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  “I’ve been good, haven’t I, Sarah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Haven’t I been a good boy?”

  “Yes.”

  I looked over at Victor Norman, got his attention. I gave a little nod, winked.

  Just then the real Harry Friedman walked in. Some rose to their feet and applauded. Others looked bored.

  Friedman sat down at his table and the food was served. Pasta. The pasta came around. Harry Friedman got his and went right in. He looked like an eater. He was wide, yes. He was in an old suit, his shoes were scuffed. He had a large head, big cheeks. He shoved that pasta into those cheeks. He had large round eyes and the eyes were sad and full of suspicion. Alas, to live in the world! There was a button missing from his wrinkled white shirt, near his belly, and the belly pushed out. He looked like a big baby who had somehow gotten loose, grown real fast, and almost turned into a man. There was charm there but it could be dangerous to believe in it—it would be used against you. No necktie. Happy birthday, Harry Friedman!

  A young lady came in dressed as a cop. She walked right up to Friedman’s table.

  “YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!” she screamed.

  Harry Friedman stopped eating and smiled. His lips were wet from the pasta.

  Then the lady cop took off her coat and then her blouse. She had huge breasts. She shook her breasts under Harry Friedman’s nose.

  “YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!” she screamed.

  Everybody applauded. I don’t know why they applauded.

  Then Friedman motioned the lady cop to bend over. She bent close and he whispered something into her ear. Nobody knew what it was.

  You take me to your place. We’ll see what happens?

  You forgot your club. I’ll take care of that?

  You come see me. I’ll get you in the movies?

  The lady cop put her blouse back on, her coat back on, and then she was gone.

  People came up to Friedman’s table and said little things to him. He looked at them as if he didn’t know who they were. Soon he was finished eating and was drinking wine. He did well with the wine. I liked that.

  He really went for the wine. After a while he went around from table to table, bending over, talking to people.

  “Christ,” I said to Sarah, “look at that!”

  “What?”

  “He’s got a little piece of pasta hanging out of one side of his mouth and nobody is telling him about it. It’s just hanging there!”

  “I see it! I see it!” said Jon.

  Harry Friedman kept walking from table to table, bending over, talking. Nobody told him.

  Finally, he got closer. He was a table or so away from ours when I stood up and walked over to him.

  “Mr. Friedman,” I said.

  He looked at me from that big monster baby face.

  “Yes?”

  “Hold still!”

  I reached out, got hold of the end of the pasta and yanked. It came away.

  “You been walkin’ around with that danglin’. I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  I went back to our table.

  “Well, well,” asked Jon, “what do you think of him?”

  “I think he’s delightful.”

  “I told you. I haven’t met anybody like him since Lido Mamin.”

  “Anyhow,” said Sarah, “it was nice of you to clean that pasta off his face since nobody else had the nerve to. It was very nice of you.”

  “Thank you, I am a very nice guy, really.”

  “Oh yes? What else have you done that is nice lately?”

  Our wine bottle was empty. I got the attention of the waiter. He scowled at me and moved forward with another bottle.

  And I couldn’t think of anything nice that I had done. Lately.

  22

  Pre-production had begun.

  Things seemed to go well.

  Then the phone rang. It was Jon.

  “We’re in trouble...”

  “What is it?”

  “Friedman and Fischman...”

  “Yes?”

  “They want to get rid of my co-producers, Tim Ruddy and Lance Edwards...”

  “I met Ruddy, not Edwards...What goes?”

  “These guys have been working with me a long time on this film. They’ve put in time and money. Now Friedman and Fischman want to dump them. I’m being pressured from all directions. Everybody has taken a pay cut. And Firepower is in real trouble. The SEC is investigating them. Their stock was up to 40, now it’s selling at 4...”

  “Uh huh.”

  “ ‘Get rid of those guys,’ they tell me. ‘We don’t need them!’ ‘But,’ I tell them, ‘I need them...’ ‘Why do you need them?’ they ask me, ‘Aren’t we as good as they are?’ ‘But they are in the contract,’ I tell them. ‘You signed the contract.’ ‘You know what a contract is?’ they ask me and then they tell me, ‘A contract only is something to be renegotiated!’”

  “Jesus...”

  “These guys are squeezing and pressuring, squeezing and pressuring .. . And they are going to squeeze until there’s nothing left to squeeze...Already I’ve agreed to shoot the movie in 32 days instead of 34. The budget has been cut again and again...They don’t like my sound man...They don’t like my cameraman...They want somebody cheaper. ‘And you must get rid of these producers,’ they tell me, ‘we don’t need them…’”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Well, I can’t abandon Tim and Lance...We have a plan. Tomorrow Tim and I are having lunch with this lawyer. This lawyer is known all over Hollywood. Just the mention of his name puts fear in the hearts of everybody. He is real, total power. And he owes Tim a favor. So, after lunch we are going to drop in on Friedman and Fischman and we are going to have the lawyer with us. Now it would be good if you were there too. Can you?”

  “Sure...What’s the time and place?”

  Lunch was at Musso’s. We had the big table in the corner. We had drinks and lunch. A number of people stopped by to say a few words to the big lawyer. It was true, they were all in awe of him. The big lawyer was very genteel and he wore a very expensive suit.

  The lawyer, Lance and Jon planned their strategy regarding Friedman and Fischman. I didn’t pay much attention. The lawyer laid it out: you say this, I’ll say that. Don’t you say that. Leave it to me.

  Lawyers, doctors, plumbers, they made all the money. Writers? Writers starved. Writers suicided. Writers went mad.

  Lunch did end and we went to our respective cars and made our way to the big green building where Friedman and Fischman were waiting. We were to meet at the entrance.

  The secretary escorted us into Harry Friedman’s office and as we walked in Friedman stood up behind his desk and began right away: “I am sorry but this company has no money and there is nothing that can be done. These other producers must go. We cannot pay them. We have no money!”

  We found chairs about the room and sat down.

  Jon said, “Mr. Friedman, I need these men, they are essential to the production.”

  Friedman remained standing. He put his knuckles down on top of his desk.

  “NOBODY IS NEEDED! LEAST OF ALL, THESE MEN. WHAT DO WE NEED THEM FOR? TELL ME, FOR WHAT DO WE NEED THEM?”

  “They are my co-producers, Mr. Friedman...”

  “I AM A PRODUCER! I AM BETTER THAN THEY ARE! I DO NOT NEED THESE MEN! THESE MEN ARE BLOODSUCKERS! BLOODSUCKERS!”

  A door opened behind Friedman’s desk and out came Fischman. Fischman was not as heavy as Friedman. He ran in a little circle around Friedman’s desk. Fischman moved well. As he ran in his little circle he yelled:

  “BLOODSUCKERS! BLOODSUCKERS! BLOODSUCKERS!”

  Then he ran back through the door, which evidently led to his office.

  Friedman sat down behind his desk. It was evident that he knew who the big lawyer was.

  He sat behind his desk and said quietly, “We need nobody.”

  The big lawyer coughed, then sp
oke: “Please pardon me, but there is...a contract...”

  Friedman leaped up from behind his desk:

  “YOU SHUT UP, YOU WISE-ASS!”

  “I will be in touch with you,” said the big lawyer.

  “YES! YOU BE IN TOUCH! YOU GO AHEAD, BE IN TOUCH, YOU WISE-ASS! YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME!”

  We got up and huddled near the door. Some words were whispered back and forth, then Tim and the big lawyer left. Jon said he wanted to talk further with Friedman. I remained.

  We sat back down.

  “I cannot pay these men,” said Friedman.

  Jon leaned forward, gestured with a hand. “But, Harry, you just can’t ask those men to work for you for...nothing!”

  “I LOVE it when men work for NOTHING! I LOVE IT!”

  “But. . . this is not right. . . those men have worked for months! You must give them something!”

  “All right, I’ll give them 15 thousand...”

  “Only 30 thousand, for all those months of work?”

  “No, the 15 thousand is for both of them...”

  “But this is impossible...”

  “Nothing is impossible...”He looked at me: “Who’s this guy?”

  “He’s the writer.”

  “He’s an old guy. He won’t live long. I cut him 10 thousand...”

  “No, he’s paid through me...”

  “Then I cut you ten and you cut him ten.”

  “Harry, stop it, please...”

  Friedman got up from his chair and walked over to a leather sofa against the wall. He threw himself fall length upon the sofa. He looked ceilingward. He remained silent. Then there seemed to be a slight sobbing. Liquid was forming in Harry Friedman’s eyes.

  “We have no money. We have no money. I don’t know what to do. Help me, help me!”

  He was silent a good two minutes. Jon lit a cigarette and waited.

  Then Friedman spoke, still looking up at the ceiling.

  “This could be called an Art Film, couldn’t it?”

  “Well, yes,” said Jon.

  Harry Friedman leaped up from his couch, ran over to Jon:

  “AN ART FILM! AN ART FILM! THEN YOU WILL WORK FOR NOTHING!”

  Jon stood up. “Mr. Friedman, we have to go...”

  We moved toward the door.

  “Jon,” Friedman said, “those bloodsuckers will have to go.”

  “Bloodsuckers,” we heard Fischman’s voice again from behind the door.

  We headed toward the boulevard.

  23

  Sarah and I decided to visit the ghetto again. Since we still had the old Volks I decided to drive over in that.

  Once there, it looked about the same except somebody had left an old mattress in the middle of the street and we had to circle around it.

  The whole place had the look of a bombed-out village. On that day there was nobody in sight. It was as if at some signal everybody had gone into hiding. But I could feel a hundred eyes upon us. Or so I imagined.

  I parked and Sarah and I got out, knocked on the door. The door had 5 bullet holes in it. Something new.

  I knocked again.

  “Yes?” I heard Jon’s voice.

  “It’s Hank and Sarah. We phoned. We’re here.”

  “Oh...”

  The door opened. “Come in, please...”

  François Racine was at a table with his wine bottle.

  “Life is for nothing,” he said.

  Jon put the chains on the door. Sarah ran her fingers through the bullet holes.

  “I see you’ve had some termites...”

  Jon laughed. “Oh, yes...sit down...”

  He got some glasses and we sat down. He poured the wine.

  “The other day they raped a girl on the hood of my car. There were 5 or 6 of them. We objected. They became very angry. A couple of days went by, then one night we are sitting here and bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, the bullets came through the door. Then it was quiet...”

  “We are still alive,” said François. “We sit and drink wine.”

  “It is just a ploy,” said Jon. “They want us to move. I refuse to move.”

  “Someday we will never be able to move,” said François.

  “They have more guns than the police,” said Jon, “and they shoot them more often.”

  “You ought to move out of here,” said Sarah.

  “Are you kidding? We leased this place for 3 months in advance. We’d lose all the money.”

  “Better we lose our lives?” said François taking a big hit.

  “Can you sleep at night?” I asked.

  “We have to drink to sleep. And then you can never be sure. Those bars on the windows might not mean much. My neighbor has them. The other night he’s eating dinner alone and then there’s a man standing behind him with a gun. Somehow he got in through the roof. There’s some kind of passageway up there. They are under the house and in the roof. They can hear everything we say. They are listening now.”

  Four loud taps came up through the floorboards.

  “See?”

  François jumped up and stamped on the floor.

  “BE QUIET! BE QUIET! WHAT KIND OF DEVIL MEN ARE YOU?”

  It was silent down there. I guess they just wanted us to know that they were there. They had no desire to get chummy about the whole thing.

  François sat back.

  “This whole thing is terrifying,” said Sarah.

  “I know it,” said Jon. “They stole our TV but we don’t need a TV around here.”

  “I thought this was just a black ghetto,” I said, “but I saw some Hispanics last time...”

  “Oh yeah,” said Jon, “we have one of the toughest Mexican gangs here, the V-66. To be a member you must have killed somebody.”

  There was a long pause.

  “How’s the movie going?” I asked, mostly to break the silence.

  “Pre-production is rolling. I’m there every day, many hours working with people. We’ll soon be shooting. As each day goes by, as Firepower invests more and more money, the film becomes more of a reality. But there are fuck-ups of every sort every day...”

  “Like?” Sarah asked.

  “Well, we went to rent a camera...”

  “You rent a camera?”

  “Yes. So we went to rent a camera and the company said they couldn’t rent it to us.”

  “Why?” I asked, walking to the window and looking out to check on the Volks.

  “Firepower hadn’t paid for the last rental. The company insisted that Firepower furnish them with a certified check for the use of the last camera and for the rental of the one we wanted to use.”

  “Did they?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  François got up.

  “I am going to count the chickens,” he said, then left.

  “Isn’t François afraid of this kind of living?” Sarah asked.

  “No,” said Jon, “he is crazy. The other day he was sitting here alone and he looked up and there were two guys standing there. One of them had a knife. ‘Give us your money!’ said the guy. ‘No,’ said François, ‘you give me your money!’ He was drunk and he got his stick and he started hitting both of them with his stick. They ran out of the house and François chased them down the street beating them with his stick yelling, ‘YOU STAY OUT OF MY HOME! GO TO SOMEBODY ELSE’S HOME! AND DON’T STEAL MY CHICKENS!’ He ran after them all the way down the street.”

  “They could have killed him.”

  “He’s too crazy to realize that.”

  “He’s lucky to be alive,” said Sarah.

  “Yes. But I think being French instead of an American helps. It confuses them as they don’t have quite the same hatred as for an American. They sense that he is crazy and not all these guys are killers. Some of them are only human and just trying to get by.”

  “Aren’t they all human?” Sarah asked.

  “All too human,” Jon answered.

  François walked in.

  “I counted my ch
ickens. They are all still there. I talked to them. I talked to my chickens.”

  François sat down. Jon filled his glass.

  “I want a castle,” François said, “I want 6 children and a big fat wife.”

  “Why do you want all those things?” I asked.

  “So when I lose at gambling somebody will talk to me. Now when I lose at gambling nobody talks to me.”

  I wanted to suggest that when he lost at gambling maybe a fat wife and 6 children might not talk to him either. But I didn’t. François was suffering enough.

  Instead I said, “We must go to the racetrack together sometime.”

  “WHEN?” he asked.

  “We’ll do it soon.”

  “I have a new system.”

  “We all have.”

  Then the phone rang. Jon got it after the 3rd ring.

  “Allo...”

  “Yes...yes, this is Jon...”

  “What? But this can’t be!”

  He looked at us, still holding the phone.

  “He hung up...”

  “Who?”

  Jon put the phone down. He stood there.

  “It was Harry Friedman...”

  “And?” I asked.

  “And the movie has been cancelled,” he answered.

  24

  Several days passed. I wasn’t doing much, just going to the track, coming in and playing with the poem. I worked in 3 areas: the poem, the short story and the novel. Now, it was 4 with the screenplay. Or was it 4? Without the movie was I a screenplay writer? Jim Beam wasn’t dancing.

  Then Jon phoned. “How are the horses?”

  “They are all right. Hey, how are you, anyhow?”

  “I’m all right...just wanted to let you know what’s happening...

  “Yes?...”

  “Well, after the cancellation, first thing François and I did was to get drunk for two days and nights...”

  “A cleansing, right?”

  “Yes. So, after that I went down to the Firepower building in an attempt to see Friedman and find out why he cancelled the movie. It was a shocker to me.”

  “Me too...”