Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

Severin called the L.A. Times research line and requested they send anything on Zev Turtletaub that mentioned Dead Souls . The Xeroxes came in the mail a few days later; Lavinia enlarged them for his bad eyes. The old man feasted on photos of this bald quarry. Friend or foe?

The “Calendar” profile numbered Dead Souls (“based on the Russian classic”) among the Turtletaub Company’s active slate. A number of projects were tied to Paramount and Severin found that of note. A few days after he received the clippings, Lavinia read an item over the phone from the Times “Hot Properties” section. It detailed Turtletaub’s recent purchase of the former Novarro estate from actress Diane Keaton. The house was a Lloyd Wright jewel he’d bought “as a lark” while awaiting renovations on a home in Bel Air. Just last year, she read, the producer paid seven-point-two million for a Montecito villa adjacent to the Robert Zemeckises’.

The Dead Pet Detective slipped him the Verde Oak address and phone. Severin gave him a twenty for his trouble.

“Mr. Turtletaub?”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Severin Welch.” He was nervous as hell and barely got the words out. “I’m a writer—”

“How did you get this number?”

“An old client of Dee Bruchner…”

“Dee Bruchner gave you this number?”

“Yes. Because I understand you’re at the Morris agency now—”

“I’m surprised. I don’t generally enjoy receiving calls at my home from people I don’t know.”

“It’s about Dead Souls .”

“And you say Dee Bruchner gave you this number.”

“I have been working on that script twenty years, sir!”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Severin Welch, Esquire. May I inquire of you, sir, are you using the script from the Paramount vaults?”

“What?—”

“All I am asking from you and Mrs. Lansing-Friedkin—”

Turtletaub laughed gutturally.

“All I am asking is that my labors be acknowledged as seed work. As the inception. I do not have a lawyer, sir, nor do I intend to engage one; I’m not overly fond of the breed. You don’t have a worry on that account. I merely ask that you consider the revisions I have painstakingly entered, with much attention to colloquial verisimilitude, over the last sixty-five-odd months. I am not seeking sole credit, sir, meaning that if another writer has already been contracted, there is no reason for him to be perturbed — writers are, easily so: I know, as I am one myself. If another has been engaged, more power to him! If we could just meet, sir, you might bring me up to date—”

“Who the fuck is this? Burnham? Burnham, is that—?”

“This is Severin Welch, sir, as I have said.”

A long pause. Then, without levity: “I said who the fuck is this!”

“It’s Homo erectus, you chrome-domed doggie-dick cock-sucker!” shouted the tense old man in a fit of rheumy inspiration. “I already told you my name, sir, three times! I am the original writer of the adaptation of Dead So —”

Zev Turtletaub hung up.

Stepping jauntily from the house, Severin carried Souls script and trusty Uniden cordless, for comfort — its range a mere fifteen hundred yards, yet how could he leave it behind? He might have jumped in a cab, but his own locomotion felt revolutionary. Bracing: Verde Oak, Verde Oak, baker’s man, bake me a cake as fast you can —pounding the pavement, hitting his stride, humming hap hap happy talk inanities. By the lights of Frères Thomas, chez Turtletaub was under two miles… luck, if you ‘ve ever been a lady to begin with left! left! left right left! Must concentrate on objective. Must take Turtletaub Hill — HUMP! two-three-four HUMP! two-three-four trudge. trudge. trudge. trudge. Company — ho! trudge trudge trudge trudge . Criminy…ho! What the hell, the houseman could drive him back. Have pity on an old man. Here we go, then: brisk, breezy downhill gait. Then he got lost. Asked directions from gardeners and sundry housewife types, proffering slip of paper with Via Verde venue — at which they stared grinning fixedly, illiterates. Cretins. Homo Cretinus Erectus . A toot! A toot! He blows eight to the bar (in boogie rhythm)— knew he was near because the Thomas Bros. told him so. Murphy’s Law for you. Yowza yowza yowza. The gig is up. The Gig Young is up. Not such a bad walk, a walk like this. Astonished to have been the fool on the hill for so long — fifteen years, excluding one emergency outing for gallstones, Diantha hauling him in the T-bird, drugged like a cat on its way to the vet. Jesus God he’d ruined that woman with his mad quarantine, mucked up her golden years but good—

huh ? Severin heard digital chirp of phone, the a-pealing ting in his ear. He smiled with a start then looked around past curtains of exhaust-flecked ivy, storm drains and driveways, astigmat’s eyes jump window to window to focus the locus — ring now clear as day. From whence it came? Ah! From him! Severin Welch! And he knew …shimmying off backpack, shoulder blades like crows’ wings, disgorging Uniden and punching TALK — out of range! How cruel! Sobbing bitterly, like a child, a senile drama queen, how cruel to call me now, when you know I’m out of range!

ev’ry body’s been KNOW ing

to a wedding they’re GO ing

and for weeks they’ve been SEW ing

turned and marched up the hill in long, uneasy lope

ev’ry SUSIE and SAL !

stridulations louder until as if by yelping flames surrounded, he fell down on his march

the bells are ring! in! for me and my

bloodying his bony self, Souls script splayed on asphalt, hand clutching prop-like Uniden to chest

they’re con gre gay! TING!

FOR ME AND MY GAL!

THE! PAR! SON’S! WAY! TING! FOR ME AND

pinned in the road like a bug by the knitting needle of a sky-high heart attack collections man.

Missing the Call.

Perry Needham Howe

It was a drizzly Saturday and he sent his wife to Aida Thibiant for some all-day exfoliatory pampering. As for Perry, he was on his way to San Diego with Tovah Bruchner.

The resolute agent had a new client. Arnold Eberhardt owned an animation house that churned out sarcastic, offbeat cable cartoons along with regular-fare programming for kids. He was a railroad enthusiast who enjoyed renting a few private cars from Amtrak — a coastal no-brainer that got friends and families to Balboa Park around noon. A little low-key first-class fun. The all-aboard crowd was techie and un-Hollywood; Perry didn’t know anyone, and that was always easier on the nerves. The couples played poker on the way down, using Sweet’n Low packets for chips.

Perry and Tovah sat in the dome car lookout with their screwdrivers. He was talking about one of the watches he’d boned up on — it could tell you exactly where the sun would rise or set on the horizon — when a man from another table spoke up.

“The Ulysse Nardin. Friend of mine has one.”

Perry was pleasantly taken aback. “You’re kidding. I never thought I’d hear anyone but a dealer pronounce that name.”

“I’m a bit of a fanatic — or was. Be careful!” he admonished, with a laugh. “That stuff’s crack for the wrist. Though I have to tell you most people consider those Nardins a bit tacky.”