“Oh my God. Thank you so much, Mr. Jansen. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. My contact info is on the cover page. Holy shit.”
Then he hugs me.
I drive up into the Hollywood Hills.
It takes me an hour to find Carmella Drive, this little road off Laurel Canyon.
At seven in the morning, it’s quiet and beautiful. You can’t really see the houses from the road, since most of them are enclosed by stone walls, but every so often, you’ll catch a peek through a gate or a thin spot in the foliage. It makes my head swim to think that a Star or director or producer lives in every house I pass.
It’s one colossal mansion after another.
What real estate agents might call “bungalows” also perch on the hillsides which overlook the waking Valley. Do you know what the technical definition of a “bungalow” is? I looked it up once: “A one-story house, cottage, or cabin.” There’s no fucking way these are bungalows.
195. 197. 199. 201. 203 Carmella Drive.
My heart racing now.
I slow the Hummer to a crawl and drift past the mailbox of James Jansen. His house is a bungalow, set below the road, and from what I can tell, it commands a spectacular view of the Valley. Instead of stone, a wall of hedges hides his home from view.
I cruise on and pull over when the shoulder widens, a couple hundred yards down the hill from his mailbox.
My coffee’s gone cool in the hour it’s taken me to find Jansen’s place.
I sit in the Hummer eating the bearclaw, as close as I’ve ever been to JJ.
To my knowledge, Jansen owns five homes: (1) a 12,000 square-foot log cabin in Montana; (2) this 5,000 square-foot bungalow in the Hollywood Hills, his primary residence; (3) a 5-bedroom apartment overlooking Central Park in Manhattan; (4) a three-story beach house in Nags Head on the Outer Banks of North Carolina; and (5) a villa in the South of France.
According to tabloids, rumors, Web sites, and everything else I’ve read about him in the last year, Jansen has not left LA in nine months. He hasn’t worked on a project in three years, and his public and social appearances have been on the decline. He hasn’t even been out in public (movie premiers, the Oscars, fundraisers…) since before Christmas. And people are beginning to wonder why. I won’t even touch the speculation, but if his seclusion continues much longer, it will become a major story. But as of right now, his absence is only curious.
In my rearview mirror, I can see Jansen’s gate a little ways up the road. Since I have nothing to do now but wait, I lift Connor’s script from the passenger seat.
It’s done up quite professionally. The pages are bound with two brass brads, and the cover is heavy stock, protected by a sheet of plastic.
The screenplay is called Until the End of Time.
It’s three hundred pages.
I turn to the first:
FADE IN:
Sunset over the Caribbean Sea.
EXT. BEACH – DAY
STEWART and BARBARA sit in the sand watching the sunset. A pair of ducks fly by, fucking in midair.
STEWART
Are you sure you’re going to leave me?
BARBARA
(becoming misty)
Yes, Stu. I’ve made my decision.
And you won’t talk me out of it.
STEWART
I’m so sad, Bar-bar.
BARBARA
I never meant to hurt you.
That’s the God’s honest truth.
They kiss one last time as the screen darkens.
The only reason I keep reading this horrid script is because there’s nothing else to do.
The day slowly brightens all around me, and occasionally a jogger passes by. I wonder if they think I’m a private investigator or a bodyguard. This bright yellow Hummer isn’t exactly what you’d call inconspicuous.
Since you’re probably dying to know what happens in Until the End of Time, I won’t keep you in suspense. Stewart, the lead, gets dumped by his wife on their honeymoon in the Caribbean. Understandably, he’s devastated. He returns home to Chicago and goes back to work at the bank, making a concerted effort to get on with his life.
One day, while he’s out to lunch, he happens to see his ex-wife in a restaurant. She’s with a man, and Stu becomes very jealous. He follows them back to their house in the suburbs and learns that they have children together and have apparently been married for several years. Stewart breaks into their house and finds out that Bar-Bar is a Russian spy and the only reason she married him was because she thought he had access to top secret information.
At 10:35 a.m., a white Porsche emerges from Jansen’s gate. I crank the Hummer as it peels out and tears down the street, doing better than sixty by the time it streaks past me. I follow along the winding trajectory of Carmella Drive, doing my best to keep up, but the Porsche is absolutely hauling ass. After several minutes, I think I’ve lost it, but I come around a curve and see the Porsche stopped in front of the slowly opening gate of a Santa Fe-style mansion. It disappears inside, and the gate closes me out.
I think I saw the back of Jansen’s head. He was wearing a baseball cap.
A hundred yards down the street, I pull off the road again to wait.
I sit in the Hummer for four hours, and by three o’clock, I’ve got to pee something fierce. I imagine urinating on the side of the road will get you arrested pretty quick in a Star neighborhood. But I chance it, because my bladder is aching.
I feel much better climbing back behind the wheel.
Another four hours pass.
I call Kara, but she says she’s cramming for an exam and to call her back tomorrow before noon. She hangs up quickly, almost like she wasn’t thrilled that I took the time to call. I suppose she’s just stressed. If we’re going to get married, I have to learn to accept this intense side of her. Since I’ve got my cell out, I call the fledgling screenwriter.
He answers: “Talk to me.”
“Connor?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Jim Jansen. We met at Bo Bo’s this—”
“Mr. Jansen! How are you?”
“I’m well. I’ve spent the morning reading your script.” I pause for a moment. It’s fun to mess with people. “And I absolutely…can you hold on one second?”
“Um, sure.”
I put the phone down and stretch my arms. Man, it’s toasty in this Hummer.
You may think it’s mean, but I see it this way. Connor has zero talent, and he’s never going to sell anything. He’ll be a failure all of his life. Why not let him feel important and truly talented for a day or two. I pick up the phone again.
“Connor?”
“Yes.”
“I love it.”
“Really?”
“The writing is exceptional. I think we can do some business.”
“Oh my God, are you kidding me?”
“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to talk to some people this week, and get you a few meetings. You’re going to pitch them with me attached, and I’ll start hunting up a director. I’ve got a few in mind, but I want to think about it.”
“Okay.”
“Now, I want you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“You and your friends go out and celebrate tonight.”
Connor starts weeping.
“Mr. Jansen, you can’t imagine what this means to me. I’ve dreamed my whole life of something like this, and now—”
The white Porsche pulls out onto the street.
“I got to go now, Conner.”
I crank the engine and zoom off after Jansen. He certainly likes to speed.
I follow him down into West Hollywood, and on N. Highland Avenue, he stops at a red light.
I’m directly behind him. The top is down on his Porsche. He isn’t wearing a hat anymore. His haircut is similar to mine, though maybe a little longer. In his rearview mirror, I see his deep dark shades.
When the light turns green, he punches it through the intersection, and I follow him at a comfortable distance up the 101 into Universal City.
He turns eventually, and I start to turn as well until I see his destination.
A guard waves him through Gate 4 of Universal Studios.