Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

He glanced at his watch before entering the inner courtyard of the main administration building. He was on time. He found the silver-colored plaque that read WILLIAM GARTH and paused, listening to the faint steady hum of traffic outside the low buildings. Birds chirped. There was a small-town feeling to the place. This was and is the Valley Studios. Tony complained to himself. Bogey worked here. Faulkner typed away in one of those buildings. American fascism stalked these halls. And what does it look like? A small-town college.

Then the office itself was a shock. The furniture was tacky, fake wood desks, the usual plants, an ugly white shag rug. They might have been selling aluminum siding in Queens. Garth was on the phone when he was shown in. He acknowledged Tony’s presence with a wave, while Foxx, whom Tony had recently seen in New York, glanced up at him (he was reading Variety) and said casually, “Hi, Tony,” as though they were old friends accustomed to seeing each other daily.

Garth’s secretary asked if he wanted coffee. Tony said yes. Foxx put Variety away.” “How was the flight?”

This seemed to be a ritual. Tony had this conversation with everyone. “Fine.”

“What do you take out here?”

“TWA.”

Foxx shook his head as though Tony had answered a quiz incorrectly. “You should try Pan Am. They’re really much better.”

Meanwhile Garth was saying to the phone. “They say she fucks everybody on the set. Yeah!” He laughed. “Even the cameramen. No. I don’t know about gofers.” He laughed. “Why? Your deal is so tough you’re gofering on the side? What do you mean, ‘gofer’ isn’t a verb. Of course it’s a verb. I got a writer here. I’ll ask him.” Garth moved his mouth away from the receiver, calling out to Tony loudly, as though they were far apart, “Isn’t gofer a verb?”

“I’m not sure,” Tony answered gravely. “ ‘He gives good gofer’ might be more proper.”

Foxx smiled. Garth roared and repeated the line, laughing again, presumably at the laughter of his listener. “Who?” Garth said. “Tony Winters.” Pause.

Tony was openly eavesdropping now, but Garth didn’t mind, he was smiling at Tony.

“Yeah, he’s writing a script for you and me. Concussion, it’s called. Concussion, not Curmudgeon.” Garth made a face. “Ha, ha. I gotta go. I’m not hanging up angry. I got work to do. I got a writer here. Yes, the same one. Ha, ha. Good-bye.” Garth hung up and sighed, staring at the desk. “What an asshole,” he decided.

“They say he’s in trouble,” Foxx commented, not committing himself to the opinion, merely reporting.

“He’s always in trouble. But if they fire him, the fat fuck’ll be president somewhere else.” Garth said this as though he were a scientist accepting a gloomy fact of nature.

The secretary entered with Tony’s coffee. Garth looked at her blankly and then said. “Get one for me.” He looked at Tony and smiled in a weary and forced manner. “How are ya? You look good. Flight all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Where you staying?”

“Beverly Hills Hotel.”

Garth nodded seriously, his brows furrowed. “Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Has Jim”—he glanced at Foxx— “had a chance to talk to you about the script?”

“No!” Foxx said, aggrieved. “We’ve been listening to you on the phone.”

“I was on for a second! He’s only gonna be making our goddamn movie,” he complained, pointing to the phone. “If only he knew we were doing it.”

The secretary reappeared with Garth’s coffee. Tony lit a cigarette. He had no idea what to expect. Their manner was too matter-of-fact for him to assume disaster, but it wasn’t the tone of people who are delighted and ready to proceed. Garth wistfully watched Tony take a drag. “Aren’t you worried about cancer?” he asked.

“No.” Tony said with a smile.

Foxx laughed.

Garth nodded. “Well, we’ve read the script. I’ve read it twice.” He looked at Foxx expectantly.

“So have I,” Foxx said.

“I haven’t,” Tony said with a nervous giggle.

Garth ignored him. “I guess my feeling is that the character is there. But—”

Foxx broke in, “The structure isn’t.”

“It’s not suspenseful,” Garth said. “I always felt I was a step ahead of the picture.”

“Can’t have that in a thriller,” Foxx said.

Tony swallowed. He thought he had braced himself for a mixed reaction (was this merely a mixed reaction?), but the tightening presence of fear in his throat belied that assumption. He felt under pressure to respond. Foxx and Garth were both looking at him quizzically. “No, you can’t,” Tony agreed. “I thought I …” He was about to argue he had made the story surprising, but he realized that was foolish.

“You think it is?” Garth prompted. The famous face looked timid and kindly, unsure of itself. Foxx, however, was frowning, certain of his judgment. That surprised Tony. He had expected, from the rumors of Garth’s temperament, the reverse.

“Yeah,” Tony said timidly. “Weren’t you surprised that his brother turns out to be the FBI agent?”

Foxx shook his head no, his lips pursing with disdain. Garth glanced at his producer. “I think it’s a good choice,” he said. “You haven’t …” Garth hesitated.

“You telegraph it with all those little scenes between them. They have a tone that lets you know there’s more to that brother than just someone helping.” Foxx said all this thoughtfully, his eyes going to a small window next to the far end of the couch. It had no view. His refusal to look at Tony while criticizing suggested that the words were harsher than they sounded.

“But that isn’t a structural problem,” Tony objected. But he felt his point was pedantic. “Not that that makes any difference. I just mean — you said there were structural problems, so I thought you hadn’t liked that choice, making your brother the villain.”

“No, I like that,” Garth said eagerly, as though he were glad to have something positive to say. “There are a lot of things I like in it. I think there are terrific scenes for my character.”

“Yeah,” Foxx said. “But not for her. Not for Meryl’s character.”

“Yeah,” Garth agreed. “She’s, uh, she’s. I don’t know, kind of unpleasant, you know? You don’t like her. You don’t believe I would be in love with her.”

You, a short twerp like you? Tony thought. In life, you’d be on your hands and knees thanking god that Meryl Streep was willing to pull her panties down for you. This bitter, and, Tony knew, wrong-headed thought cheered him up. “Okay,” Tony said with an easy smile. “I’ll be happy to fix her. But again, that’s not a structural problem.”

Foxx turned his eyes to Tony. “All right, so they’re not structural. What difference does that make?” His tone was both angry and petulant. Tony felt that a whip had been cracked. Get in line, was Foxx’s message. Don’t try to act smarter than us.

“You’re right,” Tony said, looking down at the floor, a child accepting a scolding.

“This is a tough story,” Garth said.

Tony felt a rush of good feeling for Garth. He had been warned by his mother, his father, Lois, his agent, and others that Garth treated writers like breakfast cereals, stocking his cabinets with a dozen varieties and switching brands every morning. But Garth seemed to be trying to soften the blows, treating Tony with unusual deference, as if Tony were a special case, not the typical Hollywood writer whom Garth could feel free to trample on.

“It’s gotta be fun!” Foxx blurted, moving forward on the couch in his excitement. He got up when he reached the edge and paced across the small room in between Tony’s chair and Garth’s desk. “There’s no fun in your script. You’re a funny writer. I don’t know why you’ve made it so dark.”