Back(stabbed) In Brooklyn

  “Oh—really? I’m not sure that really suits me, I mean—do I have to travel out to L.A.? I was hoping to stick around by my mom for a bit—”

  “You go wherever you want to go. When things heat up we’ll see what’s what. That’s what I’m here for, to tell you what you should be doing. Let’s focus now on the option for the script—”

  So we batted around some details, and she was very easy to work with. It still didn’t make it any easier for me to hide my relationship—or should I say, former relationship—with Howie. I had a lunch negotiation with a studio exec interested in optioning the piece for a film, just as I hoped would happen.

  “Lemme get this straight—she doesn’t even know you represent Howie?”

  “RepresentED. ED. I no longer represent Howard Kessler. There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing—I have a clean head about it. No one has expressed any problems with it.”

  “I’m not expressing anything. I’m just asking. You’re defensive for someone with a clean head.”

  “She’s not an insider. That’s all. I don’t want to scare her off. She doesn’t know how things work.”

  “Is she going to be a problem?”

  “No, not at all. She’s an angel. She’s an excellent journalist and plans on continuing doing that.”

  We both laughed at that suggestion, knowing that the success that would come out of the article would no doubt propel Jessica into another direction entirely.

  Did she hate Howard? Did she blame him for her father’s death? Or did she feel guilty for putting together a piece that shines an ugly light on Howard?

  I couldn’t afford to lose her if she found out I represented him and interpret me to be a Janus-faced prick. I’m going to release the tapes and let the media eat Howard up just as the article is published.

  ** *

  “Things are just moving so fast, I can’t believe it,” Jessica said, sounding wide-eyed at the proposition of being paid a half million dollars for the option to make a film from her article.

  “Enjoy it. Good work is good work, and it goes places,” I said, an anodyne. If she could see me sweating now, she would know something’s wrong, so all the better we’re on the phone. I am a nervous wreck about leaking the tapes. I have a shady publicist known for handling stuff like this. Like it’s a mob hit: no connection to me, no phone records, we used a third-party messenger and code words to conduct the whole operation. They’re instructed to begin dissemination as soon as there is a publish date in Vanity Fair; and 24 hours before that article is available, an interview in Hollywood Reporter with Jessica is set up with some excerpts to the article. I wanted to get sweet Jessica out there before she figures out it was me who leaked the interview tapes with Howie.

  And meanwhile, not a fucking word from Howie. There hasn’t been a word about the guy in weeks. I have my assistant monitoring Gawker.com and the WhereIsHowie.com sites to see where he pops up, and I can’t make heads or tails of the sightings. I just hope for his own sake he’s not back in trouble again with the drugs or horses.

  Look, I’m not taking this lightly. This isn’t retribution, either. This is managing my clients’ career and work. I would leak the tapes if I had them for anyone, provided it would serve as a boost to the PR behind their work. So this isn’t about Howie. Does it look bad that he used to be my client and we were inseparable at one point? Yes, absolutely. You just have to believe it’s not about Howie. It’s about my two kids in college and the few years I have before I retire from this shit for good.

  “Mr. Shiner, it’s Ms. Plotkin,” my assistant called. I was dreading the call. I knew it would come. I had to pick it up.

  “Hi Jess, what’s up?”

  “Don’t Hi Jess me, Alan, where the hell did you get the tapes? Do you have any idea what it took for me to get these guys to talk at all, no less on tape?”

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute—what are you talking about?”

  I had no idea the leaks were out yet—I figured I would be the first one they’d call once the tapes surfaced. This PR guy is great. I guess he started in New York.

  Of course I made a copy of the tapes.

  “My friend at the Post just emailed me that they are listening to Howie tapes. Isn’t my article supposed to come out tomorrow? Fucking TOMORROW? You think this doesn’t look intentional?”

  I guess I underestimated how smart she really is.

  “I don’t know what to say. I could keep denying this but I won’t.”

  “Oh Christ, Alan. Jesus, they are going to come after me. Do you realize they are going to come after me?”

  There was true fear in her voice. It wasn’t just anger or resentment. I have made a grave mistake.

  “They are going to come after me,” and she hung up.

  I got on the first plane to New York.

  Chapter 32

  Art

  “Mr. Raimi, sir, uh, there’s someone here to see you who is, um, very insistent—he’s not a baseball person, sir, he’s uh—”

  “Well get rid of him, this is ridiculous. We’re right in the middle of negotiations, Sam, you know the drill,” I said as I waved off my assistant who slithered into the conference room. At least he had the sense to wait until we broke for coffee.

  Two minutes later I hear knocking on the window of the conference room. I knew this was for me. I leaned back in my chair and peered through the blinds and saw that it was Frank.

  “At least he blends in well and isn’t conspicuous,” I said as I got up to excuse myself from the negotiations and step outside with Frank.

  Frank and I were like passing ships in the night. Though we never really had any problems together, we were never close friends for any number of reasons. Just different, I suppose. I never really had any curiosity or compelling desire to find out what he was doing after we all went our own ways. Yuri’s family owns some industrial properties in Bay Ridge and we would occasionally see Frank’s company trucks on a site there, Russo & Sons Builders. I had assumed that he was doing just fine, after the indictments and with his face plastered all over the New York tabloids back in the early 1980s. I never quite understood how he wasn’t knocked off.

  “Sir—I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help it, he pushed me!” Sam said as he was trying to meekly defend himself against expected charges that I would hold him accountable.

  “Son, I’d be worried if you were able to stop Frank,” I said while I held my hand out to Frank while I put my other on his shoulder to guide him away from the conference room.

  “Art I know this isn’t the right place for a talk, so let me just preface this with my apology,” he said flatly.

  I guess I expected a more self-gratuitous statement.

  “What’s up? Don’t tell me another death—”

  “No, not that. Not at all,” he said, brushing through his imaginary hair atop his Mr. Clean gleaming head, doubtless thinking of Punch’s recent passing. “I know you’re busy, and this doesn’t look good, I know you’re in the middle of the Players Association stuff and with everything going on this is the last thing I wanted to drop on you.”

  “What? Wait a minute, let’s go in here,” I led him around the corner and down the hall to my office. We stepped in and I closed the door. I buzzed Sam to get lunch orders in the conference room to stall the meeting.

  “How do I say this—uh, Howie is putting on a play, a play about all of us, and him, and it’s—”

  “What’s the immediate concern? We can talk about everything later—is there something pressing I need to know?” At that moment I realized what Frank was going to say.

  “The guy who plays you, I mean, your character in the play, he’s uh—”

  “Oh fuck.”

  ** *

  I returned to the negotiations and finished my very long day, though not without two separate comments inquiring about my disposition and if I was feeling alright. No, thanks, I’m not feeling alright. I’m about to confront a N
ew York sports media bulldozer whose intention it is to crush me. I’m so unused to discussing the subject of my sexuality in public that I’m not sure even how to approach this with the publicity division; or if I should even employ my own agent for good measure. Though it may be unprecedented to have a gay commissioner of a major sport and someone in the world would welcome it, I’m not sure I’d like to be the first one stepping into the role. I’ve spent my entire life working toward this job. Every ounce of my effort as a kid in school, playing sports, and side-jobs was devoted to achieving the goal that I am about to reach when the announcement is planned in two weeks.

  “Deny it. Just deny it,” Yuri said, trying to be supportive.

  “You know it’s not that easy.”

  “How are they going to know? We just won’t go out together in the city as much. It’s not like we do anything now.”

  “How can I not deny it? What if they get to Marion and the kids? And they will. Fucking press. These guys have nothing better to do.”

  “I have an idea—though you won’t like it. Why not get one of the gay groups to support you and do a media barrage? It’s a little fluffy, but I think GLAAD has people in high places in Hollywood and New York advertising people involved. Now they’ll have a commissioner of a major sport.”

  “I can’t stand those people. I can’t stand the idea of making your life so goddmaned public. Who the fuck cares? Why should anyone care? I just can’t stand them.”

  “Art, they could save your job, and maybe your life. Think about it. If you’re not going to deny it—and listen, we don’t know anything about this play, right—just be prepared to have a couple of weapons of your own.”

  This is just devastating. I called Frank early the next morning to find out if he had the script, or the previews schedule. I tried the cell number I had for Howie but it didn’t work. I had his agent’s card buried somewhere in my wallet, I think, so that’ll be my next call.

  “This is Art Raimi, a friend of Howard Kessler’s, we met a few months ago in New York,” I replied to the assistant’s interrogatory. I waited a minute on hold.

  “Mr. Raimi, please continue to hold, Mr. Shiner will be right with you. I’m connecting you to his mobile phone—he’s got a few minutes before he gets on his flight.” I was shocked that he was going to take my call. I didn’t even know what to say once he got on the call.

  “Art—I don’t represent Howie anymore, if you’re asking how to get in touch with him,” he said, preferring to preempt any line of questioning that may involve him.

  “Have you heard about his play? Are you involved with that at all? And yes, I’d like to get in touch with him—” mostly to wring his fucking neck, but I wasn’t going to jump the gun.

  “Play? He’s in a play? Not on Broadway, I would know about that—”

  “No he apparently wrote a play. It’s downtown, previews start next week. I’m trying to get my hands on the script.”

  “How’d you hear about it?”

  “It’s been under wraps for the past couple of months but they pulled the production together fast. Frank’s son is a stagehand.”

  “Oh for the love of Christ—I have to assume from the tone of your voice that there are some controversial—”

  “Controversial is not the word.”

  “I understand. Listen, I just don’t know what to say. There’s nothing I can do. Howie severed our relationship a couple of months ago, before the holidays. I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing—”

  “Well now you do. If you have any way of getting in touch with him—I don’t know why he’s doing this. I don’t know why he would try to destroy me like this—”

  “Art, listen, I hear you. This shit happens every day in Hollywood, and I know your line of work is equally cut-throat. Just distance yourself from this thing, and wait to see what happens with it. You know, just because he’s Howie Kessler doesn’t mean this play is going to go anywhere. The past two years Howie hasn’t exactly had the Midas touch so I honestly don’t expect much of a splash. Did you say you had the script?”

  “Not yet, Frank’s kid is trying to get his hands on it. His kid is a dipshit though so we’ll see what happens with that.”

  “Listen—I guess I’m glad I have you on the phone. I’m going to tell you something that, well, though it’s not going to make Howie’s play go away, may take away from the attention on the play and focus on Howie and some of his missteps.”

  “Missteps?”

  “The article that Jessica Plotkin did, all those interviews with you guys?”

  “Yes, she was very good. Poor Jessica, I can’t get over Punch. Is that article going to be published do you know?”

  “Not only is it going to be published, Hollywood is tripping over its young to get the rights to make the film and Jessica is going to reap the benefits beyond all expectations. But the tapes, they’re out.”

  “What do you mean they’re out?”

  “Someone leaked them. It wasn’t Jessica. Her bag was stolen at Newark Airport, I understand she was mugged and it was a bit of a violent episode—”

  “She ok?”

  “She’s fine, the article had remained under wraps on her laptop, but the tapes were in another bag and somehow whatever thug got their hands on them gave them to the tabloids. I just got the call this morning.”

  I was silent. I tried to think what I had said on those tapes. There were things that could be used for the article—which I read a proof of before she finalized it—and there were things that were ugly. Really ugly details about Howie, which were not meant for print or any other consumption. I knew the tapes were a bad idea.

  “Wow, that’s not good. I think. Right? I mean, I don’t know what anyone else said, but I for one didn’t exactly paint the best picture in some instances of any of us, especially Howie. So Howie knew about the article all along?”

  “No, that’s just it. He didn’t know. This whole thing—both the play and the article and the tapes—is coincidental. Bizarre, huh. Listen, my flight’s boarding so I have to hang up. I’ll be in New York tomorrow so we should talk more.”

  Alan seemed decidedly unconcerned. I suppose there’s nothing for him to be concerned with; he’s just an ancillary character in this whole thing.

  Chapter 33

  The Perfect Storm

  Howard wakes to a phone call from Brad Siegel. He expected Brad to be a little frantic today since it was the first preview of Getting the Old Gang Back Together.

  “Don’t open up the Post, whatever you do. In fact, stay in your apartment. Don’t even let the super see you.”

  “They found me? Big deal—”

  “No, Howie, there’s more to it than that. I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do—”

  “Whoa, whoa, what the fuck are you all hysterical about? What’s in that rag now?” he said, now actually slightly concerned.

  “There are some tapes, I guess interviews with some of your old buddies, recently? And some article is out—and that’s the other thing, there’s going to be an article about you in one of the big magazines—”

  “What the fuck?”

  “I say we put this thing into high gear. Skip previews. I’ll get the PR machine to put some serious asses in those seats tonight. Let’s make all the shit turn to roses. Ball’s in our court.”

  “Yeah, yeah—do whatever you think is right, it’s all good. Just lemme know what, uh—” Howard trailed off and hung up.

  For the first time in years, he was flummoxed. He resisted googling to find out what was going on in the blogosphere and went downstairs to the newsstand, as he does each morning. Today was different.

  “Hey boss, somebody don’t like you!” the newsstand guy, Rajiv, yelled at Howard.

  “What’s the new stuff you got back there for tomorrow?” he asked.

  “I can’t show you that, boss.”

  “Fuck you. What do you have back there?”

  “I got them all, boss, som
ebody else gossiping about you?”

  “Listen, lemme see what you got back there.”

  Rajiv made a sour face at Howard and led him to the back of the store where the new issues were piled up.

  “Gimme a boxcutter,” he said to Rajiv, to open the binding of a stack of Esquires.

  He proceeded to look through GQ, Playboy, Variety, Rolling Stone and a few others before he came across Vanity Fair. And there he was, a collage image of his face from a few of his big films, with the words, “The Star has Fallen,” across the bottom.

  He sat on a box and stared at the cover for a moment. He could feel the heat rise from his hands up his torso and to his face and ears. His heart raced. He wiped his mouth.

  Rajiv brought him a coffee and closed the door behind him as he left Howard alone to read the story of how he fell from his crest.

  ** *

  Siegel had a copy of the magazine article and the Post on his desk.

  The biggest problem that Brad had was in telling so many of the current ticket-holders for tonight’s performance of Getting the Old Gang Back Together they had a raincheck. He had no problem getting reviewers, socialites, and the various members of the New York VIP contingent in the house, what with the Post’s coverage of the tapes and the Vanity Fair article. It was a risk that no producer would ever take—going live without previews, it’s like putting on your makeup with no mirror. Siegel had nothing to lose but money, of which he had plenty. He’d lose face among other investors, but knowing what’s at play here, he decided the risk was worth it.

  He spent every minute of the day on the phone managing who would be in tonight’s audience. He had two interns doing the same thing. He pulled out every stop possible. He made the show a media event, which wasn’t a problem to get media to show up to anything related to Howard, now with the new information.

  Chapter 34

  Jessica

  “I don’t understand. What exactly does it say?”

  “What does what say, Mom? The article in the Post, or the article in the Post about the article that’s going to run tomorrow?”