Los Angeles
“Don’t swim in the pool,” Ted said. “There’s something weird growing in there.”
Someone handed Rex Donaldson a cocktail and he craned his head over a cabana chair to take a look. The pool water was a little cloudy, but it looked fine. Ted stared at it glumly.
“I know, it looks okay, but there’s something wrong with the filter. It was all green yesterday.”
“Well,” Rex said, “I didn’t bring my swim trunks anyway.”
Ted went off to meet some freshly arrived guests, and Rex approached the edge of the pool, sipping his drink alone.
This house was far too large. Four bedrooms, an extra-large garage for all the classic cars Ted didn’t own.
In an especially expensive neighborhood off Laurel Canyon.
Ted would never be able to keep up with it.
Rex had seen this happen a bunch of times before.
Somebody gets a little bit of success, their first minor hit, and they overdo it on real estate or women or drugs.
There didn’t seem to be any drugs at this party, though. That was a shame. Rex could use a pick-me-up.
A day of development meetings, always draining, followed by an executive-only screening of the new Lenny Pinkus picture.
The film was all right. Pretty funny, too long.
Rex was going to have to tell the director to cut it down about twenty minutes.
But it should be okay. Rex had kept the budget under control.
Oh, everyone had bitched at him constantly during production.
Even the cinematographer had threatened to quit, but that was an empty threat.
No one more replaceable. Pinkus didn’t complain, though.
He at least was getting paid well. The studio head laughed often during the screening, so that was positive.
The picture wasn’t going to sell like gangbusters, but Rex could keep it in the black.
Give him enough time and Rex Donaldson could make anything a hit.
After lunch he went to Peppy’s apartment in North Hollywood for some cocaine, but Peppy was out. Rex hadn’t hit any lines all afternoon. He was starting to get itchy.
Back at the office, Ted had left a message with Rex’s secretary, reminding him he was having a little party.
Ted always hosted little parties with fifty or so people.
Rex figured it was a good way to score coke.
Ted bought this new place two months earlier, and his parties were probably costing him more money than whatever pool repairs he needed.
But Ted was a screenwriter, and therefore one of the neediest figures in all of Hollywood.
He got points on last year’s Lenny Pinkus hit, and he was going to ride that financial wave as long and high as he could.
Ted did not, as far as Rex knew, have any additional work lined up.
The last call Rex made before driving to the party was to his brother Dave.
Dave lived in Rochester and had never done cocaine.
He was an accountant, or an actuary, or something.
Rex admitted that he did not like to talk to his little brother, because Dave talked a lot about Rochester and Rex always hated Rochester.
It was cold and snowy and gray. When he moved to LA he never expected to spend any more time thinking about Rochester.
But now their mother was sick and Rex figured it was his weekly duty at least to keep up with Dave for news on how she was doing.
“Second round of chemo went well,” Dave told him over the phone, as Rex sat in his office flipping through script notes. “Still pretty sick for about two days, but today she’s feeling much better. Doctor seems optimistic.”
Rex was happy to hear that. If his mother died he would have to fly back to Rochester for the funeral.
“Oh, did you hear about the Red Wings?” Dave asked.
“What?”
“The Rochester Red Wings were playing the Red Sox this weekend. The Pawtucket Red Sox, of course. The game went thirty-two innings. Thirty-two! They didn’t even finish playing.
It’s still tied two to two. They finally let everyone go to sleep at like four AM.
They’re going to have to finish it the next time the Red Sox are in town.
It’s the longest baseball game ever, they’re saying. ”
“Wow.” Rex desperately wanted to get off the phone.
Now as he looked at Ted’s dirty pool and surveyed the crowd growing around him, wondering who among them had cocaine, Rex couldn’t stop thinking about that game.
A game that never ended. Maybe when the teams kept playing someone would finally get a hit, but maybe they wouldn’t.
The game could just keep on going, forever.
Why not? There was no rule it couldn’t. The players would have to keep coming up to bat, keep pitching, keep fielding.
There was no way for it to ever end. Rex tried to imagine a film that never finished being produced, that kept going.
Studio screening after studio screening, note after note, cut after cut.
How long could something like that last?
Did the universe even last forever? Rex found the whole idea terrifying.
A man Rex hadn’t noticed before was standing next to him at the pool’s edge, smoking a cigarette. He had a sallow face, a thick mustache, a round pair of glasses, and an old, shabby suit.
“Not much of a party, eh?” Rex asked him.
The man blew a puff of smoke and looked at Rex. “It seems like a party to me.” He spoke with a hint of a French accent but Rex had a feeling he didn’t have any cocaine.
“Rex Donaldson,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I’m a producer at WBC Studios.”
“Ah.” The man shook his hand. “Jean-Danton Souard. Nice to meet you.”
“Souard? The writer?”
Jean-Danton sighed and took another drag of his cigarette. “Yes. You have read my work?”
Rex had not, though he had read the notes from his assistant.
Souard was a hot item. A mega-selling book, two sequels.
For years everyone in town had tried to bid on options to adapt it, ever since the first book was a surprise serialized hit in a small magazine.
Rex personally knew a producer at an animation studio who wanted the rights really bad.
Rex was interested, of course. Any property that sold a million copies and was translated all over the world interested him.
But he didn’t have the slightest idea what the books were really about.
Some kind of fantasy story, something about magic and dragons.
Would be expensive. Did kids like dragons?
But Rex knew if he optioned the rights then none of his rivals would be able to adapt the books, either, and that would still be a win.
“I have read them. Loved them.”
“Who was your favorite character?”
“Hard to say. So many good ones. What are you doing in Los Angeles? Taking meetings?”
“No. My wife and I are vacationing in Santa Barbara.”
“Lovely town.”
“The wine is good. And our son is going to the university there, so we can visit him.”
“So you know Ted?”
“No, who is Ted?”
“This is Ted’s house. This is Ted’s party. He’s a writer.”
“What has he written?”
“Oh, a few movies. Do you know Lenny Pinkus? He’s a comedian.”
“I have heard of him. He does funny voices?”
“Yes, he’s very popular in France.”
“I have not lived in France for a long time.”
“Well, you should watch one of his films. They’re very popular.”
“No, I do not think I will.” Jean-Danton threw his cigarette into the pool and lit another.
“I am only here because my literary agent had some meetings in town. I told him I would drive down and see him, and now he wants me to keep him company. So I follow him around for the night. As a favor, I suppose. He likes to show me off.” Jean-Danton gestured to a well-dressed gentleman talking to Ted inside the house.
Rex would have to make his way over there to say hello.
“Well, Mr. Souard, I hope I’m not being too forward, but I would love to take a meeting and talk about your books. You know, of course, how interested everyone is in them.”
“No one has optioned my books.”
“Ha! Well, an error I can assure you won’t be too long in being remedied. I know some real smart young directors who would love to speak with you about—”
“No, you misunderstand. No one is going to option my books. You can keep bidding on them, but the answer will always be no.”
“Oh, if you’re worried about some Hollywood big shot butchering it—and why not, right?
certainly this town has ruined many properties in the past—I want you to know that’s not my intention.
Hell, it might be unadaptable! That’s always a possibility.
I would never force something into production that’s not suited for the big screen.
But you have to at least come take the meeting, while you’re in town. ”
“No, Mr. Donaldson. This isn’t a negotiation.” This was a strange man, Rex suddenly noticed, to come to a Hollywood party and smoke cigarettes at the pool, ignoring everyone and claiming no interest in taking meetings. Hollywood was nothing but meetings.
“I’m sure your literary agent wants—”
“What he wants doesn’t matter, either. He’s made quite a bit of money off of me, so I’ll come out and dance sometimes to appease him.
” Souard’s French accent came out stronger when he was upset.
“But my books are my life. I will never let you adapt them and turn them into some piece of property for you to profit off.”
Rex smiled. “Of course, Mr. Souard, no pressure.” It wasn’t worth alienating the guy. There would always be more time. Baseball games can last forever; so can movie development.
Jean-Danton flicked another cigarette into the pool. “Such a filthy pool,” he said, and walked back into the house.
“Enjoy your time in Los Angeles!” Rex shouted after him.
Rex stayed beside the pool, nodding to no one in particular. His charm was all off today. He really did need some cocaine.