He was really decent. I couldn’t get over it. Here’s this big Hollywood star who conveyed his heartfelt feelings to me and genuinely expressed a desire to help me.
Why the hell am I burying him with this article?
I spent the next couple of days wondering if the article was the right thing to do; knowing that it was, but feeling guilty. What if Howie really wasn’t as bad a guy as everyone made him out to be? And it’s not like he’s portrayed as a bad guy, just insensitive and selfish. Who isn’t?
I decided just before finalizing the thing and sending to Hello that I should give the agent guy a call, the one from the plane. I’m sure he’s forgotten about me already, but what the hell.
“Alan Shiner, please, this is Jessica Plotkin,” I said to a very young sounding male secretary, or assistant, whatever they call them.
“And what is this regarding?” he asked, playing the role of gatekeeper.
“My article, he asked me to call him. Met on a flight about a month or so ago.”
“That’s it?”
I couldn’t believe he asked that.
“Yes, that’s it—what the hell else do you want from me? I’m holding the guy’s card. If you don’t want to put me through, I don’t really give a shit either way.”
“Just hold please and I’ll see what I can do,” and now all of a sudden because I was a bitch this kid is acting like my best friend. Amazing how L.A. works.
“Ms. Plotkin! I’m so glad you called! What a nice surprise!” Alan jumped on the phone immediately. I didn’t expect his welcome.
“Thanks, yeah, how are you?” I asked tepidly.
“Great, thanks, it’s always beautiful in Hollywood,” he said, laughing.
“I have a final of the article. I haven’t sent it to Hello yet, though I did sign a contract. If you’re interested in seeing it, it’s about Howard Kessler, but as a kid in Brooklyn.”
Chapter 28
Alan
I wasn’t sure when to expect the phone call, if ever. It was such a powerful piece, with interviews that could bury Howard. I wondered if Jessica had the gumption to finish it and put it through the real test.
“It’s done,” she said. No good morning, just “Done.”
“Great, that sounds good. Let me have it. Email ok? You can send a PDF? You in a hurry?”
“I kind of am. I mean, I just want to get this thing out there and it’s already a week later than when I told I’d get it to Hello. I mean, with my dad and all—”
“Of course, sure, no, I understand. Listen, get it over to me and I’ll see what’s what. I’ll call you back with some definitive news. Keep your phone close.”
In minutes, the email came and my assistant printed out the article. I closed my door and sat down to read what she had written about one of my old, dear friends and clients. Though her reporting is sharp, I was floored by the comments of the guys—all of whom I met at the Duck House that night. If I didn’t hear the last 15 minutes of the confrontations, I wouldn’t have believed this was the same gang of guys from the restaurant. But the sense of paranoia, distrust, and opacity that was evidenced in that last few minutes was pervasive through the piece I was reading.
It also reinforced all of the negative feelings I had about Howie not just in recent months, but over the years as well. Howie’s charms often outweigh his selfishness, his distanced and unsympathetic sense of friendship, and an ugly aspect of his competitive nature. Jessica Plotkin was an expert manipulator of words, reporting, and interviews, because she pieced together this disparate group of individuals with little or no contact over the past 50 years and replayed their high times and low times throughout the piece, with the undercurrent of Howie’s destructive characteristics flowing throughout.
It was brilliant. She is an ace.
I could get this thing made into a movie in no time. I am absolutely confident. I would bet my kids’ college careers on it; and I will bet my own career, or what’s left of it. Without Howie on board, I don’t have much to lose.
“Get her on the phone NOW!” I yelled, hoping to catch her before she sent it anywhere else.
I wanted to make the phone calls and take the meetings as quickly as possible. I hadn’t been this excited about a project in years. Literally, in years. I just had to get her to agree. I wasn’t 100% sure. If I just moved fast enough, she wouldn’t have enough time to waver.
“I have to say, your piece is excellent, I think we can really do business together. I mean it. I can send you out a contract momentarily and I can get started selling this thing. What do you think?” I said, holding my breath.
“I’m not sure what you mean. I mean, I’m glad you liked it. So, should I send it to Hello? I don’t know what—”
She really had no idea.
I don’t take advantage of people. I generally let them think they take advantage of me. With my connections and experience in this town, I could make this girl a fortune in a few phone calls. She just has to trust me. I think she does. But there’s one thing that could keep us from moving any further, and that is my relationship—or former relationship—with Howie.
“I know you were just out here, but you should plan another trip. By the time you come out again, I’ll have some meetings set up, some deals ready and set. Otherwise you can just green-light any of the projects I propose. Movie, TV, syndication, series, you name it.”
“Um, I’d like to start with getting the thing published?”
I laughed, and after a moment she did, too.
“Honey, I can put this thing anywhere you want. Better yet, anywhere like Vanity Fair, as a front cover feature. This is going to make waves, Miss Jessica, you are going to make waves.”
“Is there anything else I need to know?” she asked.
Is this when I should tell her about Howie?
Chapter 29
Frank
“I got great news, Da—that guy, Lou, Mike’s friend from the city in the stage guy’s union, he called me back and I’m starting tomorrow,” Dario said to me.
“You up for it? Those guys really work—”
“No they don’t, Frank, they’re notorious for being overpaid and they never lift a finger. Dario, who is this guy?” Dee said.
“He, uh, Mike, you know, Mike from 65th Street with the bar, he’s a friend of his I guess—”
“You gotta get your shit straight, Dario, you can’t go in there mumbling like an idiot. How are you feeling, alright? Are you up for this? Don’t listen to your mother, they’re going to make you work. I know them guys. They work hard.”
I was really happy for him and hoped to high hell he could pull it off. I’d honestly never seen him so excited about something—maybe because he really pulled his own strings to get this. It could be the turnaround he—and all of us around here—needs. I sure as shit hope so.
“Yeah, dad, I think I’m ready. I been talking to the guy and he said there are some things I gotta learn, but I think I can do it.”
“First you gotta stop thinking that wrestling is real, Dario, since you’ll be working on the stage and all!” Petey said as he walked by, slapping Dario in the back of the head.
** *
A couple of days later I learned that Dario had actually been showing up to the job and working. I was a little surprised, since he doesn’t usually go back to a job after he starts it. I sat down and took a little time with him; this could be a good thing for him.
“So what’s the job? What are you doing?”
“Eh, right now I’m just hauling a lot of boxes, heavy shit, moving shit around. It’s a theater downtown and I guess they’re getting ready for rehearsals, so we’re making room for the backstage area, dressing rooms, and building out the back part of the theater. There’s so much to do; I’m learning a lot.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Dario, really glad. I can’t tell you.”
“You know I think it’s a play with Howie, but I’m not sure yet
. I heard one of the guys talking about it.”
“Really? You don’t say? Well keep an ear out but don’t make trouble. You hear me? Don’t make trouble. You don’t need any more shit, I don’t need any more shit, and neither does your poor mother.”
A play about Howie? I hope it’s not another goddamned musical.
I guess I could call Howie. I didn’t know if he was heading back to L.A. or staying out here. We didn’t really leave it any way after he left the house a couple months back. It was so awkward with him here. We’re not kids anymore, that’s for sure.
So a few weeks later I got off a job early and I thought I’d drop by and see how Dario was doing. More truthfully, I wanted to see if he actually showed up, and if not, for how long he hadn’t been there.
To my surprise, there he was, working his tail off, taking orders and humping boxes. At this rate he’ll be in the union early next year. I was praying for that. This kid needed so much help. Getting in with the Stagehands union is the best thing that could ever happen to him.
I hung around and caught Lou, my old buddy’s friend who was the shop steward and who was connected quite well, to see how things were working out. He thought Dario had a good shot of being able to stick around if he kept it up, which made me happy.
“You know, this production is a play that Howie Kessler wrote—it’s supposed to be about his life in Brooklyn. I thought you were in touch with him? I heard he was at your house a couple months back?” Lou said. “It’s gonna be in premiers in a couple weeks. You should come by, you come in the back.”
“He wrote it? Dario said it was about him. What the fuck? He’s still here? I didn’t even know. Yeah he dropped by, I thought it was a send-off, you know, he, uh, we talked a little and said goodbye. I thought he was leaving back to Hollywood.” I walked away from Lou because I was suddenly angry, and I didn’t want it to show more than I could control
What the fuck is this guy doing? If he’s still in New York why the fuck did we have a big, goodbye like on Oprah? I thought I had done enough thinking about the past. Every weekend when we get together to watch his movies I think about the past. I thought about his life—what he has and what I don’t. Why he got what he got and why I got stuck with what I got. I don’t stop thinking about that. We never started out any different—both poor, kids of immigrants, we had nothing. I worked my ass off laying bricks. This guy does a song and dance in the Navy and some Hollywood fag thinks he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread and so they give him roles until Scorcese discovers him. Next thing you know he’s rich, famous, the face of Brooklyn but in Hollywood. And never a word about us; never dropped me a line or a fucking post card. We were inseparable since grammar school. Some of the best memories of my life I spend with this guy.
And now, I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing—writing a play in New York—about US?
I drove home steaming about the whole thing.
“You don’t know what it is, Frank, stop with the agita already. Wait’ll you see it and then get mad,” Dee said, calming me down, usually just to get me agitated again over something else. “I’d be more worried about Dario keeping this job than whatever the fuck is in this play or whatever.”
And there she went, getting me crazy about something else. If anything, she’s predictable.
We spent the evening at that Chinese restaurant talking about our secrets and the shitty things we’ve experienced in the years past. I hope to fucking god he doesn’t use any of that. The argument between me and Mo—if that goes public, we’re both dead.
“I don’t trust him,” I said, or maybe I didn’t say it. I thought it. It was a big thought.
Chapter 30
Howard’s Play
Brad Siegel absolutely fell in love with Howie’s script. Brad was a venture capital investor and managed a fund of funds during the dot-com era. He got out before the crash and was sitting on a pile of money. After sailing around the world in his 46’ sailboat for a few years, he decided to be more active in throwing his money away. He had always liked the arts and just couldn’t spend enough on theater fundraisers, so he took an active role in off-Broadway productions he invested in. He’d started a production company and was fielding hundreds of scripts to produce in his theater on East 15th Street.
Howard’s acting career began on film, but he always yearned to be in theater. With the exception of two musicals whose productions were limited but Tony-award-winning, he had never created the opportunity; mainly because he was averse to coming back to New York for any extended period. Brad’s writer tweaked Howard’s rough script and notes into a workable enough piece to get a production together. Brad also hustled to incorporate other investors, using Howie’s name and star power. It wasn’t difficult.
Howie took a fairly active role in shaping the production. Brad made thorough introductions to the other producers, director, and casting director. His big peeve was to ensure that the actors were actually from New York and had or could do Brooklyn accents effectively, without sounding like caricatures. There was nothing worse than seeing an episode of Law & Order, shot in New York, when the actors can’t even pull off a simple New York accent.
The whole production came together in weeks; it was miraculous by off-Broadway standards. Word spread quickly through the theater community that a mega-star was interested not in acting in the play, but in writing and shaping it. People piled on.
Not surprisingly, Hollywood was not looped in. Howard was relieved that he didn’t have to deal with a publicist. For the past several months he’d bypassed calls by the PR machine that he employed for decades and focused on his own needs. Between that and no more Alan, it was like learning to ride a bike without training wheels for Howard. So within the course of about a month, Siegel put together previews dates, a cast and a production. He wanted to blast this on the media when all the details were crystallized and he got a better impression of the production from his director—a seasoned off-Broadway guy with plenty of ups and downs under his belt.
Howie plugged along in his routine when he wasn’t called in to help with rewrites, perspectives, or thoughts on cast. He realized that they were just being polite when they called him in to supervise the auditions or help with a tiebreaker in the casting, but he went anyway and lent his opinion. He had been pleased with the way it was all going.
Siegel asked him to step out for a coffee one day during rehearsals. It was one of the final rehearsals before the previews began the following week. He was only a few years younger than Howie, but couldn’t have had a more different life experience. But there was a reason why he had so much money, and it wasn’t because he was dumb.
“Howie, do you really want to do this?”
“Whaddya mean? Do what?” Howie said innocently and defensively at the same time.
“This production. I don’t know you and I’m not going to pretend that because I’ve seen your movies that I know what your motives are. But this is a tough play. It’s heavy. It’s personal. I—it’s hard to put it out there, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t know what the fuck you mean.” Howie knew exactly what the fuck Siegel meant. He was just interested in seeing how he was going to frame the discussion.
“Come on, Howie. You haven’t given it a thought, that the biographical aspects of this thing don’t exactly shine the most positive light on your friends?”
“First of all, we’re not going to change a fucking thing—you have money down on this and previews begin next week with reviewers already set to attend. So fuck that. And second, they are not my friends. I haven’t had contact with these guys in 50 years. We all had dinner last fall, and a couple conversations thereafter. I don’t need to defend a fucking thing.”
“Ok, alright, fine. Don’t get so upset. You’re so defensive all the time. I’m only asking because I’m your friend now, not just your business partner.”
“You’re goddamned right I’m defensive, because you quest
ion me every time you have the opportunity. It’s a good thing you’re a fag because your wife would never stick around for your shit.”
They both laughed, though the weight of the conversation still hung unresolved.
But how could Siegel have any questions about it at this late date?
Later in the evening, Howie couldn’t shake what Siegel said. He was angry, because after having finished the script and seen the enthusiasm to produce it, someone would question the strongest points of it—the characters. And that someone was bankrolling the production and doing all the legwork for the publicity blast. But he used the anger to mask his own self-doubt. After seeing the guys and getting to know them again—and now, with Punch’s death—was he betraying them in this play?
“Fuck no,” Howie said out loud, as he stood on the terrace of his condo overlooking the beach. It felt like the same cold wind that sucked out his breath on the first day he stood outside the building on the boardwalk on the beach.
He closed the doors, pulled the curtains closed, and went to bed.
Chapter 31
Alan
Reading Jessica’s essay on Howie is like reading election coverage in the local paper. You know what the writer’s true allegiances are, but they appear to work hard to appear unbiased. That very act of trying not to come across one way or the other intimates bias. I could tell that Jessica wrote this thing before her father died. She seemed so invested in it when we first met, and her intensity struck me. In the past couple of calls with her in working out the contract and plans for publicity, she seemed eager to get it off her desk and get Howie out of her life. She had already talked about another NPR assignment pending that she wanted to get working on.
“Honey, you need to make yourself available for interviews, if this thing goes where I think it will. Between the bidding war that Vanity Fair and Esquire are having, and the Hollywood Reporter giving me midnight serenades for advance excerpts, you’re going to be a busy lady in the coming weeks.”