L.A. Times Page 8

  “This is very kind of you, Leo,” Michael said, meaning it.

  “Not at all.” Leo leaned back on the sofa and threw a leg onto the cushions. “Now. Let me tell you about Centurion. You may already have heard some of it, but I’ll tell you again.”

  “Fine.”

  “Centurion was founded in 1937 by Sol Weinman, who had run an important unit at MGM for Irving Thalberg. When Thalberg died, Sol couldn’t stomach being directly under L. B. Mayer, so he got out. Sol was a rich man—inherited—and he got some other rich men together and started Centurion. They bought a broken-down Poverty Row studio that had some good real estate, built four soundstages, and started to make pictures. It was tough at first, because they had to borrow talent from the majors and that was expensive, but they had a string of hit pictures, and by the time the war was over Sol had bought out his partners and had a profitable studio. He ran his own show, the way Sam Goldwyn did, and his pictures were at least as good. When TV came along, he didn’t get hurt quite as badly as MGM and the other big studios; his overhead was lower, and he kept on making good pictures until he died twenty years ago.

  “The studio floundered around for a while, had some hits and some flops, but it was going downhill pretty fast. Fifteen years ago, I borrowed a lot of money and put together a deal with some investors to buy the studio from Sol’s widow. I kept control. I moved in here, sold the back lot to some developers, paid off most of the debt with the proceeds, and Centurion was back in business. I expect you know our output pretty well since then.”

  “Yes, I do, and I admire it.”

  “Thanks, you ought to; we do good work here. I keep the overhead low; we rent a lot of space to people whose work I like—you’ve seen the signs outside the buildings.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hung onto props and costumes, mostly out of sentiment, I guess, and we rent to everybody; just about breaks even. We’ve still got the four soundstages Sol built, plus two more, and we keep ’em busy. We make a dozen or so pictures a year, and a lot more get made on the lot by independents.” Leo leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

  “What I want from you is a new picture next year, while you’re getting your feet on the ground, and then two pictures a year after that. I want good work on tight budgets, commercial enough to make money. We’ve had a blockbuster or two around here, but that’s not what pays the rent. We do it with good material, intelligently made, year in and year out. Once in a while I like a beautiful little picture, something a little arty that doesn’t lose too much money. It’s good for the studio, and you can get expensive talent to work cheap in a project like that. You cop an occasional Oscar that way, too.

  “I have broad tastes; I like cop movies, comedies, heavy drama, classy horror, medical stories, westerns, biographies, musicals—God, I love musicals, but you can’t make ’em any more without losing your ass. I’m very leery of blockbuster-type material, unless there’s an absolutely superb script before another dime is spent. I tell you the truth, if Arnold Schwarzenegger came to me today with just an idea for something like that, I’d say, ‘Thank you very much, Arnold, but fuck off until you’ve got a script that puts my blood pressure dangerously up.’ I swear to God. What makes a blockbuster a blockbuster changes so quickly that it scares me to death. My idea of a nightmare is a movie—any kind of movie—that goes into production without a perfected script. I know, I know, Casablanca started without a finished script, but that’s a very wild exception. Don’t ever come to me, Michael, with a script you know is half-baked and ask me to make it. Don’t ever commit me to a star without a finished script. You’ll end up making a hash of it, trying to get it written while the star is still available, and you’ll hurt us both. If you’ve got a good script, there’s always a star available, believe me.

  “We’ve got a television production company on the lot that does very nicely. If you come across something you don’t want to make, but that you think would make a good TV movie, mini-series, or series, send it to me. You’ll make friends on the lot that way. Speaking of making friends, you’re going to have a hard time doing that. Studio executives are envious of guys with production deals, and my people are no exception. They make a lot of money for what they do, but they know that you have the potential of making a hell of a lot more, and that drives ’em crazy, so if you want to get along with the people in this building, work at it. Do them favors, compliment their work, kiss their asses when you can stomach it, and if somebody gets in your way, go around him, not through him.

  “I know you’re smart, Michael, and I don’t have to tell you this, but I’m going to anyway. You’re a young guy, good-looking, in a glamorous business with money to throw around. Be careful. Don’t get into debt—in fact, pay cash for everything you possibly can. Don’t use drugs. I’ve seen fifty bright young guys go right down the tubes on that stuff. Don’t let your dick get in the way of your business. I’m glad to hear you’ve got a girl, because there are ten thousand women in this town who will suck your cock for a walk-on as a hatcheck girl in a bad movie, and a thousand who can do it so well they’ll make you forget your business and do the wrong thing.”

  Leo sat back and took a deep breath. “That’s all I can think of at the moment.”

  “Thank you, Leo,” Michael said. “It’s all good advice, and I’ll try to follow it.”

  “Now,” Leo said. “About Downtown Nights. I’m going to open it on a total of nine screens in New York and L.A. the week before Thanksgiving.”

  Michael’s face fell, and he started to speak.

  Leo held up a hand. “Wait a minute,” he said, “let me finish. I’m going to run it for two weeks, then pull it until after the New Year. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas I’m going to screen the shit out of it on the lot, and we’re going to get some good word-of-mouth going. Then, in mid-January, when a lot of big Christmas releases are starting to drop out of sight, I’m going to open it on twelve hundred screens and spend eight million dollars on advertising and promotion. It’s good timing for the Academy Awards, and believe me, Carol Geraldi is going to be nominated. We’ll do thirty, forty million, and with what we’ve got invested, that’ll be a solid hit for us.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Michael said.

  “Damn right,” Leo said, looking at his watch. “I’ve got a lunch,” he said. “I wanted to take you somewhere, but this can’t be postponed. You take the rest of the day off; your office won’t be ready until tomorrow anyway, and you need to get moved into your new place. Come over to the house early tomorrow night—say, six o’clock—that’ll give us an hour to talk before the others get there. I want to hear about what you want to do next.”

  “Fine, I’ll look forward to it.”

  Leo walked to his desk, retrieved a sheet of paper, then walked Michael to the door. “Here,” he said, handing him the paper. “I had Helen put this together for you, stuff you’ll need. Doctor, dentist, bank, barber, maid service, florist, caterer, whatever I could think of. There’s a list of good restaurants. I’ve had Helen call them and tell them who you are, so don’t worry about getting in. My address and home phone are there, too. See you tomorrow at six.”

  Five minutes later, Michael stood in the parking lot and watched Leo Goldman being driven off in an enormous Mercedes. Through the back window, he could see the phone at Leo’s ear.

  He got into the Porsche and just sat for a moment, remembering everything Leo had said. Michael had a superb memory. He could have recited it all verbatim.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Michael had a prearranged appointment downtown at 2:30, and there was time to stop along the way and shop for a car phone. He bought a handheld portable, too, and left the car for the phone installation. He took a shopping bag from the trunk and walked to his meeting a few blocks away.

  He checked the directory in the lobby of a gleaming skyscraper and took the elevator to the top floor, to the offices of a discreet private bank. The Kensington Trust, t
he lettering on the glass doors told him, was based in London and had branches in New York, Los Angeles, Bermuda, Hong Kong, and the Cayman Islands.

  At the reception desk he gave his name as Vincente Callabrese and asked for Derek Winfield. He was shown immediately to a panelled office with a spectacular view of the L.A. smog.

  Winfield, a tall, thin man in his fifties wearing a Savile Row suit, rose to meet him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Callabrese,” he said, extending a soft and beautifully manicured hand, “I’ve been expecting you.” He offered Michael a chair.

  “How do you do, Mr. Winfield?” Michael replied. “I expect you’ve been told of my banking needs.”

  “Yes, yes, our mutual friend in New York called a week ago. We’re always happy to do business with friends of his. Have you known each other long?”

  “Mr. Winfield,” Michael said, ignoring the question, “I would like to open an investment account with you.”

  “Of course,” Winfield replied. “I understood from Mr. Provensano that you also had something in mind.”

  “That’s correct,” Michael said, taking an envelope from his pocket. “Here is a cashier’s check on my New York bank for six hundred and sixty thousand dollars.” He placed the shopping bag on Winfield’s desk. “There is a further one hundred thousand dollars cash in this bag.” He endorsed the cashier’s check. “I want to invest the entire amount on the street.”

  “I see,” Winfield said. “What sort of a return were you anticipating on your investment?”

  “Our friend said I could expect three percent a week; that’s good enough for me.”

  “I think we can manage that,” Winfield replied. “How would you like to collect the interest?”

  “I’d like to roll it into the principal each week. From time to time I may withdraw some capital, but I expect this to be an investment of at least a year, perhaps much longer.” Michael knew that if he took the interest each week, the annual income on his investment would be in excess of a million dollars, but if he let the interest ride, compounding weekly, his income would be much, much more, and it would be tax-free. The loan sharks would be lending his money at ten percent a week, so everybody would make money.

  “Will you require facilities for, ah, movement of funds?” Winfield asked.

  “Perhaps; I’m not certain at the moment.”

  “There would, of course, be a charge for that service.”

  “Of course. In such a case, how would the money be returned to me?”

  “We could arrange for you to collect fees as a consultant to one of a number of corporations,” Winfield explained. “You would have to pay taxes on the proceeds, of course, since the relevant corporation would be filing Form 1099 with the Internal Revenue Service. We could also move the funds through our Cayman branch, but in order to have safe access to them in this country you would have to travel there and return with cash. One must be careful with large sums of cash these days.”

  “I understand.”

  “If you will wait a moment, I’ll get you a receipt. Oh, how shall I list the name and address of the account?”

  “My name, but no address; just keep my statements on file here, and I’ll pick them up when it’s necessary.”

  Winfield smiled. “Of course,” he said, then left the room.

  Michael wandered around the office, inspecting paintings and looking out at the view. A few minutes later, Winfield returned.

  “Here is your receipt,” the banker said.

  Winfield saw him to the elevator. “You may call me at any time for a confirmation of your current balance,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Michael replied. He boarded the elevator, pressed the button for the lobby, and rode down feeling very rich.

  That night, Michael and Vanessa dined at Granita, Wolfgang Puck’s new restaurant in Malibu. The head-waiter had been solicitous when Michael had called at the last minute. Leo Goldman’s name worked wonders.

  They sipped champagne while Michael touched on the highlights of his day. “What did you do?” Michael asked.

  “Oh, I moved our luggage into the apartment and got the phone working, then I did a little shopping on Rodeo Drive.”

  “How much did you spend?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked kittenishly.

  “Not at all,” he laughed. “It comes out of your pay. But then, you’re very well paid, aren’t you?”

  “I’d like a car, Michael. Do you think that would be all right?”

  “Of course; what would you like?”

  “One of those new Mercedes convertibles, I think. Silver.”

  “I think you can afford that,” he said.

  “When do I start to earn my keep?” she asked.

  “You mean, when do you become a movie star?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” she said.

  “You begin tomorrow night,” Michael said, touching his glass to hers. “All you have to do is relax and be your charming self.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Michael arrived at his offices the following morning and was not surprised to find workmen in the place. A pair of men were hammering in one of the small offices off the reception room. Hollywood or not, he thought, nobody could put all this together in a day.

  The doors to his office had been replaced by a heavy, dark-stained oaken set; he passed through and stopped, staring. He was standing in the study from The Great Randolph, complete in every detail. One entire wall, floor to ceiling, was covered with bookcases, and they were filled with leatherbound books in matched sets. The opposite wall was panelled and covered in paintings that looked English—portraits of men in uniform and women in ball gowns, landscapes and still lifes, and one or two that appeared to be old masters. In that wall was a huge fireplace, and over the mantel hung a full-length portrait of Randolph himself, replete in white tie and tails, looking sternly toward Michael.

  “A very impressive fellow, isn’t he?” a voice behind him said.

  Michael turned to find George Hathaway standing there.

  “Sir Henry Algood as Randolph,” Hathaway said. “I knew him well, before the war. Mind you, the portrait adds about a head in height to the old boy, that’s why he loved it so much. He tried a dozen times to buy it, but he and Sol Weinman had some sort of falling out, and it gave Mr. Weinman the greatest pleasure to deny him the picture.”

  “George, I’m overwhelmed by the room,” Michael said.

  “Let me show you a few modifications,” Hathaway said. “The width was perfect, but the room was about eight inches too long for the set. We made a false wall, then made good around the windows.” He opened a cupboard to reveal a gas bottle. “This runs the fireplace. Don’t ask how we did the flue, and don’t, for Christ’s sake, ever try to burn anything but gas in it.” He walked across the room and behind the massive desk facing the fireplace, then pulled out a couple of large drawers. “We managed to conceal a couple of filing cabinets in here, but if you run out of space we’ll have to add some cabinets to the reception room. Incidentally, we’ve found some panelling for that area that matches this pretty well, and there’s a good desk for out there, too. Not a single one of the books is anything but a spine,” he said, hooking a fingernail over one and pulling away a whole row of them to reveal a small wet bar. He opened another spine-concealed door and showed Michael a small refrigerator with an icemaker.

  “It’s astonishing,” Michael said, meaning it. “This really is Hollywood, isn’t it?”

  “As real as it gets,” Hathaway said.

  Michael set his briefcase on the desk and took out a copy of Pacific Afternoons. “George,” he said, handing him the book, “have you ever read this?”

  “No,” Hathaway replied, “but I know a little about it.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d read it. I’d like to get your advice on how it might be designed for a film.”

  “Of course, Michael, glad to.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Helen Gordo
n appeared, followed by a tall, handsome woman who appeared to be in her early forties, wearing a well-designed business suit.

  “I’d better get going,” Hathaway said. “I’ll read this tonight.” He left the room and Michael was alone with the two women.

  “Mr. Vincent,” Helen said, “I’d like you to meet Margot Gladstone.”

  “How do you do?” the woman said.

  Michael shook the woman’s hand, admiring her poise and the low, mellifluous voice that accompanied it. “I’m very glad to meet you, Ms. Gladstone.”

  Helen spoke again. “Mr. Goldman has suggested that Margot serve as your secretary. She’s been with the studio for quite some time, and he thought she might help you find your feet.”

  “That was very kind of him,” Michael said. “Perhaps Ms. Gladstone and I could have a talk?”

  “Of course,” Helen said. “Call me if there’s anything you need.” She took her leave.

  “Will you have a seat, Ms. Gladstone?” Michael asked, showing her to one of the leather Chesterfield sofas before the fireplace.

  “Thank you,” she replied, sitting down and crossing her long legs. “And please do call me Margot.”

  “Thank you, Margot.” Michael caught her accent. “I didn’t realize at first that you were British.”

  “I was, a very long time ago,” she replied. “I’ve been in this country since I was nineteen.”

  “It hasn’t harmed your accent a bit,” he said.

  She smiled broadly, revealing beautiful teeth. “Thank you. I learned early on that Hollywood loves an English accent, so I made a point of hanging on to it.”

  Michael sat down opposite her and regarded her quizzically. “Certainly I can use someone who is at home in the studio,” he said, “but I’m puzzled about something.”

  “Perhaps I can clear it up for you?”