a drunk at the bar at closing time.
‘Put him on.’
‘Hang on.’
Hersch turned to his companion.
‘He wants to speak to you ?’
‘What ?’
‘Luther.’
‘What ?’
‘Luther’
‘Who ?’
‘Here.’
Hersch passed across the
receiver.
‘Don't get smart. You may have got me to sign off on this
cockamamie trip, but nothing's set in stone yet. Added to which, I don't have the loose change
for a long conversation. Besides, it's
too loud in here. I'll speak to him
later.’
Boris turned to walk but
Hersch's hand found the old man's sleeve.
The king of the poker table looked uneasy. Frail even.
‘Hello ?’
Lengel's voice was croaky.
‘That you ?’
‘It is.’
Boris regained his composure,
straightening his back, his grip on the telephone receiver tight.
‘So.’
‘So.’
‘I trust you're well.’
‘As well as I'd expect to
be. You ?’
‘Fine. I understand there's something you'd like to
say to me.’
Lengel offered up his full
Lavinia de Costa accepting the best actress statuette, still miffed at the
industry for overlooking her career output to date.
‘No. 'Can't think of anything. Oh wait, the dodgers played at the
weekend. I didn't catch the final
score.’
‘I warn you, my patience is not
limitless.’
‘Well if you're referring to
matters discussed by you and the kid, I'm sure you can work it out between
yourselves.’
‘I'm warning you.’
‘Speaking of which . . .’
Luther continued.
‘I hope he's been of
assistance.’
‘Who ?’
‘The kid.’
‘The kid ?’
‘That's right. The kid.’
‘Oh, you mean the kid. I think he might have management
potential. Given the right opportunity
of course. Say if some old bastard were
to step aside.’
‘I'll make a note. So what's Nevada like
?’
‘Thinking of retiring ?’
‘Year round sunshine. What's not to like about the place.’
‘'Sounds delightful. I must look it up on the map sometime. Las . . . ?’
‘Vegas. Speaking of which, I think I'd prefer my
apology now.’
‘Apology ? For what ? Did I forget an anniversary ?’
‘Zat's it ! Zat's enough ! I knew zis vas a bad idea.’
Lengel rammed the telephone at
Hersch.
‘No more cockamamie bullshit
with that son-of-a-bitch !’
‘Okay, okay. Just keep your voice down.’
Lengel harrumphed and wandered
off in the direction of the gentlemen's conveniences. Hersch was left to try to patch things up
with Luther through the medium of a palm-sized piece of plastic.
‘ . . . What did you say to him
?’
‘Nothing. I just wound the old guy up a little.’
Luther sensed Hersch's
discomfort.’
‘Don't worry. I know the old bastard well enough. He doesn't make a thousand mile trip without
knowing there's something in it for him.
He'll come around. Where is he
now ?’
‘In the toilet. I think he had to get something out of his
system.’
‘Take him over to the
Continental. Let him stew in five star
luxury for a couple of days.’
The phone clicked. Hersch was back to playing catch-up. A propos the Continental, accommodation there
was the last word in luxury. 'The epitome
of respectability with luxury'. It was
the company tag-line and well deserved at that.
Nestling amidst a coiffure of manicured ivy that muffled the sound of
passing jewelry as it snaked up the stuccoed exterior of the building, even the
hotel sign took a snooty disdain to sub-par clientele. Studio heads were well advised to keep a
suite on retainer. After all, which of
them wanted to repeat the great Cinescape mistake. When the inimitable Fanny De Montfort had
shown up in town, which she did rarely but not without fanfare, studio boss at
the time diminutive Jost LaRoche had sucked a thoughtful tooth, before
revealing to Miss de Montfort the particulars of the situation.
‘Miss De Montfort, we've
checked the Royale, the Palisades and
the Almeida but I'm sorry to report that we were unable to secure a reservation
for you.’
‘Darrhhling, you're telling me
I can't have my usual suite. In which
case, I shall take my custom elsewhere.’
And boy did she. Don't expect a call from Miss De Montfort
anytime soon. Even her hair stylist was
on notice to snub anyone from the offending studio. And out of Miss De Montfort and poor old Jost
LaRoche guess which of the two was still working in the industry a year later
and which had slipped so far down the social ladder that to have included their
name in the showbusiness bible, 'Who's Who in Town' would have been stretching
the reference remit of the tome. Exactly
! Jopst was toast, as they say.
9
Hersch had parked himself on a
hardwood bench that looked like it had been around since antebellum times. It certainly felt like it. A fragment of one of General Lee’s canonballs
dug into his rear end. Penace no doubt
for his North Eastern origins. If you
wanted a tour of the city’s oldest fixtures and fittings you could do worse
than take a stroll around Grand Central station. And there was no better time to do it than at
the peak of daily human migration. There
was something soporific about idly surveying passing traffic. Friends and family arrived and departed, messages
and gestures were exchanged. Tears. Laughter.
They were ceremonies replete with emotional baggage. Speaking of baggage, Boris was taking his
time. 'Probably got himself into an
argument with the Maitre D or else he was still brooding. Hersch knew that he wouldn't turn down the
Continental, if only to cause Luther to take the hit in the wallet. He resolved to check the conveniences to put
the argument in person. Herschel Klein
mumbled his apologies as he entered and gently pushed open the stall doors one
by one. The last one was locked. Patrons taking their ease stared quizzically.
‘. . . Waiting. For a friend.’
Hersch said clumsily. The last of the hand-washers left and Hersch
knocked on the door of the end stall.
‘Are you in there ?’
Nothing.
‘It's me.’
Still nothing. Hersch looked furtively over his shoulder. Satisfied no one was about to come in he gave
the door a gentle thud, around shoulder height.
The possibility that someone might be taking their ease and report the
‘break-in’ didn’t seem plausible for some reason. The latch loosened a little and after another
furtive peek, the kid who'd been unable to make it onto the high school
football team gave it the full shoulder charge, the door, unlike Lurleen
Haverstock on prom night in the back of his father’s Studebaker, giving way
without protest. The picture postcard scene
that greeted him was classic Butterbean.
So much so in fact that a sense of morbidity overcame him. It was an appropriate reaction. There on the seat, bent double, Boris Lengel
Nee Lebowski, former director of motion pictures for Parallax Pictures sat
motionless. Slumped like a sack of
potatoes that had keeled over under it's own weight. Hersch immediately went through a mental
check-list of post-facto diagnostics.
Elevate wound. Calm patient. Unobstruct airway. None of it applied. The old man was dead. As dead as old Albert Aristopolou. There was simply no way of escaping the
fact. Death and dignity did not
mix. Like Charlie himself, he was past
the point of no return. Like a nervous
librarian approaching the town drunk at closing time, Hersch gently put a hand
against Boris' lapel. It dispelled any
remaining doubts he had about the status of his traveling companion. Under the circumstances he did what any
decent normal human being would do. He
panicked. Dashing first to the door only
to scamper back he found himself in his own Butterbean-esque moment of
indecision. In the end he resolved to
chance it. 'Leave the old man and relay
the news to the one cool impartial head that could take an unpanicked decision. He took the precaution of locking the stall
from the inside clambering over the partition wall before a thirty yard sprint
to the nearest telephone which Herschel Klein completed in Olympic time. Luther picked up the phone on the half-tone.
‘Hello.’
‘It's me.’
‘Kid ?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What is it now ? What does he want ? Don't tell me he's holding out for more up
front. That old man's gonna be the death
of me.’
‘It's not that. The truth is he's not holding out for much
right now.’
‘You're not making sense kid.’
‘I think you should get down
here.’
‘He wants to do this face to
face ? And then what ? Perform a little song and dance for the old
fuck ? Tell him he can go screw himself.’
‘Let's just say I think you
should see this for yourself.’
‘He's making a spectacle of
himself ?’
‘Sort of.’
‘He's intoxicated ? Out cold ?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘You're losing me. And it's becoming a habit.’
Hersch figured the direct route
was probably the best.
‘He's dead.’
‘Huh ?’
‘On the toilet. Just a minute ago.’
‘Dead dead ?’
‘Dead as I've ever seen
anybody.’
‘How many dead people have you
seen ?’
It was a good question. Beyond those he'd witnessed on TV shows, the
answer was none.
‘I know it's not October 31st
but if this is a joke, let me tell you it's in bad taste. I don't need to tell you that the continued
survival of this company rests on that man's shoulders.’
There wasn't much resting on
Lengel's shoulders right about now.
Macabre maybe, but anatomically correct.
‘It's not which is why I'm
telling you this. Quietly.’
Hersch clamped the receiver to
his cheek, checking background once more.
‘He's in the third stall
along. I've propped him up, but I've
gotta get back.’
Luther paused.
‘Okay, just stay put. I'll have someone come down.’
On an average day, the trip
from Parallax to Grand Central was twelve minutes. Luther was there inside eight. In person.
His frame filled the restroom doorway as he blustered in.
‘Okay, where is he ?’
‘In here !’
Hersch whispered in his best
Fifi Maniche after a night of tequilas and tobacco. If you were looking for an analogy, 'Heroes
in Hock' came closest. Not one of
Charlie’s finest. Nevertheless Luther took
the role with gusto ; Hersch slipping easily into the role of Charlie’s
erstwhile sidekick, Luigi. Lengel sat
things out. ‘Third wheel’ if you
like. The plot had Charlie commandeering
Luigi for the purposes of rescuing the maiden of the piece from her dastardly
kidnapper. Only instead of extracting
our heroine from mortal peril, the heroes actions merely merely served to inveigle
them further into the malaise. This
particular set-up followed the tried-and-tested route ; Luigi as per usual
ending up in possession of the offending article. In this case a dead body no less.
‘Okay I know exactly what to
do.’
‘Thank God.’
Thought Hersch. Luther would call the police and it would be
out of their hands.
‘But more importantly what not
to do. We don't call the police.’
Hersch did the equivalent of an
auditory double-take.
‘Surely . . .’
‘Forget the police. This thing comes out in the open and the
studio's finished.’
Luther spread his hands out in
front of him.
‘Hopes for Studio washed away
as acclaimed director in-convenienced for last time. Savior of Parallax down the pan.’
The hands were lowered.
‘Look, you got him this
far. Why blow the whole thing now ? The story's practically in the can. Everybody's talking about Lengel being back
at Parallax. You wanna be the one to
blow that ?’
‘But . . .’
Hersch began falteringly.
‘No one's gonna know. You told me yourself he has no family. No one's going to miss him. It would be different if it was you or I.’
Hersch wondered exactly how different
it would be in his case.
‘I wouldn't ask you to do this
if I didn't think you were up to it. Now
where's his suitcase ?’
‘It's here.’
Hersch pulled out a tatty
single-person case from behind the cistern.
Brown, leather, worn. It was
enough to evoke feelings of pity and Hersch could feel a lump in his throat. Luther exuded no such pity.
‘Let's see what we've got.’
Luther opened the case and
began rummaging.
‘Ah-ha, ah-ha. Hat. Long coat.
'Should be enough.’
‘Er, aren't we overlooking one
thing.’
‘Such as ?’
‘How are we getting him out of
here ?’
‘That's what these are for.'
Luther held up Boris' hat and
coat. We put these on and each take an
arm. He'll look drunk. We'll help him out of the building and get
him into the truck.
Moments later and as comically
as two men carrying a drunk, Luther Van Crane and Herschel Klein maneuvered the
body of Boris E. Lengel out of the door to the gentlemen's conveniences at
Grand Central station and as calmly as each was able under the circs escorted
him towards the exit. Just consider
those circumstances. 'Middle of the
day. Sweltering heat, the drunkard in
question wearing overcoat and trilby. Needless to say it drew heads. Conversations died to a hush. As performances went, Lengel would have been
proud.
‘Wait. His feet are dragging.’
‘Let them. He's meant to be drunk.’
‘Exactly. Drunk, not dead.’
‘You got a better idea ?’
Hersch pondered as he bore the
weight of the dead director.
‘No.’
‘Good. Well let's stop talking about it.’
The pair continued their
ungainly removal of the cargo to a point of seclusion.
As commercial vehicles went the
1956 F100 was about as standard as Ford made 'em. The studio runaround stood in the car parking
section at the front of Grand Central like an oasis, it's soothing sleek curves
as ripples to thirst-crazed travelers.
‘’Should do it.’
The two partners-in-crime
bundled the dead Boris Lengel into the cab and climbed in. There was something eerie about sitting next
to a dead body. Sitting next to a dead
body whose manner of passing you'd concealed from the authorities was equally
galling on top of that.
‘If we get pulled over, leave
the talking to me.’
With pleasure thought Hersch.
‘I know a guy who works for the
city. At the morgue in fact. He owes me a favor. I'll drop you first and then deal with him.’
The order of business suited
Hersch down to the ground.
10
It was exactly twelve hours
since Boris Lengel had returned to his Alma mater. Twelve hours in which Luther Van Crane had
played host, tormentor briefly, undertaker and at the present moment studio
executive. As for the great director,
what artistic heights lay ahead of him ?
What milestones were yet to be conquered ? Few.
Right now he was propping up a drywall on the Parallax lot, itself once
a backdrop to 'Death before Dawn', a Lengel classic. Fitting, if eerie. Some fifty yards away, in the engine room of
the Parallax machine, LVC was the solitary figure pacing up and down the
Parallax boardroom, matters of grave concern clearly occupying his mind. If the maxim that a problem shared was a
problem halved held any water, then the carpet was about to get a break. A quiet knock on the door got the customary
LVC treatment.
‘Get in here !’
A bleary-eyed weary-looking Herschel
Klein entered sheepishly.
‘You're late.’
‘What time is it ?’
‘Late. You slept ?’
‘Yesterday. I mean today.
No.’
‘Never mind. We've got work to do.’
LVC outlined the plan. Composing himself, Hersch put the logical
question.
‘What happened to 'Don't
worry. I know a guy at the morgue. I'll take care of this'?’
‘It fell flat. As a pancake.
Don't worry, we don't have time for the details.’
Instead Luther fleshed out the
details of the new plan. It elevated the
seriousness of the situation. Moreover
it shone a disturbing light on the workings of the mind of the boss of the
company. Plan eventually outlined,
Hersch sat ; or rather slumped. He'd
been asleep when he'd got the call, one in the morning being around the usual
time people indulged in the practice.
His mind was incrementally adjusting to the madness of the situation.
‘So just run this by me
again. We move the body over to the new
sound stage.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Dig a trench.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Dump Lengel's body. Fill the trench with concrete and never tell
anyone about it ?’
Hersch made the internationally
recognized sign for a wheelbarrow full of wet cement being poured into an open
trench.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well if there's nothing else
I'll head home.’
Hersch moved towards the door. LVC moved to intercept.
‘I'm deadly serious kid.’
Lousy pun.
‘This is going to get done with
or without you. You're in this hip deep remember.’
Hersch's face was momentarily
child-like. Had he just been threatened
? The bottom lip began to tremble ever
so slightly.
‘Don't turn pinko on me. You just got a promotion, remember. Look, that came out wrong. I didn't mean it like that. Come on, he'd love it.’
‘Lengel ?’
‘Uh-huh ! Besides, no-one's gonna know he's gone. No family remember.’
Hersch was beginning to have
visions of a long-lost relative creeping out of the woodwork. There was a coffin analogy in there somewhere
but the kid was too tired to make much of it.
‘Are we in ?’
The kid's resistance was low.
‘I need you on this kid. You don't know what a mess this place is
in. I mean, a mess. We're finished. Debts.
Everything.’
Luther threw his hands up. If it was meant to inspire, it had a touch of
the Hail Marys about it.
‘Fine.’
‘Ha. I knew you'd say yes.’
‘But what if he does have a
family somewhere. A long lost someone or
other ?’
‘Lengel ? Too much of a loner. Besides, he was an old man. 'Probably wandered off somewhere. Got himself lost – or else committed.’
Did that mean he did have a
long lost relative somewhere and that his disappearance wouldn't bother them or
that he didn't and therefore it couldn't, if that made sense. It was late.
‘It's no good, this is gonna
take all night.’
Hersch stood upright, shovel in
hand, positioned in a six by three feet trench, two inches deep.
‘Which is why we're not doing
it in the daytime.’
‘It's just brick and dirt. Are you sure no-one's around ?’
‘The place is secure. Everything's locked up.’
Hersch surveyed the area. Satisfied the three of them were alone the
shovel went down. As it did it hit flint
sending a shard of something angular in the direction of his head, missing the
vital areas but ricocheting violently off his chin.
‘That's it. This is pointless.’
Hersch threw the shovel to the
ground.
‘You were doing fine.’
The evidence told a different
tale.
‘Okay. We bury him under the main stage.’
‘You mean the busiest place on
the lot ?’
‘The very same. Who's gonna look for him there ?’
‘You've gotta be kidding.’
‘Don't you see ? Who looks for a dead body in the middle of a
crowd ?’
Evidently Hersch didn't. Instead he followed Luther's lead and took an
arm, the pair dragging the corpse back in the direction from which it had
earlier been sequestered.
‘Over here, over here.’
LVC puffed.
‘Hang on, I've gotta put him
down.’
Hersch let Lengel's body slide
down his own, allowing the head come to rest at his feet. They were gonna dump him in the ground
whereupon he would decompose until he was little more than teeth and
fingernails and Hersch was being careful not to crease clothing.
‘You want a cushion for that ?’
Talking of cushions Hersch had
a particularly plump one waiting for him at home.
‘Okay, one, two . . .’
Hersch took the strain, arms
locked around Lengel's, Luther on leg duty.
They moved steadily but clumsily, much like a toy robot swinging from
one leg to another to achieve forward momentum.
Think Frankenstein's monster with a small dog clamped around one ankle. Through the main stage door, the rest was
plain sailing.
‘Okay, let's put him over
here.’
Suddenly . . .
‘Aaaargh !’
‘Jesus !’
Hersch visibly jumped, Lengel's
body falling with a thud to the ground.
‘What ?’
Luther laid Boris' legs down to
align with the torso.
‘You didn't hear that ?’
‘You mean the 'Aaaargh' ?’
‘Yeah. The 'Aaaargh.’
‘I thought it was you.’
‘Me ? I don't pronounce my 'Aaargh's like that.’
In unison the pair stared at
Boris.
‘No. There's no way.’
Luther shook his head.
‘Kid, you're making me
paranoid.’
‘I'm making you paranoid.’
‘Well if it isn't you it's one
of us. And I'm including him in that.’
Luther pointed at Lengel.
‘Aaaargh !’
‘Ah.’
This time both men jumped
back. Neither moved. Each man was rigid. Two staring down, one straight up.
‘Eeeark.’
The wind gently nudged the open
door.
‘Eeaarrk.’
Luther exhaled, his regular
heart rhythm reasserting itself.
‘This is no good. Let's just get it done.’
Luther began prying the
boards. Six ten feet by twelve inch wooden floorboards
came up like a diva at a charity gala accepting a humanitarian award in full
ball gown and jewels. Dirt underneath -
the stage not the diva.
‘You start at this end. I'll do that end.’
In unison, Hersch and LVC began
the task of excavating a bath-sized rectangle of topsoil. An hour passed. And then another.
‘That's enough.’
‘Say again.’
Hersch barked, covered in brown
dust, his head about a foot above ground level.
If a bystander had happened on the scene he would have been well within
his rights to enquire which body was about to be laid to rest.
‘That's deep enough.’
It certainly was. Hersch Klein was well and truly in it up to
his head. Luther held an ominous shovel
in his hand.
‘Here, give me your hand.’
Luther offered his outstretched
arm. Hersch took it and hoisted himself
up and out of the oversized ditch.
‘Ready ?’
Hersch nodded that he was and
the pair resumed their positions at either end of the otherwise unconcerned
Boris Lengel. He'd been a silent
onlooker for the past several hours and if his expression was anything to go
by, the entire escapade had passed him by without the merest hint of
interest. LVC gave the customary
countdown.
‘Three . . Two . . One.’
As he spoke the co-conspirators
swung Lengel from side-to-side, letting go as his body swung for the third time
towards the de facto grave. Thud. Five or so feet below them the greatest
creative force in the company's history lay in a heap, as though a chalk line
were about to be drawn around him and superimposed on the screen for the
dramatic opening of a production. Both
men peered down. If Lengel himself had
been directing, the body would have risen bolt upright at that moment, arms
outstretched, lightning illuminating the sky outside. Instead, Boris Lengel lay perfectly still,
mouth open slightly, eyes void of sight, thoughtless.
‘Come on, let's finish this.’
Luther began shoveling dirt
into the pit, Hersch wanting to peer a little longer as though respect required
it of him.
‘Well ?’
Luther paused and stared at the
kid.
‘I just think we should . . . ‘
‘Hurry up ?’
Luther interjected.
‘Cover him with something.’
‘Good idea. I think we've got a tarp somewhere. I assume you're happy to keep an eye on
things ?’
Hersch peered over the abyss,
offering a salutary 'es tut mir leid'. Luther
Van Crane was gone less than thirty seconds.
Nevertheless in that time Hersch momentarily reflected on the life on
the man they had just buried – in many ways, the man they had just killed. Someone who for almost as many years as
Hersch had been alive had been living a contented life until fate had reunited
him with his past.
‘Are you gonna do that all
night ?’
‘What ?’
‘Be morbid.’
‘I was just thinking . . .’
‘Well don't.’
Luther interrupted.
‘There's no value in it. Don't get sappy. Here give me a hand.’
Both men unrolled the
tarp. Hersch took his customary position
and prepared to let it rest across the corpse.
‘One of us should get down
there and wrap it correctly.’
Luther was motionless.
‘Fine.’
Hersch decamped into the pit,
stepping gingerly on earth lest he tread on something softer.
‘You fold it around. I'll keep feeding it to you.’
LVC fed the black plastic to
his younger compatriot, in the same way one might feed reams of incriminating
documents into the industrial shredder moments before the Feds knocked on the
door.
‘Wrap it around tight.’
It went around twice, plenty to
spare. Hersch offered up his hands
quizzically.
‘Perfect. Now let's fill this in.’
Involuntarily Hersch's eyebrows
did a double take.
‘C'mon, who do you think I am.’
The boss gave a half smile,
proffering his hand and helping Hersch back up.
In silence and both with shovel in hand, they began the task of heaping
soil back onto the human-shaped tarpaulin.
The seconds passed and with them the last visual reminder of the great
Boris Lengel. The task finished, a
mound-shaped pile of earth remained.
‘What about that ?’
‘Good question. Obviously we gotta scatter it.’
‘Where ?’
‘What was that film ?’
‘Which one ?’
‘The one where they shift the
earth. Y'know, to create a diversion.’
All Hersch could think of was
an early rendering of the siege of Troy,
complete with Trojan Horse.
‘The Trojan Horse ?’
LVC looked at him like he was
gazing at an imbecile, asked a question as to a finer point of filmmaking only
to receive an answer that might be given by a first year history student who hadn't
understood the question.
‘Sometimes I wonder about
you. The one with the dirt. In the prison. With the trolley system.’
Hersch remained blank.
‘The Tunnel.’
Nothing.
‘Never mind. It's not important. We don't put it all in one place. We get bags, feed it in and then deposit it
around the lot.’
Given that the top foot and a
half of trench-grave if you preferred-had to remain clear for the quick-drying
cement they were looking at a mound of earth roughly the size and mass of two
Boris Lengels.
‘Stay here, I'll get the bags.’
Luther was back inside a
minute, clutching handfuls of industrial sheeting. Divided up, each took a wheelbarrow full of
earth packed snugly in the de facto bags.
Now the lot was of a size that allowed each to head off in different
directions and not encounter one another until close to a thousand handfuls of
earth had been sprinkled, layered and sequestered around the lot. An out-of-breath Herschel Klein returned to
the agreed point of departure, wheelbarrow in tow and bearing little trace of
it's recent use in the siege of Troy.
‘Finished ?’
‘Finished.’
‘Alright, now go home. Leave the rest to me.’
Hersch let go of the handles of
his wheelbarrow.’
‘I'm serious. Leave the cement to me. It's better one person does it. 'Clutters the whole place up with two.’
But hadn't he come this far at
Luther's request ? Wasn't he in this hip
deep already ? Only now to be asked to
walk away ?
‘Don't say anything. You've done enough. I'm grateful.
Now get out of here.’
Luther stood in the doorway to
the stage. Half an hour and it would be
light. It was a fait accompli. Hersch had been cut from the team.
‘Are you going to . . .’
‘I'll be fine. Not a word about this okay.’
Luther pointed a finger at him. As instantaneously as he'd been co-opted into
the deal, he was out again. 'Let go on
the eve of the final curtain call.
Reluctantly, Hersch turned his back on Luther and walked towards the
front gate.
‘I'll expect you at work first
thing. And remember, not a word !’
Hersch turned but Luther had
disappeared inside, the door slamming shut in his wake. Hersch kept on walking, due East, directly
into the rising sun.
11
Herschel Klein navigated his
pristine DeLorean-a gift from Johnny boy himself no less-into the reserved-but
more importantly-named parking bay outside executive headquarters - in this
case 'Goldstar Pictures'. Okay, Johnny
boy's fortunes might not be riding so high at the moment but the decade had
been kind to him. New president. New company.
He might have officially crossed the Rubicon into middle-age but age was
nothing if not a number and the big 5-O had brought with it the ace in the hole
he'd been angling for. C.E.O of the
number one movie company in town.
Goldstar - formerly 'Silverado Productions', before that 'Parallax
Pictures' Sure, the company had gone
through changes - weathered the uncertainty of recent times, basked in the
liberalism of the Sixties, coped with pre-war and post-war upheaval - good times
and bad. It was time to take things to
the next level as the marketing speak had it.
The eighties were gonna be Goldstar's decade. His unveiling as C.E.O was a formality - a
pleasant one with all the attendant opportunities to joke with assembled
members of the press ; the honorable and not so honorable. The DeLorean's gull-wing doors shut snugly
leaving Herschel Klein unprotected from the glorious summer sunshine, proving
there was no better place than the West Coast when the sun hung over the city
on a cloudless day. A contingent of
bottom feeders from the local rag caught him in their radar and zeroed in.
'Mr. Klein, 'care to comment on
the change of management ?'
You had to hand it to the
Inquisitor. Invite or not, they always
managed to inveigle their way into the heart of whatever business happened to
be fodder for their readers that particular week. In it's glory days it had broken momentous
news, elevated and spurned careers. Once
upon a time it might have been known for it's serious journalism but these
days, it languished in the gutter.
‘No comment, no comment.’
Klein thrust a hand between
himself and the camera.
‘'Care to tell us your plans
for the new company ?’
‘All in good time. All in good time. And I don't see what's new about a fifty year
old company.’
‘In that case what do you make of
the Commissions's findings into violence in the movies ?’
Hersch ignored the question
leaving a couple of Goldstar front of house staff to ensure the uninvited
stayed uninvited.
Now considering this was the
prodigal son's return, if you wanted to get a handle on the scale of the
reaction to his much-anticipated press conference, put yourself in the mind of
a cub reporter at the opening night of Mr. DeMille's 'Ten Commandments' and you
were in the ball park. Your chances of
getting a one-on-one with the great man were slim. The flashbulbs popped like fireworks on
January First welcoming in the new year as H.E. Klein pushed his way through
carefully stage-managed lines of Goldstar employees corralled into the company's
new corporate center. He took his place
on the dais alongside a couple of hand-picked members of the Goldstar board,
splaying his hands and pushing against an imaginary set of springs, much as
Moses himself might have done on encoutering the cruel sea. The hub-bub dissipated. The customary, 'Welcome to Goldstar and we
hope the announcement of this much-valued addition to the Goldstar family will
bring new hope and possibilities yada yada yada.' went by the numbers. Klein himself gave a brief speech, much in
keeping with the sentiments already expressed.
And then like first pitch on opening night, the first banana skin was
lobbed at the man in the batters box.
‘How do you hope to maintain
company values at a time when Congress has explicitly stated it wants a shift
away from violence in the movies ?’
Klein went into auto-pilot.
‘I believe profoundly that
there's a place for all genres of movie-making in this industry. No one is more concerned with the role we
play as filmmakers than I am. In fact I
intend to make it a personal mission of mine to ensure that Goldstar films are
wholesome films, entertaining pictures and commercially-successful ones.’
The hub-bub spluttered back
into life.
‘Like the old Parallax
approach, eh ?’
Someone joked to a murmur of
sniggering
‘What are your views on the De
Angelis case ?’
Forget morality and Congress,
what everyone wanted to talk about was the De Angelis case. The kid was just a kid, that was a given, but
it didn't diminish what he'd done. Murder
was a crime in any of the fifty states, but on the other hand, here was a sixteen
year old who'd got himself into a situation any sixteen year old might have got
himself into only to lash out in self-defense.
How many sixteen year old kids hadn't got into a fight on a Friday or
Saturday night, and in the course of things done something they'd later
regretted ? The law might be an ass but
it had to be seen to be impartial.
‘I think it's unfortunate. Here's a young man - a talented actor -
robbed effectively of the rest of his life.
That isn't to diminish his crime.
But why kill the spirit of a young man ?
I understand the pitfalls of adolescence. But what's to be gained from hauling the kid
over the coals ? I think the right
message has been sent. The kid should
serve his time, get out and then be able to put the incident behind him and get
on with his life.’
‘What about the parents ?’
‘Well I can't speak for them
but as I understand it they've said they bear no malice towards him and that
given the extenuating factors, they're willing to forgive him.’
‘Would you offer the kid a part
in one of your movies ?’
Some sections of the assembled
crowd suppressed a chuckle.
‘As I said at Goldstar we have
a reputation for wholesome films not to say commercially successful ones. I see no reason, given the right mentoring
that this kid not be given the chance to pursue his talents.’
The truth was, it wasn't just
Goldstar that would have jumped at the chance to 'mentor' the De Angelis
kid. Everyone knew the motive for the
question. The kid was just about the
hottest thing in town. And there'd been
plenty of those over the years. He might
be in a six by four feet cell right now but as soon as that sentence was
served, anyone picking him up was looking at a serious payday.
‘Do you intend to remake any of
the corny old slasher films from the early days ?’
The question drew a roomful of
laughter. It was an easy bloop to end
on.
‘The truth is, this company has a great
pedigree - whatever it's name. I
remember working here when we were plain old Parallax. They were great days and I wouldn't trade
them for anything.’
‘Any skeletons you'd like to share
from those days Mr. Klein ?’
A muscle twitch in his left
cheek caused Klein's eye to jerk upwards.
The boss of the company ignored the question and instead whispered his
thanks to a colleague seated next to him.
The signal for the press conference to end was given and journalists and
staff got to their feet.
‘Mr. Klein, what about those
skeletons ?’
General conversation drowned
out the question. Noise filtered back
and forth across the room as the assembly broke up ; reporters heading off to
file copy, Goldstar people on hand to answer questions and fill in the
blanks. Klein began signing autographs
proffered by a group of mostly young kids drafted in for the benefit of the
cameras. Four or five autographs in, a
colorized poster from a film that looked like it had seen better days was
thrust into his palm.
‘You didn't answer my
question.’
‘Huh ?’
‘About the skeletons.’
‘Excuse me ?’
‘Around this place. Y'know, ghosts of people who've passed
through. I don't know - maybe some that
are still here.’
Herschel Klein's eyebrow ridges
furrowed and for a brief moment something gripped his throat.
‘Do I know you ?’
‘No. I don't think so.’
‘In that case should I know you
?’
'Not really. I'm from the 'Inquisitor'.’
‘I didn't know you had an
invitation.’
‘So about those ghosts ?’
‘Ghosts ?’
‘From the past I mean. Actors.
They always say an actor leaves his mark on a place long after the
curtain comes down. Directors too. Perhaps more so.’
‘Do they ?’
Klein's voice was croaky.
‘I think it's a load of
nonsense myself. 'Better to live in the
moment. 'No point getting dragged down
by the past.’
‘Is that right ?’
Klein studied the young
man. He had an ambitious nervousness
about him that was slightly unnerving.
Too much nervous energy for his own good.
‘Look, I'm pretty much booked
up around this place, but thanks for coming by.
Glad to see you're a fan of the classics if I can call them that.’
‘'More a fan of the process
really. Y’know – direction.’
The kid moved to block his
path.
‘What is it you want exactly ?’
‘To talk about a project.’
Klein relaxed.
‘In that case you should see my
secretary. Or better yet send us a
script.’
‘This one's got real
potential.’
‘You should really send us an
outline.’
Again the kid moved to block
Klein's path.
‘It's about a director. Quite a famous director. Infamous you might say. He vanishes one day.’
‘Look, why don't we go outside. 'Discuss it in more detail.’
Klein shepherded his charge
away from potential eavesdroppers, out into a more secluded part of the lot.
‘It's alright, I'm not looking
to kick up a stink.’
Klein studied the kid,
annoyance giving way to a more tactical analysis.
‘You could have fooled me.’
‘I do have a project though.’
‘About a director ?’
The kid smiled, the facade
beginning to melt.
‘That was just my ‘in’.’
‘Uh-huh. I don't suppose you'd care to tell me exactly
what you do know would you ?’
‘Like I said I prefer to live
in the moment. 'Leave the past where it
belongs.’
‘In the past ?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Uh-huh.'
‘You wanna take a walk ?’
‘Sure thing’
The kid smiled.
‘You know I remember someone
inviting me to take a walk around this place once.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I nearly pissed myself.’
Klein looked askance at the
kid.
‘How old are you kid ?’
‘Twenty two.’
‘Really ? You look younger.’
‘My parents say I look
younger.’
‘So talk.’
‘Well I figure we get Reuben
Ramirez for the lead.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Klein took out a cigar from his
top pocket.
‘Conservative, edgy
though. Anyone else ? You smoke ?’
The kid shook his head.'
‘'Habit I picked up. So come on, who else ?’
‘Dana
Lane.’
‘Dana
Lane ! Too sappy.
Good for your average wet-behind-the-ears love story. No good for this. What's it called by the way.’
‘Double Crossed for Death.’
Klein winced.
‘Never overdo the alliteration,
kid. We can change it anyhow. Flesh it out.’
‘Well, there are these two
detectives. It’s the fifties.’
‘The fifties, I like it. I was a kid then. 'Bout your age.’
‘One's lookin’ at retirement,
the other younger - cooler-headed, less impulsive but he's got a
conscience. They hit a case that goes
sideways. Mayor’s involved.’
‘Cop drama.’
Klein mused.
‘Yeah. Anyway the whole thing comes on top. Chief witness takes a bullet . . .’
‘Let me guess. The older cop pulls the trigger. Sloppy in his old age ?’
The kid looked at him
quizzically.
‘Okay, go on.’
‘Well the older cop lams
it. Takes a hostage. They got him holed up. But the cop’s threatening to blow the joint
up.’
The kid said, glint in his eye.
‘Too by-the-numbers. How ‘bout they try to pin it on the partner. Let him take the fall before he gets his
papers. He finds out. Lams it.
Department issues the APB, then the stuff with the hostage.’
Hersch concluded, turning to
his young companion. This time it was
the kid’s turn to jump in.
The pair walked and
talked. Klein chewed as he listened.