“I don’t know,” Todd said, his head throbbing from one too many drinks. “I look at myself sometimes … ”
“And what?”
“I’m not the guy I was when I made Gunner.”
“Damn right you’re not. You were nobody then. Now you’re one of the most successful actors in history.”
“There’s others coming up.”
“So what?” Maxine said, waving his concerns away.
“Don’t do that!” Todd said, slamming his palm down on the table. “Don’t try and placate me! Okay? We have a problem. Smotherman was going to put me back on top, and now the son of a bitch is dead!”
“All right. Calm down. All I’m saying is that we don’t need Smotherman. We’ll hire somebody to rework the script, if that’s what you want. Then we’ll find somebody hip to direct it. Somebody with a contemporary style. Smotherman was an old-fashioned guy. Everything had to be big. Big explosion. Big tits. Big guns. Audiences don’t care about any of that any more. You need to be part of what’s coming up, not what happened yesterday. You know, I hate to say it, but perhaps Keever’s dying is the best thing that could have happened. We need a new look for you. A new Todd Pickett.”
“You think it’s as simple as that?” Todd said. He wanted so much to believed that Maxine had the problem solved.
“How difficult can it be?” Maxine said. “You’re a great star. We just need to get people focused on you again.” She pondered for a moment. “You know what? We should set up a lunch with Gary Eppstadt.”
“Oh Jesus, why? You know how I hate that ugly little fuck.”
“An ugly little fuck he may be. But he is going to pay for Warrior. And if he’s going put twenty million and a slice of the back-end on the table for your services to art, you can make nice with the son of a bitch for an hour.”
THREE
It wasn’t simply personal antipathy that had made Todd refer to Eppstadt so unflatteringly. It was the unvarnished truth. Eppstadt was the ugliest man in Los Angeles. Charitably, his eyes might have been called reptilian, his lips unkissable. His mother, in a fit of blind affection, might have noted that he was disproportioned. All this said, the man was still a narcissist of the first rank. He hung only the most expensive suits on his unfortunate carcass: his fingernails were manicured with obsessive precision; his personal barber trimmed his dyed hair every morning, having shaved him first with a straight razor.
There had been countless prayers offered up to that razor over the years, entreating it to slip! But Eppstadt seemed to live a charmed life. He’d gone from strength to strength as he moved around the studios, claiming the paternity of every success, and blaming the failures on those who stood immediately behind him on the ladder, whom he promptly fired. It was the oldest trick in the book, but it had worked flawlessly. In an age in which corporations increasingly had the power, and studios were run by committees of business-school graduates and lawyers with an itch to have their fingers in the creative pie, Eppstadt was one of the old school. A powermonger, happiest in the company of somebody who needed his patronage, whom he could then abuse in a hundred subtle ways. That was his pleasure, and his revenge. What did he need beauty for, when he could make it tremble with a smiling maybe!
He was in a fine mood when he and Todd, with Maxine in attendance, met for lunch on Monday. Paramount had carried the weekend with a brutal revenge picture that Eppstadt had taken a hand in making, firing the director off the project after two unpromising preview screenings, and hiring somebody else to shoot a rape scene and a new ending, in which the violated woman terrorized and eventually dispatched her attacker with a hedge-cutter.
“Thirty-two point six million dollars in three days,” he preened. “In January. That’s a hit. And you know what? There’s nobody in the picture. Just a couple no-name TV stars. It was all marketing.”
“Is the picture any good?” Todd asked.