David Rosenfelt: Sudden Death

“Hello?” Kevin answers, his voice raspy.

I put him through about three or four minutes of swearing to me that Tara is doing well, and then I ask him how he’s feeling, since his voice maintains that raspy sound. I ask this reluctantly, since Kevin is America’s foremost hypochondriac. “I’m okay,” he says.

I’d love to leave it at that, but it would ruin his night. “You sure?” I ask.

“Well…,” he starts hesitantly, “do you know if humans can catch diseases from dogs?”

“Why? Is Tara sick?”

“I told you she was fine,” he says. “We’re talking about me now. I seem to have developed a cough.” He throws in a couple of hacking noises, just in case I didn’t know what he meant by “cough.”

“That definitely sounds like kennel cough,” I say. “You should curl up and sleep next to a warm oven tonight. And don’t have more than a cup of kibble for dinner.”

Kevin, who is no dummy, shrewdly figures out that I am going to continue to make fun of him if he pursues this, so he lets me extricate myself from the call. Once I do so, I have dinner and lie down to watch the Dodgers play the Padres. I’m not terribly interested in it, which is why I’m asleep by the third inning.

I wake up at seven and order room service. I get the Assorted Fresh Berries for twenty-one fifty; for that price I would have expected twin Halle Berrys. They also bring an LA Times and Wall Street Journal, which are probably costing twenty bucks apiece.

The same driver and limo show up at nine in the morning to take Willie and me to the studio. We arrive early for our meeting, so we spend some time walking around the place, looking for stars. I don’t see any, unless you count Willie.

We are eventually ushered into the office of Greg Burroughs, president of production at the studio. With him are a roomful of his colleagues, each with a title like “executive vice president” or “senior vice president.” There seems to be an endless supply of gloriously titled executives; I wouldn’t be surprised if there are three or four “emperors of production.” The lowest ranked of the group is just a vice president, so it’s probably the pathetic wretch’s job to fetch the coffee and donuts.

It turns out that the overflow crowd is there merely as a show of how important we are to them, and everybody but Greg and a senior VP named Eric Anderson soon melts away. Greg is probably in his late thirties, and my guess is, he has ten years on Eric.

“Eric will be the production executive on this project,” Greg informs. “He shares my passion for it.” Eric nods earnestly, confirming that passion, as if we had any doubt.

Willie’s been uncharacteristically quiet, but he decides to focus in on that which is important. “Who’s gonna play me?”

Greg smiles. “Who do you have in mind?”

“Denzel Washington,” says Willie without any hesitation. He’s obviously given it some thought.

“I can see that.” Greg nods, then looks at Eric, whose identical nod indicates that he, too, can see it. “The thing is, Will, we don’t start to deal with casting until we have a script and director in place. But it’s a really good thought.”

Eric directs a question at “Will.” “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but do you have a mother?”

Willie shakes his head. “Nah. Used to.”

“Why?” asks Greg of Eric, barely containing his curiosity.

“Well,” Eric says, looking around the room and then back at Willie, “I hope I’m not talking out of turn, and this is just me speaking off the top of my head, but I was thinking it would be really great if you had a mother.”

“Interesting,” says Greg, as if this is the first time he has heard this idea. My sense is that Eric wouldn’t say “good morning” without first clearing it with Greg, even if it’s just “off the top” of his head.

“Well, it ain’t that interesting to me,” says Willie. “My mother took off when I was three and left me in a bus station. I ain’t got no family.”

Eric nods. “I understand, and again, I’m just thinking out loud off the top of my head, but I’m talking about for the sake of the story. If your mother was there, supporting you the whole time you were in prison, believing in you…”

Willie is starting to get annoyed, which in itself does not qualify as a rare occurrence. “Yeah, she could have baked me fucking cupcakes. And we could have had a party in the prison. Mom and Dad could have invited all my fucking invisible aunts and uncles and cousins.”

I intervene, partially because I’m concerned that Willie might throw Greg and Eric out the fifth-story window and they might bounce off the top of their heads. It would also necessitate getting two other passionate executives in here, thereby prolonging this meeting. The other reason I jump in is that they are alluding to an area in which I have a real concern, which is taking dramatic license and changing the characters and events. I’ve heard about the extraordinary liberties Hollywood can take with “true” stories, and I don’t want to wind up being portrayed as the lead lawyer of the transvestite wing of Hamas.

We hash this out for a while, and they assure me that the contract will address my concerns. We agree on a price, and they tell me that a writer will be assigned and will want to go back East to meet and get to know all of us.

I stand up. “So that’s it?”

Eric smiles and shakes my hand. “That’s it. Let’s make a movie.”

* * * * *

THE FLIGHT HOME is boring and uneventful, which I view as a major positive when it comes to airplane flights. The movie doesn’t appeal to me, so I don’t put on the headphones. I then spend the next two hours involuntarily trying to lipread everything the characters are saying. Unfortunately, the movie is Dr. Dolittle 2, and my mouse-lipreading skills are not that well developed.

Willie, for his part, uses the time to refine his casting choices. On further reflection he now considers Denzel too old and is leaning toward Will Smith or Ben Affleck, though he has some doubts that Ben could effectively play a black guy. I suggest that as soon as he gets home he call Greg and Eric to discuss it.

Moments after we touch the ground, a flight attendant comes over and leans down to speak with me. “Mr. Carpenter?” she asks.

I get a brief flash of worry. Has something happened while we were in the air? “Yes?”

“There will be someone waiting at the gate to meet you. You have an urgent phone call.”

“Who is it?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know. But I’m sure everything is fine.”

I would take more comfort from her assurances if she knew what the call was about. I fluctuate between intense worry and panic the entire time we taxi to the gate, which seems to take about four hours.

As soon as the plane comes to a halt, Willie and I jump out of our seats and are the first people off the plane. Somebody who works for airline security is there to meet us, and he leads us to one of those motorized carts. We all jump on and are whisked away.

“Do you know what’s going on?” I ask.

The security guy shrugs slightly. “I’m not sure. I think it’s about that football player.”

Before I have a chance to ask what the hell he could possibly be talking about, we arrive at an airport security office. I’m ushered inside, telling the officers that it’s okay for Willie to come in with me. We’re led into a back office, where another security guy stands holding a telephone, which he hands to me.

“Hello?” I say into the phone, dreading what I might hear on the other end.

“It took you long enough.” The voice is that of Lieutenant Pete Stanton, my closest and only friend in the Paterson Police Department.