“The Cyclone,” Chili said, “the roller coaster.”
“Yeah, the roller coaster. You remember the movie? Michael Weir, he’s Joey Corio, he’s running the fuckin roller coaster in the beginning part, before he gets in with the guys and he’s made. So the guys call him Cyclone. ‘Hey, Cyc, how you doing?’ You don’t remember that?”
Chili looked up to see Harry coming to the desk with a stack of magazines. “I’ll talk to you later,” Chili said, paused, lowered his voice then as he said, “Tommy? Find out when’s he coming out. I’ll call you,” and hung up.
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“Michael’s in every one of these,” Harry said, dropping the magazines on the desk. “Recent ones in American Film and Vanity Fair, about the picture he just finished, called Elba. This one, there’s a cover story. Everything you ever wanted to know about him. There’s a picture of Karen in there and also his present live-in.”
Chili picked up the magazine, Premiere, to see Michael Weir full face, almost life-size, grinning at him. The guy had to be up in his late forties but looked about thirty-five. Not bad looking, thick dark hair he wore fairly long, kind of a big nose. There was that Michael Weir twinkle in his eyes, Michael telling his many fans he was basically a nice guy and didn’t put on any airs. It said next to the picture in big letters, MICHAEL WEIR, and under it, smaller, WILL THE REAL ONE PLEASE STAND UP?
“He’s got a big nose,” Chili said. “I never noticed that before.”
“Prominent,” Harry said.
“It’s big,” Chili said, opening the magazine to the cover story, a full-page color shot of Michael in a faded work shirt and scruffy jeans, wearing black socks with his Reeboks. See? Just a regular guy who happened to make seven million every time he did a movie. Chili started to tell Harry his observation in a dry tone of voice, but caught himself in time.
What was he putting Michael Weir down for? He didn’t even know the guy.
He had that fuckin Ray Bones on his mind now, that was the problem, and he was taking it out on this actor who happened to have a big nose and liked scruffy jeans.
The beginning of the article, on the opposite page, had for a title over it, WEIR(D) TALES. On the next two pages were more pictures of Michael, Michael in different movies, Michael in The Cyclone holding a gun and looking desperate, Michael with Karen—there she was—still a blonde.
Chili turned the page, looked at more pictures, still thinking about Ray Bones, realizing Bones would check out the woman at Hi-Tone Cleaners and if he didn’t find her he’d use his connections, talk to the lawyers that ate raw fish, and next he’d be coming this way to check out Harry Zimm. That fuckin Bones, all he did was mess things up.
“Here’s the one he’s living with now,” Harry said over Chili’s shoulder as he turned the page. “Nicki. She’s a cutie, except for all that hair, a rock-androller. They met at Gazzarri’s, on the Strip. Nicki was performing with some group.”
“You know what?” Chili said, looking at a color shot of Michael and Nicki by a limo, both in black leather jackets. “I think I know her. There was a girl with a group we used quite a few times at Momo’s . . . Only her name was Nicole.”
“That’s close,” Harry said. He ran his finger down a column of the story. “Here. She’s twenty-seven, born in Miami. Performed with different groups . . . she’s a singer.”
“So’s Nicole,” Chili said, “but her hair’s a lot blonder and she’s older.” He picked up the phone and dialed the back room of the barbershop.
Tommy said, “I talk to you more in L.A. ‘n when you’re here.”
“There was a group we had at Momo’s about seven eight years ago, the girl singer’s name was Nicole?”
“Sure, Nicole. Man, I wanted to jump her so bad.”
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“She had blond hair, almost white?”
“Yeah, but not necessarily. I meant to tell you,” Tommy said, “we talking about Michael Weir? Nicole lives with him. Only now she’s Nicki.”
“You sure it’s the same one?”
“I just read about her, putting together a group. She was out of music for a while.”
“How old would Nicole be, thirties?”
“Around there, thirty-four.”
“This one’s twenty-seven.”
“Hey, Chil, it’s the same broad, take my word.”
“What’s the name of the group?”
“Prob’ly ‘Nicki.’ I’ll check, see what I can find out.”
Chili gave him Karen’s number and hung up. He said to Harry, “I was right, I know her.”
Harry said, “Yeah, but does she know you?”
Now they were having a drink while they looked at magazines, Chili learning facts about Michael Weir: that he had three homes, three cars, three ex-wives, a dirt bike he rode in the desert, liked to play the piano, cook, didn’t smoke, drank moderately . . . That he had appeared in seventeen features he was willing to talk about . . . That while grips and gaffers loved him, directors and writers “were not that enchanted by Michael’s tendency to trample indifferently on their prerogatives; but since he was arguably a genius . . .”
Karen walked in on them in her neat black suit, looking good, calm, but maybe putting it on, and Chili learned a little more about her and about the movie business. Karen said, “Nothing’s changed in ten years—you know it?” Harry raised his glass saying, “And it never will. Let me guess what happened. No, first tell me who was there.” Chili, at the desk, became the audience, looking from one to the other.
Karen: “You know Warren Hurst?”
Harry: “Never heard of him.”
Karen, looking at their drinks: “He’s one of the production v.p.’s, a new guy. I don’t think he’ll last.”
Harry, as Karen picked up Chili’s drink, took a big sip and handed him the glass: “Who else?”
Karen: “Elaine Levin . . .”
Harry: “No—what’s she doing at Tower?”
Karen: “Harry, she runs production. Don’t you read?”
Harry: “What, the trades? I’ve missed a few lately.” To Chili: “This’s good. Elaine Levin, a few years ago was selling cosmetics . . .”
Karen, lighting a cigarette: “She was at UA and then Metro nine years.”
Harry: “Okay, but before that she was at an ad agency in New York, right? Elaine comes up with an idea for a cosmetic she calls ‘Bedroom Eyes’— you put it on you increase your chances of getting laid. The head of a major studio says to her, ‘Honey, if you can sell that shit you can sell movies.’ Next thing you know she’s a vice-president of production.”
Karen: “Elaine started in marketing.”
Harry: “And how long was she there? That’s what I’m talking about, before they moved her into production, this broad that sold eye makeup?”
Karen: “Harry, everybody used to do something else. What about when you were Harry Simmons making slide films, How to Load a Truck?” To Chili: “Did you know Zimm wasn’t his real name?”
Harry: “The only thing I wasn’t sure of, should Zimm have one m or two? Hey, but I was always a
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filmmaker, behind the camera. These people that run the studios, they’re lawyers, former agents. They’re strictly money guys.”
Karen: “What are you, Harry?”
Harry: “They wouldn’t even see movies, I’m convinced, they didn’t have a screening room on the lot. That’s why with few exceptions I’ve remained independent. You know that song Old Blue Eyes does, ‘I did it my way’? . . .”