"But if you tell Ballard I wrote that script, he won't buy it."
"You're being paranoid, Mort."
"Facing facts and being practical. Don't screw this up."
"I told you, I won't go along with it."
"Then if you won't make the deal, I'll get somebody else who will."
A long pause. "Do you know what you're saying?"
"Ric Potter and I need a new agent."
I'll say this for Steve -even though he was furious about my leaving him, he finally swore, for old time's sake, at my insistence, that he wouldn't tell anybody what I was doing. He was loyal to the end. It broke my heart to leave him. The new agent I selected knew squat about the arrangement I had with Ric.
She believed what I told her – that Ric and I were friends and by coincidence we'd decided simultaneously to get new representation. I could have chosen one of those superhuge agencies like CAA, but I've always been uncomfortable when I'm part of a mob, and in this case especially, it seemed to me that small and intimate were essential. The fewer people who knew my business, the better.
The Linda Carpenter Agency was located in a stone cottage just past the gates to the old Hollywoodland subdivision. Years ago, the "land" part of that subdivision's sign collapsed. The "Hollywood" part remained, and you see that sign all the time in film clips about Los Angeles. It's a distance up past houses in the hills. Nonetheless, from outside Linda Carpenter's stone cottage, you feel that the sign's looming over you.
I parked my Audi and got out with Ric. He was wearing sneakers, jeans, and a blue cotton pullover. At my insistence. I wanted his outfit to be self-consciously informal and youthful in contrast with my own mature, conservative slacks and sport coat. When we entered the office, Linda -who's thirty, with short red hair, and loves to look at gorgeous young men-sat straighter when I introduced Ric. His biceps bulged at the sleeves of his pullover. I was reminded again of how much – with his sandy hair, blue eyes, and glowing tan-he looked like an actor.
Linda took a moment before she reluctantly shifted her attention away from him, as if suddenly realizing that I was in the room. "Good to see you again, Mort. But you didn't have to come all this way. I could have met you for lunch at Le Dome."
"A courtesy visit. I wanted to save you the long drive, not to mention the bill."
I said it as if I was joking. The rule is that agents always pick up the check when they're at a restaurant with clients.
Linda's smile was winning. Her red hair seemed brighter. "Any time. I'm still surprised that you left Steve." She tactfully didn't ask what the problem had been. "I promise I'll work hard for you."
"I know you will," I said. "But I don't think you'll have to work hard for my friend here. Ric already has some interest in a script of his over at Warners."
"Oh?" Linda raised her elegant eyebrows. "Who's the executive?"
"Ballard."
"My, my." She frowned slightly. "And Steve isn't involved in this? Your ties are completely severed?"
"Completely. If you want, call him to make sure."
"That won't be necessary."
But I found out later that Linda did phone Steve, and he backed up what I'd said. Also he refused to discuss why we'd separated.
"I have a hunch the script can go for big dollars," I continued.
"How big is big?"
"A million."
Linda's eyes widened. "That certainly isn't small."
"Ballard heard there's a buzz about Ric. Ballard thinks that Ric might be a young Joe Eszterhas." The reference was to the screenwriter of Basic Instinct, who had become a phenomenon for writing sensation-based scripts on speculation and intriguing so many producers that he'd manipulated them into a bidding war and collected megabucks. "I have a suspicion that Ballard would like to make a preemptive bid and shut out the competition."
"Mort, you sound more like an agent than a writer."
"It's just a hunch."
"And Steve doesn't want a piece of this?"
I shook my head no.
Linda frowned harder.
But her frown dissolved the moment she turned again toward Ric and took another look at his perfect chin. "Did you bring a copy of the script?"
"Sure." Ric grinned with becoming modesty, the way I'd taught him. "Right here."
Linda took it and flipped to the end to make sure it wasn't longer than 115 pages – a shootable size. "What's it about?"
Ric gave the pitch that I'd taught him-the high concept first, then the target audience, the type of actor he had in mind, and ways the budget could be kept in check. The same as when we'd clocked it at my house, he took four minutes.
Linda listened with growing fascination. She turned to me. "Have you been coaching him?"
"Not much. Ric's a natural."
"He must be to act this polished."
"And he's young," I said.
"You don't need to remind me."
"And Ballard certainly doesn't need reminding," I said.
"Ric," Linda said. "From here on in, whatever you do, don't get writer's block. I'm going to make you the highest paid new kid in town."
Ric beamed.
"And Mort," Linda said, "I think you're awfully generous to help your friend through the ropes like this."
"Well" – I shrugged – "isn't that what friends are for?"
I had joked with Linda that our trip to her office was a courtesy visit – to save her a long drive and the cost of buying us lunch at an expensive restaurant. That was partly true. But I also wanted to see how Ric made his pitch about the script. If he got nerves and screwed up, I didn't want it to be in Le Dome, where producers at neighboring tables might see him get flustered. We were trying out the show on the road, so to speak, before we brought it to town. And I had to agree with Linda – Ric had done just fine.
I told him so, as we drove along Sunset Boulevard." I won't always be there to back you up. In fact, it'll be rare that I am. We have to keep training you so you give the impression there's very little about writing or the business you don't understand. Most of getting along with studio executives is making them have confidence in you."
"You really think I impressed her?"
"It was obvious."
Ric thought about it, peering out the window, nodding. "Yeah."
So we went back to my home in the hills above West Hollywood, and I ran him through more variations of questions he might get asked – where he'd gotten the idea, what actors would be good in the roles, who he thought could direct the material, that sort of thing. At the start of a project, producers pay a lot of attention to a screenwriter, and they promise to keep consulting him the way they're consulting him now. It's all guff, of course. As soon as a director and a name actor are attached to a project, the producers suddenly get amnesia about the original screenwriter. But at the start, he's king, and I wanted Ric to be ready to answer any kind of question about the screenplay so he could be convincing that he'd actually written it.
Ric was a fast study. At eight, when I couldn't think of any more questions he might have to answer, we took a drive to dinner at a fish place near the Santa Monica pier. Afterward, we strolled to the end of the pier and watched the sunset.
"So this is what it's all about," Ric said.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"The action. I can feel the action."
"Don't get fooled by Linda's optimism. Nothing might come of this."
Ric shook his head. "I'm close."
"I've got some pages I want to do tomorrow, but if you'll come around at four with your own new pages, I'll go over them for you. I'm curious to see how you're revising that script you showed me."
Ric kept staring out at the sunset and didn't answer for quite a while. "Yeah, my script."
As things turned out, I didn't get much work done the next day. I had just managed to solve a problem in a scene that was running too long when my phone rang. That was around ten o'clock, and rather than be interrupted, I let my answering machine take it. But when I heard Ric's excited voice, I picked up the phone.