Show Business is Murder

Goin’ West by CHARLES ARDAI
I

Arthur French, a man whose bearing and expression were not so much boyish as they were a failed attempt to appear so, looked down at the avenue outside his office and wished he had the guts to open his window and throw himself out of it.

But he hadn’t, so after a few minutes of staring at the traffic below while a cigarette burned itself to ash between his fingers, Arthur returned to his desk. The portfolio he had been going through when he had been overcome with his sudden attack of self-revulsion lay open on his blotter. Arthur stubbed out his cigarette and went back to work.

He had already discarded twenty-three women, turning the pages that held their hopeful eight-by-tens without so much as a stirring of interest. He had only pulled two photos from their plastic sleeves: Lisa Brennan, a striking blonde who’d have to look over her shoulder to see thirty, much less the twenty-seven she claimed, and Angela Meyer, a homely brunette-that nose!-whose bikini shot had nevertheless caught Arthur’s eye. He’d covered her face with his hand. Maybe she’d do for some body doubling, or for the shower scene establishing shot where they’d need extras. Nobody would have to see her face. Arthur had pulled the picture and dropped it face down next to his telephone.

Angela’s credits, listed on the back, read like a young actress’s dream: Cordelia in King Lear, the baker’s wife in Into The Woods. But that’s probably all they were-a dream. What she’d left out was that King Lear had been a showcase in someone’s apartment on the Upper West Side and that Into The Woods had been summer-stock in Connecticut. Or vice versa. Hell, Arthur told himself, a woman who wants to do Cordelia doesn’t send her agent around with a photo that shouts “playmate of the month” at the top of its lungs.

Brennan’s credits had sounded more realistic: bit parts on a couple of soaps, some commercials, guest spots on two short-lived sitcoms. Plus one feature a few years back where she’d played Goldie Hawn’s sister, a two-line part that had gotten her into SAG. At least she wasn’t as likely to embarrass herself in front of the camera.

Arthur flipped through the rest of the portfolio, his interest waning from minimal to zip. Bunch of hungry little tramps who’d push each other in front of a train for a line of their own in the end credits, especially as a character with a name instead of something like “Woman In Cab.”

Hell, they’d kill for “Woman In Cab,” too.

He closed the book and zipped it up, then slipped the two photos he’d selected into his project folder. Two appointments for Rose to set up, two distant, distant, distant possibilities for Goin’ West, and one less agent to deal with on the project. He stuck the portfolio in its mailer and started it on its way back to Jennifer Stein, the madam who had pulled this Kodacolor harem together and dropped it on his desk.

He fingered his lead-crystal ashtray, overflowing with Camel butts, then pulled a new cigarette from his pack and lit it. Somewhere halfway through the pack, Freddie Prinze’s agent blew Arthur off, followed by Jason Biggs’s and James van der Beek’s. Never mind Ashton Kutcher’s-it wasn’t worth the phone call. Not for a project that would get a five-week theatrical release, if that, on its way to video stores across the U.S. of A. James van der Beek was too big for this project, for God’s sake.

Arthur ran his hand through his hair, permanently damp from a steady diet of Grecian Formula and Nexus, then slid the project file into its pendaflex folder and left it for Rose to file. The women would be easy to cast-no star or even B-lister needed. The male lead and his buddies, on the other hand, had to be names that meant something to teenage boys.

If all else failed, he’d go after Corey Dunn or Jon Farrell. William Fitch, their agent, owed Arthur favors that had major price tags hanging all over them. Shame to call them in for a dog like Goin’ West, though.

He made one more phone call before cutting out early. Then he took the elevator down the thirty floors to street level, a slower method than the one he’d contemplated earlier, but at least you didn’t end up a stain on the concrete. He picked up his Audi in the building’s garage, spent a good half-hour in Manhattan traffic (a lousy half-hour, actually, city driving was always lousy), fought a traffic jam all the way out to Bronxville, and parked in front of his townhouse. Sandy was waiting for him when he got home and he got up a smile for her when he walked through the door. That was the most he could get up, though, and they went to sleep apologizing to each other.

All night Arthur dreamt about going through with his suicide, opening his office window and smashing to a jelly on the pavement. In a strange way, the dream didn’t feel like a nightmare. In it, he left a note to his wife saying, “It’s not you, honey, I can’t stand this stinking business.” Which was his dream’s way of making him feel better, because in his waking moments he knew it was her, as much as it was anything.

Sandy would never let him forget that “East Coast casting director” was a contradiction in terms, especially when it came to features. You had to be in California to really be in the business, unless you were Juliet Taylor and did the casting for Woody’s pictures, but he wasn’t, and he didn’t, and he never would come close.

Arthur French was a peripheral figure in the industry, a name people half remembered in connection with films they would just as soon have forgotten. He’d given up, years before, his original ambition to do work he was proud of and had become a whore for the mid-budget studios who were still willing to use him. Sandy would ask him from time to time why he’d pissed away such talent as he’d had when she’d met him-as though he knew the answer himself. Over the past few weeks Sandy had also started asking him about other women, stopping just short of accusing him of having an affair. Then she was surprised when he flopped worse than Waterworld in bed?

It didn’t help the situation that Arthur couldn’t divorce her, mainly because his townhouse was really Sandy’s townhouse and Goin’ West wouldn’t pay for a replacement. Twenty years of films like Goin’ West hadn’t, and twenty more wouldn’t.

Arthur sat up in bed next to where Sandy lay, blowsy and paunchy and forty-eight, and dragged on his first Camel of the morning, thinking about divorce and thinking about suicide. Suicide seemed simpler and less painful.

He tried to go back to sleep, but he found he couldn’t keep his eyes closed. He went to work instead.

ARTHUR MADE SOME more calls before the girls started filling Rose’s office, touching up their makeup and hiding their bra straps. The calls didn’t go well, but why should they? The script for Goin’ West had made the rounds and every agent Arthur called knew it was garbage. No agent would let his actors appear in the film. If Kreuger had been willing to cut the scenes on the beach, maybe, but the bastard had been stubborn. How can you fight a writer-director-producer who’s making his own film? On the other hand, how do you get any actor who’s got a sense of self-preservation to go in front of the camera and play the sort of scenes Kreuger wrote? He made the Farrellys look like Noel Coward.

Arthur ran his fingers through his hair, wiped his hand, threw the tissue out, smoked halfway through a cigarette, and buzzed Rose to start sending the girls in.

The female roles were interchangeable. Arthur kept a checklist and marked off character names one by one. Kreuger would have to approve his choices, of course, but that’s what callbacks were for. Arthur picked two women for each part, jotting down information on the Polaroids Rose had taken while the girls were waiting in the front office.

Angela Meyer showed up at eleven, uglier in person and less talented even than Arthur had expected. She did have a good body, though, and Arthur wrote her down for extra work: the shower scene, the skinny-dipping scene, wherever they needed background T &A. Angela’s face fell when Arthur told her this was all she could get, but what could he do? Ugly is ugly.

Lisa Brennan appeared after lunch, when the crowd had thinned out. Arthur was already numbed from the morning’s parade of spandex-and-silicone hopefuls, and he didn’t stand up when Lisa came in. He was tired of standing up. Lisa sat opposite him and handed him another copy of her headshot. Arthur dropped it on his desk and stared at her.

You could see the desperation in her face, and with thirty-plus showing around her eyes, Arthur wasn’t surprised. Her hands were twisted around one another in her lap. He glanced at Lisa’s credits again and noted that her last project was half a year old-which meant she hadn’t worked for the better part of a year, and that in turn was why she was in his office trying to get a part in a teen sex comedy.

Arthur launched into his spiel. “We’re casting a new film by Daniel Kreuger called Goin’ West. There are several parts for young women…” The words poured out of him on automatic, along with pauses during which he waited for Lisa to answer the standard questions. She answered them. The answers were standard, too. Arthur started to feel his stomach.

When Arthur told Lisa to undress, she stood, pulled her sweatshirt over her head, and undid the knot on her hip that held her wrap in place. Under it she wore an orange two-piece swimsuit. She turned in a circle, then bent to pick her wrap off the floor.

Arthur made a gesture with his hand. The gesture wasn’t any gesture in particular, just a tired wave of the hand that wasn’t holding his cigarette, but Lisa knew what it meant and she forced a smile as she unclasped her top in back and slipped it off her shoulders.

Lisa had a nice body, but that smile… smiles like that gave Arthur ulcers. He forced himself to smile back, but he knew it came out wrong, a pained, cut-the-crap expression that he quickly wiped off his face.

Lisa stopped smiling, too. Arthur waited, but she just stood there, not smiling.

The ones who stripped naked without being asked were bad enough, the ones who thought that seeing another naked, young body could be any sort of bribe at all for Arthur. The ones Arthur had to ask were worse. But it was his job and he did it.

Arthur made his gesture again, knowing already that he wouldn’t use Lisa, knowing that Kreuger would laugh if he sent him any woman who didn’t have the body of a teenager. Laugh, hell, Kreuger would find another casting director. But Arthur made his gesture and waited for Lisa to pull down her swimsuit, let him see what he’d be casting if he’d cast her, which he wouldn’t. Though he’d have liked to, Arthur realized suddenly, since personally he found her more attractive than the twenty-year-olds who had been in and out of his office all morning.

Lisa hesitated. “Do I have to? If you think it’s likely that I’ll get the role, fine, but if not I’d rather not.” She had her thumbs hooked under the straps at her hips.

Arthur’s stomach burned. “You don’t have to do it,” he said. “I don’t care. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You don’t have to be in the movie. No one’s going to force you.” Lisa stood uncertainly while Arthur stared at her.

Here’s a woman who’s done commercials and soaps, Arthur said to himself, and she’s dying inside but she’s letting you get away with this because she’s desperate for a break, which you’re not going to give her anyway. For God’s sake, let her go.

“Listen-” Arthur started, but Lisa had made her mind up and was bending over, stepping out of her bikini, standing up naked in a stranger’s office to get a role where she’d have to do more or less the same thing in front of a million moviegoers.

“Get dressed,” Arthur said, disgusted with himself.

Lisa stared at him. “Is something wrong?”

“Please.”

“Is there something wrong with me?”

“Just get dressed.” She was frozen. “Christ, there’s no part for you, okay?”

She didn’t say anything, just picked up her wrap from the arm of the chair, wound it around her waist, tied it, and quickly pulled the sweatshirt over her head. She grabbed her photo and her bikini.

He turned his chair to face the window and heard the door slam.

The next girl he saw was a nineteen-year-old from Toronto, a bottle blonde whose headshot mentioned parts in Hollywood Hookers and Hollywood Hookers in Bermuda. He stopped her before she could unbutton her shirt and told her she had the part and asked her to leave. She blushed tremendously and thanked him.

Bill Fitch didn’t return his calls all afternoon.

ARTHUR TOOK LISA’S headshot home with him, hidden between two pages of budget projections for Goin’ West. Some time after midnight, he got out of bed and carried his briefcase into the living room. He turned on the lamp next to the TV set and angled its shade so that no light shone toward the bedroom. Then he took Lisa’s photograph out and looked at it for a long time. He lit a cigarette, but it burned most of the way down untouched on the rim of the ashtray.

He had no idea whether Lisa Brennan had talent. But hell, what was talent anyway? Didn’t plenty of successful movie actresses come up short in the talent department?

Arthur dug through his briefcase until he found his Filofax, and through his Filofax until he found Bill Fitch’s home number. Bill had written it in there himself, back when he was still taking Arthur’s calls. Next to the number, Bill had written, “Call any time.”

A groggy voice answered the phone on the fourth ring.

“Bill? Arthur. Arthur French.”

There was silence on the other end, for perhaps half a minute. “Hey, Art. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you back. I was in meetings most of the day.”

“That’s what I figured,” Arthur said. But to himself he said: Sure you were, you lying son of a bitch. You knew I was trying to land someone for Goin’ West and you didn’t have the balls to tell me no to my face.

“What can I do for you?”

“Listen, I’ve got a-”

“Hold on one second. Sorry to interrupt. Just hold on.” Arthur held on. He heard Bill put the phone down, get out of bed, pad softly away. In the distance, a little while later, a toilet flushed. The footsteps returned. “I’m back. Sorry about that. Twice a night these days, rain or shine. Shoot.”

“What I wanted to say is, I saw a girl today. Her name’s Lisa Brennan. She was in Telling Lies, you remember that one?”

“No.”

“With Goldie Hawn…?”

“No. I don’t. But I’ll take your word for it.”

“It was out, I don’t know, four years ago. She was Goldie’s sister.”

“Okay, fine. Go on.”

“She’s also done soaps, small things here and there, nothing big since Telling Lies.”

“And?”

“She’s good. She’s really good, Bill. I saw her today-” I saw her today, made her take her clothes off, told her I wasn’t going to hire her, and then she left. “I saw her and I had her read, and I’m telling you, this girl has got it. She could be-oh, I don’t know. Hillary Swank. Cate Blanchett. Any part they do, this girl could do. But she’s good looking, too, so it’s the best of both worlds.” Then, because there was only silence on the line, enough silence for Arthur to start asking himself, “Why are you doing this?” he added, “You’ve got to see her. I’m telling you, she’ll be a star. With you or with someone else, she’ll be a star. I’d rather it was you, Bill. You wait too long, she’ll be with CAA or ICM, making the fat cats fatter.”

“Who is she with now?”

“Jennifer Stein.”

More silence, and lots of it.

Finally: “You screwing her, Arthur?”

“I’m not screwing her. I never even touched her.”

“So what’s the real story?”

“I told you the real story.”

“Jennifer Stein rents bimbos out to Italian directors who want to remake Caligula, Arthur. Jennifer Stein supplied the cast for Caged Women. Don’t tell me Jennifer Stein has found herself a real actress. Jennifer Stein couldn’t sign a real actress to save her life.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Arthur said. “Did I say you’re wrong? No, you’re right. I agree completely-nine times out of ten.”

“Please-”

“Maybe ninety-nine out of a hundred. But this is the one time, Bill. I’m telling you this based on thirty years in the business: She’s got it like no one else I’ve ever seen.”

“Come on. You’re calling me at two in the morning to tell me about some girl you saw once in your life? Give me a break, Arthur.”

“Trust me,” Arthur said. “Write down her number. Give her a call. See her. You’re going to thank me.”

“I can’t believe you called me up in the middle of the night just to tell me about some girl.”

“Would I-tell me this, Bill, I’m serious-would I call you in the middle of the night if she were just some girl? Don’t I have better things to do in the middle of the night? I couldn’t sleep.”

“You couldn’t sleep.”

“Please. Write down her number.”

“Okay, fine,” Bill said. “Give me her number.”

Arthur heard a pencil scratching against paper as he read off Lisa’s phone number.

“Arthur, are you using her in Goin’ West?”

“No,” Arthur said. Then: “She’s too good for Goin’ West.”

“Well, listen,” Bill said. “If she’s as good as you say she is, which I still don’t believe, but if, I’ll see what I can do about getting Corey to do the film for you.”

“That’d be great, Bill.”

“I’m not making any promises.”

“That’s fine,” Arthur said. “I know you’ll do your best. That’s all I can ask for.”

When Bill had hung up, Arthur dialed the number written on the back of Lisa’s headshot. An answering machine clicked on, spieled, and beeped.

“This is Arthur French calling,” Arthur said. He paused. “I’m sorry about what happened today. I passed your headshot to William Fitch at ASC and I think you’ll hear from him soon.” He paused again. “I told him I had you read for me today and that I was very impressed. So if he asks, go along with it.” This time he took a deep breath before proceeding. “If I could have cast you in Goin’ West, I want you to know I would have. But I’m just a hired hand. I have to do what they tell me.”

As an afterthought, Arthur left his phone number. “In case you need to reach me,” he said.

“THAT WAS BILL,” Arthur said as he replaced the receiver in its cradle. “He says hello.”

“Did he say if he’s made a decision?”

“It’s only been a week.”

“I know.” Lisa stood up, walked a lap around the office, and fell into the chair again. “I’m just anxious.”

“You should be anxious. Fitch is a dealmaker. If he decides that you’re going to be in a movie, you’re in it.”

“Do you think he will?”

“Yes,” Arthur said.

“Pale Moon?”

“I’d put money on it. If not Pale Moon, it’ll be something else. He’s already said he’ll handle you. It’s just a question of which project he places you in first.”

Lisa turned her chair, back and forth, back and forth.

“You want to know what I said to myself the last time I walked out that door?” she said.

“Probably not.”

“I said to myself, ‘If that little prick ever calls again, I’ll hang up in his face, I don’t care who he is.’ ”

“Well, I deserved that,” Arthur said.

She stopped turning. “Then you called. I was lying in bed listening to my machine, and when you said your name, I started crying.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you don’t understand. I was crying because in that instant I thought, ‘He’s calling to give you the part after all,’ and I was so goddamned grateful. And I hated myself for feeling that way. I hated you for making me feel that way. I wanted to kill myself. I didn’t even hear the rest of your message until later, when I played it back. I almost didn’t hear it at all. I almost pulled the tape out and threw it in the garbage.”

“Good thing you didn’t.”

Lisa paused. “I still don’t understand why you did this for me.”

“You mean, what’s in it for me? No, that’s a fair question.” Arthur took a file from the stack on his desk and from the file retrieved a photo of Corey Dunn. “He’s going to do Goin’ West, ninety-nine percent certain. Why? Because I sent you over to Bill Fitch and he liked you.”

“But you sent me over without knowing if I was any good. You sent me over blind.”

“So? What did I have to lose? Dunn wasn’t doing the picture. Fitch wasn’t returning my calls. So you go over there and bomb. Dunn’s still not doing the picture and Fitch still isn’t taking my calls. What could I have lost?”

“You told him I was good. You could have lost your credibility.”

“Don’t make me into a white knight,” Arthur said, thinking to himself, credibility? What credibility? “I took a shot and it paid off. If it hadn’t, I’d have tried something else.”

“You could have taken a different shot. The fact is, first you were a real asshole to me, and then later the same day you helped me out when you didn’t have to.”

Arthur shrugged. “I felt I owed you a good turn.”

“You’re a tough guy to figure,” Lisa said.

“It’s part of my charm.”

“Why me?” Lisa said. “No offense, but I’m sure you’re an asshole to lots of women.”

Arthur thought about it. Why? Because she looked like she needed help more than those other girls. Or maybe like she deserved it more than they did. Or maybe it was just that she was the first woman he’d seen that day who wasn’t young enough to be his daughter. “I don’t know,” Arthur said. “It was a feeling I had about you. And I had seen you in Telling Lies. I knew you were good.”

“I only had two lines in Telling Lies,” Lisa said.

Only one of which I’ve heard, Arthur said to himself, seeing as how I only caught the second half of the movie last night on HBO. “They were good lines,” he said. “A person knows talent when he sees it.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“Yes,” Arthur said, “I am. Want some lunch?”

She faced him dead on, arms crossed over her chest. “Let’s get one thing straight, okay? This feeling you had about me? No, listen to me. I don’t care what you did for me or why you did it, I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“What did I say?” Arthur said. “I said, ‘Want some lunch?’ I did not say, ‘Want to sleep with me?’ Lisa, I’m a married man, and though my wife wouldn’t believe it if I slapped my hand on a pile of Bibles and sang it soprano, I haven’t had sex with another woman since a few weeks before November 5, 1976, which is the day she and I got married. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Because that was the only thing I could figure,” Lisa said, going on as if he hadn’t said anything. “That you’d thought about me some more and decided you wanted to get me into bed. The only other thing I could figure was that you felt sorry for me, which would be even worse.”

Arthur took his coat off the hook on the back of the door and slung it over his arm. Why had he done it? Why had he taken her picture home and called Fitch and put himself on the line for her? He wasn’t sure. Lots of reasons. No reason. Oh, hell, what could he tell this woman that would make her understand?

“Totally honest?” he said, and she nodded. “Maybe I did feel a little sorry for you. Jesus, who wouldn’t? And maybe I wanted to get you into bed, too, just for a minute. I don’t any more, believe me.”

“Which?”

“What?”

“Feel sorry for me or want to get me into bed? Which don’t you any more?”

“Either,” Arthur said. “Listen, you say you felt like you wanted to kill yourself when I called. I don’t know if you meant that or not. But I could have said the same thing that very morning, and I would have meant it, every word of it. I was standing at that window-” he pointed “-and I was this close, this close, to opening it and saying sayonara to the whole goddamn shooting match.

“Why? You’re asking yourself why. Here’s a man, corner office on the thirtieth floor, casting for major Hollywood blockbusters, has beautiful women in his office at all hours showing him their tits, bigshot agents call him all day long begging him to let their stars be in his pictures, why would a man who’s got all this want to do a double gainer from his office window?” He ran his hand through his hair. His fingers itched for a cigarette.

“That’s what you’re asking yourself. Well. All I can say is, the agents aren’t calling, the stars aren’t begging, the thirtieth floor stinks as much as the third in this lousy city, my business is all on the West Coast, my wife’s sure I’m shtupping every girl who walks in here, and the girls-yourself excluded, God bless you-all look like they got inflated with the same bicycle pump. I walk out of here at five o’clock, I don’t want to see another pair of breasts as long as I live.

“Then you walk in here, deserving better than me, deserving better than this whole lousy business, and I treat you the same as the rest of them. And you let me do it to you.” Arthur shook his head. “I had to call you back. That, or come back here, open the window, and get it over with once and for all.”