Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3 Page 10

  Daniel now turned to Carmel. “I’m sorry, love. I couldn’t tell you!” he said. “This was a crime, what Mrs. Sarah and I did. Putting those people in jail. I wanted to, I wanted to tell you a hundred times. I couldn’t let you get involved.”

  Carmel was regarding her husband. “And the money…You said you were opening an account for the girls’ school…And you always had those fifty-dollar bills. I always wondered.”

  Sarah said, “He risked a lot to save me. I was very appreciative.” Her voice faded. “And now I think it’s time for my nap. I’d invite you to come down but it’s probably not a good idea for either of you to visit a dead woman, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Sarah.”

  “Good-bye, Carmel.”

  Both women held their hands up in waves of farewell and Eddie Caruso, a good judge of timing, clicked the TV off.

  Caruso said good-bye to the family, suspecting there would be more discussion of the events between husband and wife on the way home. He thought about lowering the bill yet more, but decided against it. After all, he’d done the job, and the case had had more or less a happy ending.

  Even if it was entirely unexpected.

  But that’s another thing about Game, maybe what really defines a person or event as Game or not: You never know ahead of time how it’s going to turn out.

  Speaking of which…

  Eddie Caruso propped up his iPad and typed on the keyboard. He was just in time to see Tottenham versus Everton. Fantastic.

  You could never lose with Premier League football.

  Well, soccer.

  BUMP

  HAT IN HAND.

  There was no other way to describe it.

  Aside from the flashy secretary, the middle-aged man in jeans and a sports coat was alone, surveying the glassy waiting room, which overlooked Century City’s Avenue of the Stars. No, not that one, with the footprints in concrete (that was Hollywood Boulevard, about five miles from here). This street was an ordinary office park of hotels and high-rises, near an okay shopping center and a pretty-good TV network.

  Checking out the flowers (fresh), the art (originals), the secretary (a wannabe, like nine-tenths of the other help in L.A.).

  How many waiting rooms had he been in just like this, over his thirty-some years in the industry? Mike O’Connor wondered.

  He couldn’t even begin to guess.

  O’Connor was now examining a purple orchid, trying to shake the thought: Here I am begging, hat in hand.

  But he couldn’t.

  Nor could he ditch the adjunct thought: This is your last goddamn chance.

  A faint buzz from somewhere on the woman’s desk. She was blond and O’Connor, who tended to judge women by a very high standard, his wife, thought she was attractive enough. Though, this being Hollywood, attractive enough for what? was a legitimate question and sadly the answer to that was: not enough for leading roles. A pretty character actress, walk-ons. We’re in the toughest business on the face of the earth, baby, he thought to her.

  She put down the phone. “He’ll see you now, Mr. O’Connor.” She rose to get the door for him.

  “That’s okay. I’ll get it…Good luck.” He’d seen her reading a script.

  She didn’t know what he meant.

  O’Connor closed the door behind him and Aaron Felter, a fit man in his early thirties, wearing expensive slacks and a dark gray shirt without a tie, rose to greet him.

  “Mike. My God, it’s been two years.”

  “Your dad’s funeral.”

  “Right.”

  “How’s your mom doing?”

  “Scandal. She’s dating! A production designer over on the Universal lot. At least he’s only five years younger. But he wears an earring.”

  “Give her my best.”

  “Will do.”

  Felter’s father had been a director of photography for a time on O’Connor’s TV show in the eighties. He’d been a talented man and wily…and a voice of reason in the chaotic world of weekly television.

  They carried on a bit of conversation about their own families—neither particularly interested, but such was the protocol of business throughout the world.

  Then because this wasn’t just business, it was Hollywood, the moment soon arrived when it was okay to cut to the chase.

  Felter tapped the packet of material O’Connor had sent. “I read it, Mike. It’s a real interesting concept. Tell me a little more.”

  O’Connor knew the difference between “it’s interesting” and “I’m interested.” But he continued to describe the proposal for a new TV series in more depth.

  Michael O’Connor had been hot in the late seventies and eighties. He’d starred in several prime-time dramas—featuring a law firm, an EMT facility and, most successfully, the famous Homicide Detail. The show lasted for seven seasons, which was a huge success.

  It had been a great time. O’Connor, a UCLA film grad, had always been serious about acting and Homicide Detail was cutting-edge TV. It was gritty, was shot with handheld cameras and the writers (O’Connor cowrote scripts from time to time) weren’t afraid to blow away a main character occasionally or let the bad guy get off. An LAPD detective, who became a good friend of O’Connor’s, was the show consultant and he worked them hard to get the details right. The shows dealt with religion, abortion, race, terrorism, sex, anything. “Cutting-edge storytelling, creativity on steroids” was the New York Times’s assessment of the show and those few words meant more to O’Connor than the Emmy nomination (he lost to an actor from Law & Order, a thoroughly noble defeat).

  But then the series folded and it was drought time.

  He couldn’t get work—not the kind of work that was inspired and challenging. His agent sent him scripts with absurd premises or that were hackneyed rip-offs of his own show or sitcoms, which he had no patience or talent for. And O’Connor collected his residual checks (and signed most of them over to the Ivy League schools his daughters attended) and kept trying to survive in a town where he’d actually heard someone say of Richard III, “You mean it was a play, too?”

  But O’Connor was interested in more than acting. He had a vision. There’s a joke in Hollywood that, when looking for a project to turn into a film or series, producers want something that’s completely original and yet has been wildly successful in the past. There is, however, some truth to that irony. And for years O’Connor had it in mind to do a project that was fresh but still was rooted in television history: each week a different story, with new characters. Like TV from the 1950s and ’60s: Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Playhouse 90, The Twilight Zone. Sometimes drama, sometimes comedy, sometimes science fiction.

  He’d written a proposal and the pilot script and then shopped Stories all over Hollywood and to the BBC, Sky and Channel 4 in England, as well—but everyone passed. The only major producer he hadn’t contacted was Aaron Felter, since the man’s dad and O’Connor had been friends and he hadn’t wanted to unfairly pressure him. Besides, Felter wasn’t exactly in the stratosphere himself. His various production companies had backed some losing TV and film projects recently and he couldn’t afford to take any risks.

  Still, O’Connor was desperate.

  Hence, hat in hand.

  Felter nodded, listening attentively as O’Connor pitched his idea. He was good; he’d done it many times in the past year.

  There was a knock and a large man, dressed similarly to Felter, walked into the office without being formally admitted. His youth and the reverential look he gave to Felter told O’Connor immediately he was a production assistant—the backbone of most TV and film companies. The man, with an effeminate manner, gave a pleasant smile to O’Connor, long enough of a gaze to make him want to say, I’m straight, but thanks for the compliment.

  The PA said to Felter, “He passed.”

  “He what?”

  “Yep. I was beside myself.”

  “He said he was in.”

  “He’s not in. He’s out.”

 
; The elliptical conversation—probably about an actor who’d agreed to do something but backed out at the last minute because of a better offer—continued for a few minutes.

  As they dealt with the emergency, O’Connor tuned out and glanced at the walls of the man’s office. Like many producers’ it was covered with posters. Some were of the shows that Felter had created. Others were of recent films—those starring Mark Wahlberg, Kate Winslet, Ethan Hawke, Tobey Maguire, Keira Knightley. And, curiously, some were of films that O’Connor remembered fondly from his childhood, the great classics like The Guns of Navarone, The Dirty Dozen, The Magnificent Seven, Bullitt.

  The actor remembered that he and Felter’s dad would sometimes hang out for a beer after the week’s shooting for Homicide Detail had wrapped. Of course, they’d gossip about the shenanigans on the set but they’d also talk about their shared passion: feature films. O’Connor recalled that often young Aaron would join them, their conversations helping to plant the seeds of the boy’s future career.

  Felter and the bodybuilder of a production assistant concluded their discussion of the actor crisis. The producer shook his head. “Okay, find somebody else. But I’m talking one day, tops.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Felter grimaced. “People make a commitment, you’d think they’d stick to it. Was it different back then?”

  “Back then?”

  “The Homicide Detail days?”

  “Not really. There were good people and bad people.”

  “The bad ones, fuck ’em,” Felter summarized. “Anyway, sorry for the interruption.”

  O’Connor nodded.

  The producer rocked back in a sumptuous leather chair. “I’ve got to be honest with you, Mike.”

  Ah, one of the more-often-used rejections. O’Connor at least gave him credit for meeting with him in person to deliver the bad news; Felter had a staff of assistants, like Mr. America, who could’ve called and left a message. He could even just have mailed back the materials. O’Connor had included a self-addressed, stamped envelope.

  “We just couldn’t sell episodic TV like this nowadays. We have to go with what’s hot. People want reality, sitcoms, traditional drama. Look at Arrested Development. Brilliant. But they couldn’t keep it afloat.” Another tap of O’Connor’s proposal for Stories. “This is groundbreaking. But to the industry now, that word scares ’em. It’s like it’s literal: an earthquake. Natural disaster. Everybody wants formula. Syndicators want formula, stations want formula, the audience, too. They want a familiar team, predictable conflicts. White guy, black guy, hot chick, Asian guy who knows computers. The way of the world, Mike.”

  “So you’re saying that Entourage is just The Honeymooners with the F word.”

  “Naw, I’d say more Leave It to Beaver. A family, you know. But, yeah, that’s exactly what it is. Hell, Mike, I wish I could help you out. My dad, rest his soul, loved working on your show. He said you were a genius. But we’ve gotta go with the trends.”

  “Trends change. Wouldn’t you like to be part of a new one?”

  “Not really.” Felter laughed. “And you know why? Because I’m a coward. We’re all cowards, Mike.”

  O’Connor couldn’t help but smile himself.

  On his show, O’Connor had played a Columbo kind of cop. Sharp, nothing got by him. Mike Olson the cop on Homicide Detail wasn’t a lot different from Mike O’Connor the actor. He looked Felter over carefully. “What else?”

  Felter placed his hands on his massive glass desk. “What can I say? Come on, Mike. You’re not a kid anymore.”

  “This is no industry for old men,” he’d say, paraphrasing William Butler Yeats’s line from “Sailing to Byzantium.”

  In general men have a longer shelf life than women in TV and films, but there are limits. Mike O’Connor was fifty-eight years old.

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t want to star. I’ll play character from time to time, just for the fun of it. We’ll have a new lead every week. We could get Damon or DiCaprio, Scarlett Johansson, Cate Blanchett. People like that.”

  “Oh, you can?” Felter wryly responded to the enviable wish list.

  “Or the youngster of the month. Up-and-coming talent.”

  “It’s brilliant, Mike. It’s just not salable.”

  “Well, Aaron, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thanks for seeing me. I mean that. A lot of people wouldn’t have.”

  They chatted a bit more about family and local sports teams and then O’Connor could see that it was time to go. Something in Felter’s body language said he had another meeting to take.

  They shook hands. O’Connor respected the fact that Felter didn’t end the conversation with “Let’s get together sometime.” When people in his position said that to people in O’Connor’s, the lunch dates were invariably canceled at the last minute.

  O’Connor was at the door when he heard Felter say, “Hey, Mike. Hold on a minute.”

  The actor turned and noted the producer was looking at him closely with furrowed brows: O’Connor’s flop of graying blond hair, the broad shoulders, trim hips. Like most professional actors—whether working or not—Mike O’Connor stayed in shape.

  “Something just occurred to me. Take a pew again.” Nodding at the chair.

  O’Connor sat and observed a curious smile on Felter’s face. His eyes were sparkling.

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  “Which is?”

  “You might not like it at first. But there’s a method to my madness.”

  “Sanity hasn’t worked for me, Aaron. I’ll listen to madness.”

  “You play poker?”

  “Of course I play poker.”

  * * *

  O’CONNOR AND DIANE were sitting on the patio of their house in the hills off Beverly Glen, the winding road connecting West Hollywood and Beverly Hills to the San Fernando Valley. It was a pleasant house, but modest. They’d lived here for years and he couldn’t imagine another abode.

  He sipped the wine he’d brought them both out from the kitchen.

  “Thanks, lover,” she said. Diane, petite, feisty and wry, was a real estate broker and she and O’Connor had been together for thirty years, with never an affair between them, a testament to the fact that not all Hollywood marriages are doomed.

  She poured more wine.

  The patio overlooked a pleasant valley—now tinted blue at dusk. Directly beneath them was a gorgeous house. Occasionally film crews would disappear inside, the shades would be drawn, then the crews would emerge five hours later. This part of California was the number-one producer of pornography in the world.

  “So, here’s what Felter’s proposing,” he told her. “Celebrity poker.”

  “Okay,” Diane said dubiously. “Go on.” Her voice was yawning.

  “No, no. I was skeptical at first, too. But listen to this. It’s apparently a big deal. For one thing it airs during Sweeps Week.”

  The week during which the networks presented the shows with the biggest draw to suck up the viewership rating points.

  “Really?”

  “And it’s live.”

  “Live TV?”

  “Yep.” O’Connor went on to explain the premise of Go For Broke.

  “So it’s live, sleazy reality TV. What makes it any different?”

  “Have some more wine” was O’Connor’s answer.

  “Uh-oh.”

  O’Connor explained that what set Go For Broke apart from typical celebrity poker shows was that on this one the contestants would be playing with their own money. Real money. Not for charity contributions, like the usual celeb gambling programs.

  “What?”

  “Aaron’s view is that reality TV isn’t real at all. Nobody’s got anything to lose. Survivor, Fear Factor…there’s really no risk. The people who climb walls or walk on girders’re tethered and they’ve got spotters everywhere. And eating worms isn’t going to kill you.”

  Savvy businesswoman Diane O’Connor said, “Get
back to the ‘our own money’ part.”

  “The stakes are a quarter million. We come in with that.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Nope. It’s true. And we play with cash on the table. No chips. Like riverboat gamblers.”

  “And the networks’re behind it?”

  “Huge. The ad budget alone’s twenty-five million. National print, TV, radio, transit ads…everything. The time slot for the first show is after Central Park West and on Thursday it’s right after Hostage.”

  CPW was the hottest comedy since Friends, and Hostage was the season’s biggest crime drama, a 24-kind of action show.

  “Okay, it’s big. And we can probably get our hands on the money but we can’t afford for you to lose it, Mike. And even if you win, okay, you make a million dollars. We could do that in a couple of years in the real estate market. So, what’s in it for you?”

  “Oh, it’s not about the money. It has nothing to do with that.”

  “Then what’s it about?”

  “The bump.”

  “The bump? What is that? A Hollywoodism?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Why use a dozen words to express yourself exactly when you can use a buzzword?”

  He explained to his wife, in a slightly censored fashion, what Aaron Felter had told him earlier: “Mike, buddy, a bump is a leg up. It’s getting recognized on the media radar. It’s grabbing the limelight. A bump means you’re fuckable. A bump gets your name in the trades and Entertainment Tonight. You haven’t had a bump for years. You need one.”

  O’Connor had asked Felter, “So you’re saying that if I’m in this game, I get a bump?”

  “No, I’m saying if you win the game, you get a bump. Will it get you a housekeeping deal at a studio? I don’t know. But it’ll open doors. And I’ll tell you if you win, I promise I’ll take your proposal for Stories to the people I’ve got deals with. Again, am I promising they’ll green-light it? No, but it’ll get me in the front door.”

  He now said to Diane, “All the contestants’re like me. At a certain level, but not where we want to be. They’re from a cross section of entertainment industries, music, acting, stand-up comedy.”