167.
Vikar returns to Jayne Mansfield’s headstone at Hollywood Memorial one night and lies on the headstone waiting for her. But she doesn’t come.
168.
After three projects as an assistant editor, Vikar hasn’t worked for eight months when he gets a phone call.
“Mr. Jerome?” The voice on the other line is pleasant and self-assured. “Mitch Rondell with United Artists in New York. How are you?”
“I’m all right.”
“I’m wondering if we can fly you back here to discuss a project. It would be on our dime, of course.”
“When?” says Vikar.
“I don’t mean to be pushy, but as soon as possible. This afternoon or, if that’s not feasible, tomorrow.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“I would rather talk about it in person. It’s pressing and a little delicate.”
“It doesn’t take thirteen hours, does it?”
“To New York?”
“The last plane I flew took thirteen hours.”
“You must have gone farther than New York.”
“Spain.”
“That’s farther than New York. Have you ever been to New York?”
“No. I’ve been to Philadelphia.”
“Well, that’s close to New York. It didn’t take you thirteen hours to fly to Philadelphia, did it?”
“I took a bus from Philadelphia. That took longer than thirteen hours.”
“I would think so. Can I have my assistant call you back in twenty minutes or so to make the arrangements?”
“Someone will need to drive me to the airport.”
“Of course. Someone will be waiting for you at JFK as well, and bring you to a hotel here in the city, probably the Sherry-Netherland, and we’ll take things from there. Everything will be handled on our end.”
“Thank you.”
“See you in the next day or two, Mr. Jerome.”
“You may call me Vikar. With a k.”
“You can call me Mitch with an M,” although Vikar can’t imagine how else he would spell it.
169.
The sign the driver holds the next evening when Vikar arrives at JFK doesn’t say “Vikar” by any spelling, but MR. JEROME. The car takes Vikar to his hotel; he has a small suite overlooking the park.
The next morning Vikar is driven to the company offices at Forty-Ninth and Seventh. It’s the worst neighborhood he’s ever seen; a porn theater is across the street. He’s wandering the building’s twelfth floor, lost, when someone says, “Vikar Jerome?”
“Yes,” Vikar says.
“Your head precedes you,” the man laughs. He looks like one of the actors in Carnal Knowledge, who also was half of a singing duo Vikar once saw on television, with the same blond brillo hair except thinning. “I’m Mitch.”
“Hello.” Vikar shakes his hand.
“How was your flight?”
“All right, thank you.”
“Not thirteen hours.”
“No.” Vikar says, “I know New York is closer than Spain.”
“How is the hotel?”
“It’s nice. Thank you.”
“Have you had lunch?”
“No.”
“Let’s go have lunch.”
170.
The two walk along Forty-Ninth to a restaurant called Vesuvio’s, where Rondell has a salad and Vikar orders a pizza.
“Let me get right to why I called you,” says Rondell, his voice dropping. He looks around. “For some time we’ve been in production on a picture called Your Pale Blue Eyes. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes,” Vikar says.
“I’m afraid,” Rondell sighs, “many people have heard of it, and have heard all the wrong things.” He glances around him again. “The company is going through an interesting period, Vikar. On the one hand, we’ve won the last two consecutive Oscars for best picture. I would love to say it’s part of a grand plan but of course you know better. Cuckoo’s Nest was kicking around ten years — and a B-picture about a boxer shot in four weeks for a million bucks, starring and written by somebody whose biggest credit was The Lords of Flatbush? On the other hand, the moneymen in San Francisco are making changes, everything is moving west, and soon there probably won’t be any New York office — which, I grant you, if you saw the neighborhood as you were driving in, maybe isn’t such a terrible thing. There’s serious talk that the guy who’s been running the company thirty years is on his way out to start another company. None of which any reasonable movie fan cares about, I know, but that’s the back story. How’s that pizza?”
“It’s very good pizza.”
“Now we have this picture. A very New York picture, which made it seem right for us, budgeted at five million. Well, it’s going to cost ten if we’re lucky, likelier twelve-plus. Ridiculous that this picture should cost that, and if we could turn back the clock and pull the plug on the whole thing, we would, but we can’t. Two days ago, the day I called you, the director quit. Do you know who I’m talking about? Don’t say his name if you do, not here, anyway.”
“He made the movie about the Devil.”
“Right.”
“Splendor in the Grass is better.”
Rondell appears slightly befuddled but says, “That’s probably true.”
“It’s all right,” Vikar assures him. “Sometimes I vex people.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you told me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“In a lot of ways, we’re not sorry to see him go. Certainly none of the crew is sorry to see him go. The original D.P. couldn’t work with him and quit, and none of the major talent we wanted will work with him either. Now he’s walked off and we’ve had to bring up the second-unit director to finish the picture — it’s just a situation that we have to make work for us. They’re trying to wrap on a soundstage in Queens as we speak.”
“Is that close?”
“Forty minutes by car.”
“Closer than Spain, then.” Vikar says, “I’m being wry.”
“Closer than Spain,” Rondell laughs. “None of this I’ve told you has gotten out so far in the press; but of course such discretion won’t last long. It probably won’t last another day. The phone calls from Variety and the Hollywood Reporter and the L.A. Times will start pouring in,” he looks at his watch, “about five minutes ago.”
“Five minutes ago?” Vikar asks, confused.
“It’s an expression. We’ll have DGA arbitration and, until the Guild sorts it out, this picture is officially directed by nobody. This is why we needed to see you quickly. We’re unofficially scheduled to screen at Cannes in seven months, and while the rational thing might be to pull out, if we do that then between the official undirector and the unofficial withdrawal of the unofficial Cannes selection, what we wind up with is a very official disaster. How is Dotty Langer, by the way?”