BOOK VI
A Hollywood Death
CHAPTER 10
TEN BARE FEMALE asses rose in harmony to greet the camera’s blinking eye. Despite the picture still being in limbo, Dita Tommey was auditioning actresses on the Messalina soundstage for an ass to double for Athena Aquitane’s.
Athena had refused to do nudes, that is, she would not show full tits and ass, an astonishing modesty in a star but not a fatal one. Dita would simply substitute tits and ass from some of the different actresses she was now auditioning.
Of course she had given the actresses full scenes with dialogue, she wouldn’t demean them by posing them as if they were pornography. But the determining factor would be in the culminating sex scene, when rolling around in bed they would thrust their bare buttocks up to the camera eye. Her sex-scene choreographer was sketching out the rolls and twists with the male actor, Steve Stallings.
Watching the tests with Dita Tommey were Bobby Bantz and Skippy Deere. The only other people on the set were the necessary crew members. Tommey didn’t mind Deere watching, but what the hell was Bobby Bantz doing here. She had considered briefly barring him from the set, but if Messalina was abandoned she would be in a very weak power position. She could use his goodwill.
Bantz asked fretfully, “What exactly are we looking for here?”
The sex-scene choreographer, a young man named Willis, who was also the head of the Los Angeles Ballet Company, said cheerfully, “The most beautiful ass in the world. But also with great muscles. We don’t want sleaze, we don’t want the crack open.”
“Right,” Bantz said, “Nothing sleazy.”
“How about the tits?” Deere asked.
“They cannot be allowed to bounce,” the choreographer said.
“We audition tits tomorrow,” Tommey said. “No woman has perfect tits and a perfect ass, except maybe Athena, and she won’t show them.”
Bantz said slyly, “You should know, Dita.”
Tommey forgot her weak power position. “Bobby, you’re the perfect asshole, if that’s what we’re looking for. She won’t fuck you so you assume she’s a dyke.”
“OK, OK,” Bantz said. “I’ve got a hundred phone calls I have to return.”
“Me too,” Deere said.
“I don’t believe you guys,” Tommey said.
Deere said, “Dit, have a little sympathy. Bobby and I, what recreation do we get? We’re too busy to play golf. Watching movies is work. We don’t have the time to go to the theater or opera. We can squeeze maybe an hour a day for fun after we spend time with our families. What can you do with just one hour a day? Screw. It’s the least labor-intensive recreation.”
“Wow, Skippy, look at that,” Bantz said. “That’s the most beautiful ass I have ever seen.”
Deere shook his head in wonder. “Bobby’s right. Dita, that’s the one. Sign her up.”
Tommey shook her head in disbelief. “Jesus, you guys are morons,” she said. “That’s a black ass.”
“Sign her up anyway,” Deere said with exuberant joy.
“Yeah,” Bantz said. “An Ethiopian slave girl for Messalina. But why the hell is she auditioning?”
Dita Tommey observed both men with curiosity. Here were two of the toughest men in the movie business, with over a hundred phone calls to return, and they were like two teenagers looking for their first orgasm. She said patiently, “When we send out casting calls we’re not allowed to say we just want white asses.”
Bantz said, “I want to meet that girl.”
“Me too,” Deere said.
But all this was interrupted by Melo Stuart coming on the set. He was smiling triumphantly. “We can all go back to work,” he said. “Athena is going back on the picture. Her husband, Boz Skannet, hung himself. Boz Skannet, off the picture.” As he said this he clapped his hands as the crew always clapped when an actor finished work on a movie, his part finished. Skippy and Bobby clapped with him. Dita Tommey stared at the three of them with disgust.
“Eli wants the two of you right away,” Melo said. “Not you, Dita,” he smiled apologetically. “This will just be a business discussion, no creative decisions.” The men left the soundstage.
When they were gone, Dita Tommey summoned the girl with the beautiful ass to her trailer. She was very pretty, truly black rather than tan, and she had an impudent vivacity that Dita identified as natural and not an actor’s put-on.
“I’m giving you the part of an Ethiopian slave girl to the Empress Messalina,” Dita said. “You’ll have one line of dialogue but mainly we’ll be showing your ass. Unfortunately we need a white ass to double for Miss Aquitane and yours is too black, otherwise you might steal the picture.” She gave the girl a friendly smile. “Falene Fant, that’s a movie name.”
“Whatever,” the girl said. “Thank you. For both the compliments and the job.”
“One more thing,” Dita said. “Our producer, Skippy Deere, thinks you have the most beautiful ass in the world. So does Mr. Bantz, the president and head of production for the Studio. You’ll be hearing from them.”
Falene Fant gave her a wicked grin. “And what do you think?” she said.
Dita Tommey shrugged. “I’m not into asses as much as men are. But I think you’re charming and a very good actress. Good enough so that I think you can carry more than one line in this picture. And if you come to my house tonight, we can talk about your career. I’ll give you dinner.”
That night, after Dita Tommey and Falene Fant spent two hours in bed, Dita cooked dinner and they discussed Falene’s career.
“It was fun,” Dita said, “but I think from now on we should just be friends and keep this night a secret.”
“Sure,” Falene said. “But everyone knows you’re dykey. Is it my black ass?” She was grinning.
Dita ignored the word dykey. That was a deliberate impudence to pay back for the seeming rejection. “It’s a great ass, black, white, green, or yellow,” Dita said. “But you have real talent. If I keep casting you in my pictures, you won’t get credit for your talent. And I only make a picture every two years. You have to work more than that. Most directors are male and when they cast somebody like you they’re always hoping for a little screw. If they think you’re dykey, they may pass.”
“Who needs directors if I have a producer and the head of a studio,” Falene said cheerfully.
“You do,” Dita said. “The other guys can get you a foot in the door, but the director can leave you on the cutting-room floor. Or he can shoot you so that you look and sound like shit.”
Falene shook her head woefully. “I have to fuck Bobby Bantz, Skippy Deere, and I’ve already fucked you. Is this absolutely necessary?” She opened her eyes wide, innocently.
Dita really felt fond of her at the moment. Here was a girl who didn’t try to be indignant. “I had a very good time tonight,” she said. “You hit exactly the right note.”
“Well, I never understood the fuss people make about sex,” Falene said. “It’s no hardship for me. I don’t do drugs, I don’t drink a lot. I have to have a little fun.”
“Fine,” Dita said. “Now, about Deere and Bantz. Deere is the better bet and I’ll tell you why. Deere is in love with himself and he loves women. He will really do something for you. He’ll find you a good part, he’s smart enough to see your talent. Now Bantz doesn’t like anybody except Eli Marrion. Also he has no taste, no eye for talent. Bantz will sign you to a studio contract and then let you rot. He does that with his wife to keep her quiet. She gets a lot of work for top dollar but never a decent part. Skippy Deere, if he likes you, will do something for your career.”
“This sounds a little cold-blooded,” Falene said.
Dita tapped her on the arm. “Don’t bullshit me. I’m a dyke but I’m a woman too. And I know actors. They will do anything, male or female, to go up the ladder. We all play for big stakes. Do you want to go to a nine-to-five job in Oklahoma or do you want to become a movie star and live in Malibu? I see by your sheet t
hat you’re twenty-three years old. How many have you fucked already?”
“Counting you?” Falene said. “Maybe fifty. But all for fun,” she said in mock apology.
“So a few more won’t traumatize you,” Dita said. “And who knows, it may be fun again.”
“You know,” Falene said, “I wouldn’t do it if I wasn’t so sure I’d be a star.”
“Of course,” Dita said. “None of us would.”
Falene laughed. “What about you?” she asked.
“I didn’t have the option,” Dita said. “I made it on sheer overwhelming talent.”
“Poor you,” Falene said.
At LoddStone Studios, Bobby Bantz, Skippy Deere, and Melo Stuart were meeting with Eli Marrion in his office. Bantz was enraged. “That silly prick, he scares everybody to death and then commits suicide.”
Marrion said to Stuart, “Melo, your client is coming back to work I assume.”
“Of course,” Melo said.
“She has no further requests, she doesn’t need any extra inducements?” Marrion asked in a quiet, deadly voice. For the first time, Melo Stuart became aware that Marrion was in a rage.
“No,” Melo said. “She can start work tomorrow.”
“Great,” Deere said. “We may still come in under budget.”
“I want you all to shut up and listen to me,” Marrion said. And this rudeness, so unprecedented in him, made them silent.
Marrion spoke in his usual low, pleasant voice, but there was now no mistaking his anger.
“Skippy, what do we give a fuck if the picture comes in on budget? We don’t own the picture anymore. We panicked, we made a stupid mistake. All of us are at fault. We do not own this film, an outsider does.”
Skippy Deere tried to interrupt him. “LoddStone will make a fortune on distribution. And you get a percentage on profits. It’s still a very good deal.”
“But De Lena makes more money than we do,” Bantz said. “That’s not right.”
“The point is that De Lena did nothing to solve the problem,” Marrion said. “Surely our studio has some sort of legal basis to regain the picture.”
“That’s right,” Bantz said. “Fuck him. Let’s go to court.”
Marrion said, “We threaten him with court and then we cut a deal. We give him his money back and ten percent of the adjusted gross.”
Deere laughed. “Eli, Molly Flanders won’t let him take your deal.”
“We’ll negotiate directly with De Lena,” Marrion said. “I think I can persuade him.” He paused for a moment. “I called him as soon as I got the news. He will be joining us very shortly. And you know he has a certain background, this suicide is too fortunate for him, I don’t think he will care for the publicity of a court case.”
Cross De Lena, in his penthouse suite at the Xanadu Hotel, read the newspaper reports of Skannet’s death. Everything had gone perfectly. It was a clear case of suicide, the two farewell notes on the body clinched it. There was no possibility the handwriting experts could detect the forgery, Boz Skannet had not left any great body of correspondence and Leonard Sossa was too good. The shackles on Skannet’s legs and arms had been purposely loose and had left no marks. Lia Vazzi was an expert.
The first call Cross received was expected. Giorgio Cleri-cuzio summoning him to the Family mansion in Quogue. Cross had never deceived himself that the Clericuzio would not find out what he was doing.
The second call Cross received was from Eli Marrion asking him to come to Los Angeles and without his lawyer. Cross said he would. But before he left Las Vegas he called Molly Flanders and told her about the phone call from Marrion. She was enraged. “Those slimy bastards,” she said. “I’ll pick you up at the airport and we’ll go in together. Never even say good morning to a studio head unless you’ve got a lawyer with you.”
When the two of them walked into LoddStone Studios and Marrion’s office they knew there was trouble. The four men waiting there had the seriously truculent look of men about to commit strong-arm.
“I decided to bring my lawyer,” Cross said to Marrion. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“As you wish,” Marrion said. “I merely wanted to save you a possible embarrassment.”
Molly Flanders, stern-faced and angry, said, “This is going to be really good. You want the picture back but our contract is iron.”
“You’re correct,” Marrion said. “But we are going to appeal to Cross’s sense of fair play. He did nothing to solve the problem, whereas LoddStone Studios has invested considerable time and money and creative talent without which this movie would not have been possible. Cross will get his money back. He gets ten percent of the adjusted gross and we will be generous in determining the adjustments. He will not be at risk.”
“He has already survived the risk,” Molly said. “Your offer is insulting.”
“Then we will have to go to court,” Marrion said. “Cross, I’m sure you will find that as distasteful as I do.” He smiled at Cross. It was a kindly smile that made his gorilla-like face angelic.
Molly was furious. “Eli, you go to court twenty times a year and give depositions because you’re always pulling crap like this.” She turned to Cross and said, “We’re leaving.”
But Cross knew that a long court case was something he could not afford. His buying the film followed by Skannet’s opportune death would be held up to scrutiny. They would dig up everything about his background, they would paint him in such a way that he would become too much of a public figure, and that was something the old Don had never tolerated. There was no mistaking that Marrion knew all this.
“Let’s stick around,” Cross said to Molly. Then he turned to Marrion, Bantz, Skippy Deere, and Melo Stuart. “If a gambler comes into my hotel and plays a long shot and wins, I pay him the full odds. I don’t say I’ll pay him even money. That’s what you gentlemen are doing here. So why don’t you reconsider this?”
Bantz said with contempt, “This is business not gambling.”
Melo Stuart said soothingly to Cross, “You will make conservatively ten million dollars on your investment. Surely that’s fair.”
“And you didn’t even do anything,” Bantz said.
Only Skippy Deere seemed to be on his side. “Cross, you deserve more. But what they offer is better than a court fight, the risk of losing. Let this one go and you and I will do business again without the Studio. And I promise you’ll get a fair shake.”
Cross knew it was important to seem nonthreatening. He smiled in resignation. “Maybe you’re all right,” he said. “I want to stay in the movie business on good terms with everybody and ten million profit is not a bad start. Molly, take care of the papers. Now I have to catch a plane so please excuse me.” He left the room and Molly followed him.
“We can win in court,” Molly told him.
“I don’t want to go to court,” Cross said. “Make the deal.”
Molly studied him carefully, then she said, “OK, but I’ll get more than ten percent.”
When Cross arrived at the mansion in Quogue the next day, Don Domenico Clericuzio, his sons Giorgio, Vincent, and Petie, and the grandson, Dante, were waiting for him. They had lunch in the garden, a lunch of cold Italian hams and cheeses and an enormous wooden bowl of salad, long loaves of crispy Italian bread. There was the bowl of grated cheese for the Don’s spoon. As they ate, the Don said conversationally, “Croccifixio, we hear you have become involved in the moving picture business.” He paused to sip his red wine. He then took a spoonful of the grated Italian Parmesan cheese.
“Yes,” Cross answered.
Giorgio said, “Is it true that you pledged some of your shares in the Xanadu to finance a movie?”
“That is within my right,” Cross said. “I am, after all, your Bruglione in the West.” He laughed.
“ ’Bruglione’ is right,” Dante said.
The Don shot a disapproving look at his grandson. He said to Cross, “You got involved in a very serious affair without Family consu
ltation. You did not seek our wisdom. Most important of all, you carried out a violent action that might have severe official repercussions. On that, custom is clear, you must have our consent or go your own way and suffer consequences.”
“And you used resources of the Family,” Giorgio said harshly. “The Hunting Lodge in the Sierra. You used Lia Vazzi, Leonard Sossa, and Pollard with his Security Agency. Of course, they are your people in the West but they are also Family resources. Luckily everything went perfectly but what if it had not? We would all have been at risk.”
Don Clericuzio said impatiently, “He knows all that. The question is why. Nephew, years ago you asked not to take part in that necessary work some men must do. I granted your request despite the fact that you were so valuable. Now you do it for your own profit. That is not like the beloved nephew I have always known.”
Cross knew then that the Don was sympathetic to him. He knew he could not tell the truth, that he had been seduced by Athena’s beauty; that would not be a reasonable explanation, indeed it would be insulting. And possibly fatal. What could be more inexcusable than that the attraction to a strange woman outweighed his loyalty to the Clericuzio Family. He spoke carefully. “I saw an opportunity to make a great deal of money,” he said. “I saw a chance to get a foothold in a new business. For me and the Family. A business to be used to turn black money white. But I had to move quickly. Certainly I did not wish to keep it a secret and the proof is that I used Family resources which you must come to know. I wanted to come to you with the deed done.”
The Don was smiling at him when he asked gently, “And is the deed done?”
Cross immediately sensed that the Don knew everything. “There is another problem,” Cross said, and explained the new deal he had made with Marrion. He was surprised when the Don laughed aloud.
“You did exactly right,” the Don said. “A court case might be a disaster. Let them have their victory. But what rascals they are. It’s a good thing we always stayed out of that business.” He paused for a moment. “At least you’ve made your ten million. That’s a tidy sum.”