The Chrysanthemum Palace

~ ~ ~

“SO, WHAT DO YOU THINK about hiring Thad?”

“For what?”

“To write one of the books. You know—‘Prodigal Son.’ ”

“What are you, his agent?” said Perry, sardonically. “He needs one, by the way. Miriam’s a nice person, but a little quaint. What the fuck do you care, anyway? We get drones for that — it’s practically a software program. Why is he even interested? I mean, are they serious? Is it supposed to be ‘camp’? Because I’m tellin’ you, it ain’t. Much rather see him do the movie. Anyway, we can’t pay anything to write that crap. It’s fifteen grand. Maybe. He’d get more spending a day at a Starwatch convention.”

“Dad, can I tell you a secret?” His ears pricked up. “But this is… something you cannot talk about. With anyone.”

“What is it?”

I told him about the IRS trouble and the $10 million proviso of Jack’s will.

“Jesus,” said Perry, taking a deep breath. “That’s astonishing! My God. All right — let me think about this.” He nodded, stroking his chin. I was really glad that he “got” it; I knew I had him. “OK. I’m inclined to do it. Jesus — that’s like something out of one of his father’s books! Boy oh boy. Nasty.” He laughed but not in a way that was cruel. “Nasty, nasty, nasty! All right, let me mull this over, Bertram. But I’m predisposed. And don’t discuss it — not yet. You know, you should get a fucking commission if he pulls this off! Which, by the way, I very much doubt is possible. Because I have to tell you: only one or two of those titles ever made the list that I know of, maybe only one.” I told him he was wrong about that. “The Times? The New York Times? And that’s the stipulation? Holy shit. Well, that must have been a while back, when the show was at its peak. We’re talking paperback list — hardcover, forget. The series isn’t so popular anymore. In fact, we might phase it out entirely.”

Watching him, I knew he already saw himself in the index of some future Michelet biography: Krohn, Perry Needham, generosity of.

“You know, I’m worried about your friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you’re going to be his patron, maybe you should look after him a bit.”

“In what way?”

“I got a call. From Sherry Evans. Clea has a nasty bruise on her jaw. Did you know about this?”

“No.”

“She said she fell in the bathroom.”

The comment had big quotes around it.

“When?”

“She called about an hour ago.”

“Who’s Sherry Evans?”

“A makeup gal. She was concerned and didn’t know who to tell.”

(He’d inadvertently exposed a lover.)

“I’ll talk to Clea,” I said.

My heart was racing.

“Maybe you should talk to him.”

He walked to his desk and retrieved a book.

“Did I show you this?”

It was a copy of The Soft Sea Horse.

He held open the title page to display Thad’s dedication.

a Perry Menopausal, con mucho cariño…

“E le morte stagioni”

Ever Thine,

♥

Thaddeus (Leapin’) Leopardi

“Do you know what it means?” I felt like an ass but nothing else came to mind.

“Not a clue. But you’ll handle him — I mean, you’re gonna be his padrone, right?”

A sense of panic and betrayal gripped me as soon as I left my father’s house.

I frantically called the studio but Clea was in the middle of a scene. The A.D. intuited my concerns and assured she was “totally OK.” I asked about Thad and he said, “Seems completely fine.” (Like a candy striper reassuring a distraught relative.) I would have driven directly over if not for the big meeting at HBO, though it probably was better I didn’t. If Perry’s allegations were true — that Thad struck Clea, stoned or stone-cold sober — I wasn’t sure I’d be able to control my temper. I didn’t enjoy the feeling. I never liked the out-of-control thing.

I went to Century City with some agents from CAA and my dad’s old friend, Dan Fauci. When Dan was head of Paramount Television he made something like ninety pilots. Now he had a development deal, with an office on the lot. He had graciously played “rabbi” on Holmby Hills, overseeing my work on the outline; although by now I’d written an extensive précis, Dan said it was important “not to leave anything behind” after the pitch. No written material. But it was key to have done your homework so that any questions from the network could be finessed.

The meeting went well, or well enough — hard to gauge because it was the first I’d taken in my spanking-new role of all-seeing all-knowing writer-creator. I felt a little heady: you could see how guys like David Kelley or David Chase or David Milch (pick a David, any David) got hooked. No one brought up my father and that showed some class. But Perry was no David — he was demographically over-the-hill.

On the way out, a young exec sidled up to say he was a big fan of Starwatch.

“Clea Fremantle came in last week to pitch a show,” he said.

“Really?”

There was something about the way he asked if I knew her that made me instinctively play down our relationship. Later, I felt sleazy about it. Anyhow, she’d never said anything about pitching HBO.

“It was so crazy! She came in with Thad Michelet — in fact, he’s out here doing a Starwatch. But you already know that.”

I could tell he wanted to gossip but was being politic.

“Yeah, he’s great!” I enthused, vacantly. I know it was seedy but I was distancing myself so the guy would feel comfortable about telling all.

“They had this insane sitcom idea, kind of like a Curb Your Enthusiasm? About the almost-famous kids of famous parents. I mean grown-up kids — like Thad and Clea! They sort of typecast themselves.” He played it close to the vest, subtly scanning my allegiances to measure just how far he could go. “It’s a really funny idea, but — well, the meeting was strange.”

“In what way?”

I smiled, indicating that I was up for a little slander.

“He’s a character!” said the exec.

I could tell he was getting ready to spill.

“Pretty interesting guy,” I said, cagily noncommittal.

“Wild. And she’s wild too. Looks a lot like her mom.” We were halfway down the hall, ahead of the others. “And I’m a serious Roos Chandlerphile. A Roosaholic.”

Morbidly, I steered him back. “So, what happened?”

“Do you promise not to mention this? I mean, to either of them?”

I nodded eagerly. The exec knew he could be reasonably sure I wouldn’t pass on anything that was said in confidence, for fear it might endanger my own project. He was smart and brash, and enjoyed the spice of telling tales out of school.

“I thought you would have heard this already,” he said, lowering his voice. “I think they were loaded. I don’t know”—the slight backpedal. “Does she have any problems like that? I hear she’s been in a bunch of rehabs. But she was really nervous. She looked great—it wasn’t like she was ‘out of it’ or anything. And he was… he was — I don’t know what he was!” The exec laughed. “He’s kind of from another planet? Right? That’s why he’s perfect for your show! Not Holmby but Starwatch,” he said, wryly. “So they pitched us and we liked it, it’s kind of a hoot, kind of a cool idea, needs a tweak, and then we ask them about the characters. And Clea says her character is the daughter of someone like her mom, like Roos, only in the show her mom’s still alive—that was actually kind of touching — and Thad’s character is like the son of — instead of a famous novelist — the son of a famous film director. And then Terry or someone in the room said that the film director thing might be a little showbizzy and since Clea’s mom was already going to be this big movie star, why not just make his dad a novelist—you know, a literary thing, you know, just do it, right? And I think the comment was a good one because it’s not like anyone — I mean, Clea — was tiptoeing around because everyone knows who Thad’s father is, or was—we ain’t dummies! Right? And you’re here at HBO pitching a show where you’re basically playing yourselves so why not just drink from that well? Just, like, do that. Anyway, he got so pissed off—Thad — it was like suddenly he woke up and realized he was in this room hondling a series about the loser son of a superfamous man—hello. I mean, that’s part of the premise! It wasn’t our idea.” He laughed. “And Clea tried to calm him down, and then — I can’t believe you didn’t hear this! He, like, pulled out his dick.”

“He what?”

I wasn’t sure if he was joking.

“We asked what one of the shows would be like — you know, we always try to get some idea of a typical show — with you, it’s different, you gave us an entire season! — anyway, it’s not something that needs to be carved in stone. So I said, Tell us about the pilot. Walk us through. Which is something I don’t always do, depending on the talent in the room. Right? And Thad, like, turns around — does a one eighty… we all thought he was turning around to like get into character! And when he turns back, his dick is out, and he says, ‘I’ll walk you through!’ And then he like starts to whack.”

“Are you serious? What did everyone do?”

“Jane totally walked out — and she’s completely hardcore. I mean, Jane’s the one who’s always pushing David to go further with Dead-wood. Clea told him to put it away—‘Put it away!’—it was so surreal! She sounded like Joan Rivers! And then they got into this slapping thing—”

“Jane?—”

“No!” he said, laughing again. “But that wasn’t so far off! Clea and Thad. They start to like slap each other, it was so David Sedaris! Then he runs out and Clea stays behind and someone calls security and we all felt really terrible. I mean, for her. And one of us — Patrick, I think — rushes into the hall to make sure Thad wasn’t like going after Jane. I’m not even kidding. I think Jane locked herself in her office. I mean, there was never anything ‘threatening’—it was more like burlesque, whatever. But it was off-the-wall enough that people were really disturbed. And Clea… I didn’t know what to say to her other than I was such a fan of her mom’s — and of her, too, and that I really liked her movies — and it’s true, I think Clea did some really good work. And she just seemed so grateful that we weren’t like telling her to leave. Get the fuck away! Because she’s kinda great, right? And she like tried to turn it around and said, ‘Well… could we at least maybe do a movie about my mom like that Judy Garland thing you guys did?’ (That wasn’t even ours.) Something she could produce. ‘I love you guys so much’—that kind of thing. Half crying. So sad. Because she does have access to all this stuff about her mom no one knows about. That’s what she was saying, she was like pimping at this point. Vamping. We couldn’t really respond to the biopic thing so I just kind of put my hand on her shoulder and she started full-out bawling and talking this — stream-of-consciousness—about this other idea, how we could maybe do a game show—this Hollywood Squares thing with the children of famous people…”

Elevators whooshed open just like on the Demeter. The agents and HBO execs, who’d been having their own cliquish postpitch huddles, converged for friendly good-byes. As the metal box whisked us to valet level, the ground beneath our feet moving softly, ever downward, Dan said he was almost certain we had a deal.