登陆注册
10813500000004

第4章

Griffin told Jan to get Mary Netter. After a moment she told him that Mary was in a meeting. Griffin said it was important, Jan put him on hold, and in a few seconds Mary got on the line.

"What's up? I'm in a meeting."

"I've got a question. How long do you have to wait before you've waited long enough?"

"Is this a plot point?"

"Yes."

"What are we waiting for?"

"This is an etiquette problem, a thank-you letter. How long do you wait for one?"

"Someone sends a gift, she doesn't get a thank-you note and she gets really steamed?"

"He. And he gets mad enough to pick a fight."

"A man is getting this angry? This is a comedy, no?"

"It's just an idea right now."

"If this isn't a comedy, a man shouldn't get that angry. You're describing indignation, which is not for heroes of movies. Whose idea is this?"

"Forget the film for a minute. How long would you wait before you'd waited long enough?"

"When I give a gift to someone and the gift and the person are special to me, I get very excited every time I imagine the person unwrapping the box. If it's for a girl, I think about her saving the ribbon, because I save the ribbon. So, if you've sent the gift by mail, or even if you had the store deliver it, how long does that take? Three days local, a week to New York? If you send something nice and you don't hear back within two weeks, you have a right to be really angry—if they got the gift, of course—unless they got run over by a truck. You imagine your friend with this precious thing and he's enjoying it, but he's not responding. Maybe he hated it. He doesn't know what to say about it. Is that possible?"

"Very possible."

"Well, you think that he hates it, which is just as bad. So you start to resent him, and then you wish you hadn't sent the gift. Maybe it was too extravagant and the person who got it doesn't know what to say, maybe you overestimated the friendship, maybe it's only in your mind. You've sent something valuable, and the person who got it didn't really like you before, and now he's even a little scared of you because only a lunatic would be so generous to a casual acquaintance. Anyway, if the person who sent the gift is really quite proper, then he'd be angry in two weeks. If he brooded a lot, he'd be ready to kill in four or five weeks."

"Who said anything about killing?"

"It's funnier if he wants to kill. This is a comedy, no?"

"You can tell me when you read it, when it's finished."

They said good-bye. Griffin thought that she might have lied about being in a meeting, because she had talked for such a long time without apologizing to anyone in the room. Maybe she had signaled with her hands, like a referee, time out, or maybe she had just talked on while someone in the office sat dumbly, trying to read a memo or a magazine on the coffee table. Maybe she was flattered that he had called her and she didn't want to lose what he was saying, so she ignored, as a matter of survival, that which was not essential, and what was not essential included whomever she had in her office. In that case, if she dropped a meeting for him, then he had not lost too much power at the studio, and Larry Levy would have to fight Griffin's partisans.

Griffin turned the calendar back six weeks. He wished he had asked how long someone might hold a grudge before forgetting about it. A year? Six months? How much hope had he given the Writer? What if the idea the Writer pitched was a comedy and the Writer had made Griffin laugh a few times, or what if the Writer had described a scene that reminded Griffin of his own childhood and he had said so? In either case, the Writer would have gone home and called his agent and described the meeting as the best of his life, because he had made Griffin Mill laugh or cry. He could have been so rapturous that he'd have called his agent from a pay phone on the lot and then, on his way home, stopped at a car dealer and asked for the price of convertibles. Maybe he took a few friends to dinner that night, that's how confident he was of the impending deal, behaving with the guileless generosity of someone who always has a wallet full of twenty-dollar bills.

If the meeting had been early in the week, the Writer might have expected a call from Griffin before the weekend, but his agent would have cautioned him to let a solid week pass, to give Griffin a chance to talk it over with Levison. When had the Writer realized the bad news? Monday afternoon? Had he stayed by the phone at all? Had he checked and rechecked his answering machine? Had he bothered his agent, or his agent's secretary, calling before lunch and then right after lunch to see if Griffin had started the process for making a deal? And then Monday night, and no call. And then Tuesday. More hope on Tuesday. Happiness on Tuesday, confidence on Tuesday. And no call from Griffin on Tuesday. And by the weekend? The agent had told the Writer to face the truth. And did the Writer then fight with his agent? Did the agent tell the Writer he had spoken to Griffin and that Griffin was passing on the project? That was likely. The agent would have known not to call him. Or else he had called, and Griffin hadn't returned that call, and the agent knew to let go, not to make himself a pest. And how long before the Writer wanted to murder?

Griffin was scared. This was not a hypothetical situation. This was not a practical joke. He believed the Writer. He believed that the Writer wanted to kill him. It made sense.

The phone rang. Jan said, "Witcover." A producer. Griffin took the call, and immediately Witcover started to scream at him about the studio's charges for an overseas distribution fee on a picture he had made three years ago.

"That's not my picture," said Griffin. "Who was the exec?"

"Susan Alper, and she's at MGM now, Griffin."

"I'm not in charge of distribution. Why are you calling me?"

"You're supposed to be my friend."

"Then why are you yelling at me?"

"It's how I do business."

"There's something else going on, what is it? You're holding something back from me, I can hear it in your voice."

"Okay. Because you're a fucking executive, Griffin, you're a corporation man, you're not a moviemaker, you're not a showman. I've made five movies. Have you ever read an article in a newspaper and then found a writer and worked on the story together? I mean, all the way from day one to setting it up at a studio, and then finding a director, and then finding a star, and then getting it made, and staying up for postproduction, and then going to a preview in fucking Denver, Colorado, and seen your movie, with your name, on the big screen? Have you, you little shit? A three-line idea from a newspaper, and two years later you take home three million dollars after taxes? A three-line idea and you take it all the way to cable and cassette? Have you ever done that? It's easy to buy things, Griffin. Why don't you come outside and try to sell something?"

"I'm in a meeting right now. Why are you saying all this to me?"

"Because I'm rich, because I don't give a shit. Because you said you liked Gossip but you didn't fight for it, and it's in turnaround now, and guess what, I set it up with Susan Alper. So fuck you. That's right. You're history, Griffin." And then Griffin held the phone for no reason, because no one was on the line.

He would need a complete list of everyone he had seen in the last year, would need their phone numbers. Everything was in Jan's desk; she kept phone numbers in the calendar in case meetings had to be canceled. He could ask for it, but he had no excuse. This year's was on her desk. Last year's was probably in a file cabinet. He could send her away, he thought, but if he told her to pick up a story synopsis from the files on another floor, someone might come into the office and find him rummaging around. He would have to wait until night. He often worked until eight or nine. It would be easy to find the calendars.

His own calendar told him that he was having dinner with Bonnie Sherow. He flipped backward through the months; her name appeared at least every other week. She was a production vice president at Paramount. Griffin had taken her to Mexico, to Cabo San Lucas, for three days, soon after they met, and they talked about moving in with each other. When they decided not to, admitting defeat to convenience, Griffin saw for a moment, in the light of that resignation, that they had been in love. By then it was too late. For a while he thought she was in love with someone new, or testing a possibility, but if she had been, it was over. It had just been a feeling. She never mentioned anyone. He thought she might have been seeing someone who was married, someone at work.

He called her. "I have to cancel tonight."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm the one who's supposed to apologize. Anyway, we've got the Motion Picture Home thing coming up, we'll be together then." Griffin offered this without conviction. They'd made the date months ago. Did she care anymore?

"I'm in a meeting now. Call me tomorrow."

Griffin wanted to rush down the hall and look for a meeting so he could tell everyone in the room about the frightful postcards. Would they comfort him or laugh? The impulse to share his terror brought on a rush of humiliation; he would have felt like the child who calls the teacher "Mommy."

He told Jan to get Larry Levy, who took the call immediately.

"Congratulations," said Griffin, "I just heard the good news."

"I'm looking forward to this, I really am. We're going to have fun, we're going to make some good movies, and we're going to make some money."

"We should have lunch."

"Tomorrow. I'll cancel mine if you'll cancel yours." It was understood that they both had scheduled lunches.

"Done," said Griffin. "Clint Eastwood I can always see."

Griffin's little joke had cost him the first round. They both knew he wouldn't cancel Clint Eastwood. They both knew he wouldn't have lunch with Eastwood unless Levison were there.

Jan buzzed him, this time Sandra Kinroy, an agent, wanted to set up a meeting with a new client. "Has he had anything produced?" asked Griffin.

Kinroy sighed. "Read the script, Griffin."

"Would I want to make this movie?"

"I'd like to see it."

"Then I know I wouldn't want to make it."

"I hear Larry Levy is coming over."

"And you're wondering if you should even bother setting up meetings with me, is that it?"

"Will you read the script? It's a lovely script, he's a lovely man, and you'd do me the favor of a lifetime if you'd read the script yourself. Don't wait for the coverage."

"So there's coverage at other studios and they don't like it."

"Just give this one a chance, Griffin, for me."

She was nothing to him, she had no claim on his obligations, he could have said so, but what was the advantage of a fight with her over nothing? "Send it over." She thanked him. Of course, she knew that he would have it covered first. Each studio sent all submitted scripts to readers, who broke the stories down, described them briefly, and either recommended them or trashed them. Mostly they trashed them. Griffin had started as a script reader. If the script scored well, Griffin would take it home for the weekend and start it. Maybe he would finish it.

When he put the phone down, Griffin contemplated the end to his panic. He closed his eyes and concentrated once again on the postcard Writer. He wanted to talk out loud but worried that someone might hear him. He said, silently, I'm going to choose a writer at random and get back to him and apologize. If that writer accepts my apology, then so should you. And more than that, I will read the script Sandra sends me, I will meet the writer, and if he has any good ideas, I will consider them seriously, and no matter what, I will get back to him.

Now he had a plan. For the next hour and a half he read budget reports and story synopses. Doing his job, he was happy. When Jan said good-bye for the day, he waited until he knew she was gone too long to return for anything she might have left, although nothing near her desk looked like she would want it overnight. Then he closed the door to the hall.

Last year's calendar was in her desk. He took it back to his office and set it next to this year's. So many meetings, so many names, Griffin envied this person who was so busy. Some names were repeated three or four times, and then they disappeared; others were there every day for a week, others only once, some once a week for a year. Producers. Directors. Griffin started to make a list of the one-timers, because they were the writers who had pitched and lost. He closed the book. He didn't want to call someone he hadn't seen in ten months. It would be transparently bizarre.

Should he choose a name at random? Type all the names on individual cards and pull one from the pile? He turned to September, when the temperature had stayed over a hundred for two weeks and the Writer might have interpreted the comfort he felt in Griffin's office as a sign that he and the executive got along well, instead of recognizing the air conditioner as the source of this good feeling. One moment sweating in the parking lot, and a few minutes later cool in Griffin's office, wondering why he had worried so much. On the twenty-first Griffin had seen two writers, Andrea Chalfin at ten in the morning and David Kahane at three-thirty. Andrea Chalfin was directing a movie in Colorado now. She was too busy to send postcards.

This is perfect, thought Griffin. I don't remember Kahane's name, face, or idea. He dialed Kahane's number. This was going to be easy. A woman answered.

"Is David there?"

"No."

"Oh." Griffin didn't know what else to say. "This is Griffin Mill."

"Now it's my turn to say 'oh.'" She knew who he was.

"I promised David I'd get back to him."

"I didn't know he'd seen you."

"Well, it's been a while."

"Do you always work until seven-thirty?"

"Sometimes until ten. How late does David work?"

"I don't think I should give away trade secrets. He'd kill me if I told you that."

"Is he the violent type?"

"Like all writers, he gets drunk before dinner and throws his empty vodka bottles at my head."

"Who are you?"

"June Mercator."

"And what do you do?"

"Babysit writers. No. I'm not in the biz at all. I'm an art director for Wells Fargo."

"That's show biz of a sort."

"Paste-ups of interest-rate brochures is show business?"

"You have to make the public happy."

"I have to catch their attention. And most of what I do is seen by people who are already customers. I don't do advertising."

"So David went to the movies tonight?"

"This is Los Angeles. If you don't like rock and roll, what else is there to do?"

"Do you go to the movies much?"

"I used to go with David all the time. I stopped."

"Why?"

"They all end the same way. There's either a chase, a contest, or revenge."

"What if there's love?"

"Someone gets hurt."

"What about comedies?"

"Only if they're really stupid."

"What movie did David go to see tonight?"

"The Bicycle Thief."

"Why didn't you go?"

"I've seen it."

"Is it good?"

"You've never seen it? Shame on you."

He didn't say anything immediately, and in the silence that followed he imagined her waiting for him to say a lot more, why he called, what he wanted, more questions about her, forgetting David. They were on the line silently for too long, and they both hung up.

Griffin found the movie page from that day's paper and looked for The Bicycle Thief. It was playing at only one theater, the Rialto in Pasadena.

What if Kahane wasn't there, what if he knew the movie well enough to lie about it to June and use the film as an alibi while he was in bed with someone else? Was June suspicious? Griffin thought he had detected a twang of incredulity in her voice after he had said his name. The effect of his fame never failed to impress him.

It was after seven, the movie had started. It wouldn't take long to drive to Pasadena.

No one knew where he was going. No one was following him. He realized he didn't even have to find David Kahane. He could go wherever he wanted. Choosing to find David, he felt close to the postcard Writer. And so far he couldn't say that Kahane was not the postcard Writer.

On the Pasadena Freeway, Griffin rehearsed his meeting with David Kahane. He would offer his hand, they'd trade comments on the film, and then Griffin would say, "By the way, I'm really sorry I didn't get back to you. It was a good idea, but I'm afraid that Levison is a little more conservative than he should be. Have you had any luck with it at another studio?" He would ask if David wanted to bring in any other ideas or show him a script he might be working on. He could invite David and June to a party, an afternoon barbecue where they could meet other executives and producers. If David was his guest, he knew, everyone at the party would assume he deserved to be there on the strength of something impressive he'd written, since he hadn't had anything produced. He would be invited to meetings. He even might be offered an assignment, sent a script that needed a rewrite, or receive an advance copy of a book, hand-delivered, for his comments. This would save him the struggle of pumping something from his imagination, depleted by too many bewildering meetings.

Griffin hoped David Kahane was smart about money, because he was going to start making lots of it. Griffin would tell his world, "This guy's okay." He worried about how to start his conversation with Kahane. He would ask him if he lived in Pasadena; the question was so wrong, it would make Griffin seem harmless and innocent. He knew where David lived, he had a Hollywood phone number.

He parked on the street a block past the theater. The movie would be over in twenty minutes; he could stand in front of the theater and catch David Kahane on his way out, saving himself a few dollars. He felt the Writer looking over his shoulder, or over his conscience's shoulder, making a clucking noise, as if to say, "Don't cheat. You owe me whatever it costs."

As he paid for the ticket, he wanted to tell the man in the booth that this was the first time he had spent money to see a movie in a few years, probably two years, since he had been stranded in Denver waiting for a plane and he'd had an afternoon to kill. This urge to tell such a pointless anecdote to a stranger embarrassed him so much that he went straight into the theater, skipping the refreshment stand, even though he wanted popcorn. He was hungry. He took a seat in the middle of the back row, between the two doors. He hoped this wasn't one of those theaters where the lights don't go up when the movie is over, because David Kahane, if he was sitting toward the front, could just as easily leave through one of the exits near the screen, and then Griffin might miss him.

同类推荐
  • Crush

    Crush

    Amalie is a sexy, beautiful thirty-year-old haute bourgeoisie wife of a distant husband. One evening at a service station on the outskirts of the Bois de Boulogne, she meets David and steps into an erotic and sensuous new life. Twenty years her senior, darkly handsome, and almost embarrassingly virile, he is a suave filmmaker, a confirmed bachelor, and the perfect match for the perfect affairbut one with a twist. Amalie isn't looking for love, but she's hungry for pleasure. Written with cool-headed intensity and sexual heat, Crush is an unforgettable odyssey through the wilds of desire into the badlands of erotic obsession.
  • Catch! A Fishmonger's Guide to Greatness

    Catch! A Fishmonger's Guide to Greatness

    The Pike Place fishmongers are almost as famous as the market they work at, lovingly profiled in the media and treasured by those who watch them go about their work each day with style and smiles.
  • Weight

    Weight

    With wit and verve, the prize-winning author of Sexing the Cherry and Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit brings the mythical figure of Atlas into the space age and sets him free at last. In her retelling of the story of a god tricked into holding the world on his shoulders and his brief reprieve, she sets difficult questions about the nature of choice and coercion, how we choose our own destiny and at the same time can liberate ourselves from our seeming fate. Finally in paperback, Weight is a daring, seductive addition to Canongate's ambitious series of myths by the world's most acclaimed authors.
  • 10th Muse: Blade of Medusa

    10th Muse: Blade of Medusa

    In Greek mythology there were 9 Muses, the daughters of Zeus, but history forgot one - The 10th Muse - the Muse of Justice, Emma Sonnet's birthright! Emma Sonnet is on the debate team, a cheerleader and popular. Everyone in high school has their secrets, hers being a superhero. This is a tale of one girl that will make a difference. When students on the swim team are missing, the 10th Muse must solve the puzzle of the Minotaur in time to save them.
  • Sylvia's Lovers(II) 希尔维亚的情人(英文版)
热门推荐
  • 徐先森又吃醋了

    徐先森又吃醋了

    第一次见她,他想方设法的做她同桌从此你的余生我来守候第一次见他,她用尽所有躲着他他端着笑脸凑上去:“我以后上课不讲话,你看不清的字我来念,不会做的题,我来做”“我不会打篮球,为了你,我进的全是三分球”“为了你我愿意认真学习”考个98分后,赶紧认错:“我不该超过你”
  • 柔情总裁漫漫追妻路

    柔情总裁漫漫追妻路

    那日他险些中了别人的全套,幸好遇到了女子。他不顾女子的哭喊霸道的占有了她。。后来他被迫定亲,却一直没有放弃寻找,谁知她一直都在,只是自己做了太多伤她寒心事。漫漫追妻哭,看他如何追妻
  • 妃你不可之嫡女有毒

    妃你不可之嫡女有毒

    帝都才女沐长歌为渣男倾尽一切,到头来,惨死无人知。一朝强势归来。她成了她。斗智斗勇,谋爱虐渣,惊才艳艳,锦绣风华。她执手天下棋局,杀·人咫尺,在帝都翻手为云覆手为雨。*他是天辰国六皇子,面如冠玉,偏·执深情。携一雪·豹,在诡谲的皇朝里,默默守护,只为一人。……他视她如命。他说,长歌,一辈子我不惧黑暗里的魑魅魍魉,牛鬼蛇神,我只惧你一人的心思。……她爱他一生。她说,魑魅魍魉,牛鬼蛇神,不必担心!日日月月,月月年年,春夏秋冬,光明黑暗,我都陪你。提示:宠·文,男强女强,双.处,一生一世一双人。推荐旧文《山中田园》
  • 世界最具感悟性的哲理美文(4)

    世界最具感悟性的哲理美文(4)

    我的课外第一本书——震撼心灵阅读之旅经典文库,《阅读文库》编委会编。通过各种形式的故事和语言,讲述我们在成长中需要的知识。
  • 说话艺术与技巧速查速用全书

    说话艺术与技巧速查速用全书

    在今天这样的信息时代,人们的文化视野、交际视野开阔了,有越来越多的场合需要公开地发表意见、用语言来打动别人。自我推荐、介绍产品、主持会议、商务谈判、交流经验、鼓励员工、化解矛盾、探讨学问、接洽事务、交换信息、传授技艺,还有交际应酬、传递情感和娱乐消遣都离不开说话。另外,看一个人是否有能力,这些能力能否表现出来,在很大程度上取决于他是否会说话。因此,口才就成了衡量一个人是否有能力的重要标准之一。美国成功学大师戴尔·卡耐基说:“当今社会,一个人的成功,仅仅有15%取决于技术知识,而其余85%则取决于人际关系及有效说话等软本领。”由此可见说话艺术与技巧的重要性,掌握其艺术与技巧,已经成为现代人成功的推荐条件。
  • 恶魔公主的专属微笑

    恶魔公主的专属微笑

    她是谜一样的女孩,是世界排行第一的千菱集团的千金,是至尊,是舞坛界的天才舞蹈家。这个拥有多重身份的女孩,被逼回国,转入贵族学院,不小心与校园的冰山王子杠上了,两个人展开了轰轰烈烈的对抗,感情也渐渐纠缠不清。矮油,爱情道路好坎坷。
  • 此情可待成追忆:季羡林的清华缘与北大情

    此情可待成追忆:季羡林的清华缘与北大情

    本书是季羡林先生关于在清华读书和在北大工作的回忆性文章精选集,还包括季老在清华读书期间的《清华园日记》选编和初入北大执教期间的《北大红楼日记》选编。写作….时间跨越七十余年。 全书分为四辑。第一辑:“季羡林忆清华”;第二辑:“季羡林清华园日记选”;第三辑:“季羡林评北大”;第四辑:“季羡林北大红楼日记选”。
  • 一柒知秋

    一柒知秋

    从小,别人就赞扬他与她是天作之合。但是,只有他和她知道,他俩命中犯冲,天生不和。————为了跟随她的步伐,他重拾摄影技术,在国外做了个名不见经传的小导演,直至他凭借第一部影片夺下了奥斯卡最佳影片奖,一鸣惊人,震惊中外。他说:“我电影的女主角只会是你。”*当他耍小脾气时,她宠溺一笑:“乖,别生气了啊,给你买糖吃。”★女主霸道、精分男主傲娇、纨绔全文无误会、无狗血、不虐。全文苏爽甜宠。甜到齁鼻,不甜你打我呀。——事业为主,感情为辅。——【1v1/娱乐圈/豪门/双洁】
  • 梦柏氏

    梦柏氏

    人死如灯灭,花谢如草芥。不以物喜,不以己悲。故不问何来,亦不问何去。随我身者,自当得偿所愿,得其所有;与我敌者,该当魂飞魄散,葬体化阶。
  • 逗捧记

    逗捧记

    许明亮五十多岁,小个儿,瘦瘦巴巴,脸上一堆褶子,头也有点秃。天热,他心里一急,血压便噌噌上去了,脚软得什么似的,眼前也起了红雾。木陀又没个眼力劲儿,还只管愣眉直眼地问:“师父,那怎么办?票都卖出去了,周末是演还是不演呀?”“演!你来个木陀专场!”许明亮没好气。木陀杵着个拖把,“啊”了一声,把头耷拉了。破破烂烂的光明书场里,半点光明的意思也没有,桌椅横三竖四,条凳七零八落。逢着周末晚上演出的时候,灯光罩着,笑声遮着,还有个热乎劲儿,这会儿大下午的,无遮无拦,破的脏的旧的,全没羞没臊地敞着来了。