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*****
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| The Writer's Creed |
* * *
HAL: Look Dave. I can see
you're really upset by this. I honestly think you ought to sit down calmly,
take a stress pill, and think things over. (From 2001: A Space Odyssey)
* * *
"It's not the most
intellectual job in the world, but I do have to know the letters."
(Vanna White - Wheel Of
Fortune.)
* * *
Chris was hammering furiously on the keyboard. He paused to glance at
his notes, then snorted his complete disgust. He said, "Man, this is some
serious sick shit."
He shuddered. Something I had never seen him do before. "Makes my
skin crawl just thinking about these assholes. And here we have to write a
whole fucking script about the suckers."
I settled back from my own work and sighed my agreement. "I keep
saying to myself, this is our big break. Don't fuck it up."
Chris said, "If this wasn't for Jack Klugman I'd pack it in. At
least we know he'll make good use of this shit. Get some Congressional hearings
going, and such."
Then he hunched his shoulders, his face took on a fierce light, and he
started blazing away at the keyboard again.
When I remind you that the project we were engaged in had to do with
Pedophiles - the scum of the Earth - you'll understand our feelings. Especially
since the whole business with Jack Klugman started out with a nice, gentle
story about murdering boxers.
As Chris put it: "On a scale of one to ten: Murdering boxers
Versus Pedophiles, the baby rapers rate way down on the shit scale."
Not only that, but we were both troubled by Peter 's super strong
insistence that he already had a story in mind and just wanted us to do the
research.
But, after we got home from the meeting and had poured a couple of
scotches, Chris said, "I don't feel right about this somehow."
"What's wrong? We got the deal didn't we?" I replied.
Chris said, "Are you sure you got that right? We're just to do the
research. And he'll give us a story which he already has worked out?"
I started to nod, then stopped to drag out my notes. Flipped through
them. Found the place.
"Yep, he was adamant," I said. "We said two or three
times - are you sure you don't want us to come up with a story. And he said -
No. He had the story. I looked at the heavily scored pen marks beneath his
exact quote and read it to Chris: "Not to worry, boys. I've got the story."
"Before he said it," I pointed out, "he thumped his
chest like he really meant it."
Chris sighed and shook his head. Then, "What did you think about
the guy?"
"Twenty four-carat British charm," I said. "At least
that's how he comes across."
"Think it's actually gold wash?" Chris said.
"I do," I said. "I won't be surprised if he tries to
pull some sort of con," I went on. "But, I still can't help liking
him."
Chris laughed and topped up our drinks. "What the fuck," he
said. "The Guild 's got our back. And so does Klugman. What can he do?"
So, we jumped head first into the sex crime cesspool and researched the
hell out of the son of a gun. It was a skin crawly subject, but with Klugman we
knew it was for a good cause. Also, it was our entry through the gates of
Hollywood.
We spent a couple of weeks taking to cops who specialized in busting
the miscreants, and shrinks who specialized in treating young victims, as well
as those who were experts on the mindset of the perps.
When we were done, Chris and I came away pretty much of the opinion
that the perps were incurable and ought to be locked up for two largish
forevers.
We called Peter 's office and his assistant set up an appointment. But,
while I was on the line with her I made double-damn sure of our instructions.
"Peter said he didn't want us to write the story," I told his
assistant. "He said he had one he wanted to assign us. Is that still on?
Or, should we get busy writing?"
The assistant said, "I know for a fact that he has a story. He had
me call Business Affairs at the Tower and pencil it in on the production pay
schedule."
Chris and I liked the sound of that: Pay Schedule. Rolled that around
on our tongues a little. Went well with the scotch.
Couple of days later we were once
again making our way over the hill from Santa Monica to the San Fernando Valley
where most of the major studios, including MCA-Universal - were planted.
Scotty was at the gate like before and he whisked us on our way with a
cheery, "Break a leg, boys." Made our way along the yellow brick road
to the Quincy offices - about a hundred yards up from the old Ozzie and Harriet
house - and with barely a wait we were ushered into the inner-sanctum of the
Executive Producer.
Imagine our surprise when we were greeted not by Peter Thompson, but a
smooth, well-made fellow who wore a quirky little smile as if he viewed the
world with great amusement.
He said, "I'm Al Godfrey, the new exec producer." He shook
our hands, then waved us into seats.
We must have looked like we were in shock, because he kindly hastened
to explain: "I know you boys were expecting to meet with Peter - and you
will in a minute or two. But first, let me reassure you that I've talked to
Jack and he's impressed with you boys and so I know all the background."
I heard Chris give a sigh of relief. I could tell Godfrey caught this,
but he just went on to explain that Peter had been promoted to head of
production for MCA/Universal.
In other worlds, he was now one of the Guys With The Big Telephones who
resided in the Black Tower.
"Peter still wants to handle your script," Godfrey said, "as
his final contribution to Quincy." The crooked smile of his grew a little
more crooked, with a little cynical twitch at the edges. It made you wonder
what he was really thinking.
Godfrey looked us up and down, measuring. Then said, "I know
you're both new to the game, and might not realize it, but you now have a
friend in a very high place."
Chris and I nodded. "Head of production. It's just starting to
sink in," I said, still a little numb.
The desk phone buzzed. Godfrey picked it up, listened, thanked the
person on the other side and said, "Let's go see Peter. He's ready for us."
Godfrey chatted as he drove us over there in his Mercedes, but I don't
remember much about what he said. I was too busy absorbing the fact that Chris
and I were actually going to enter the infamous executive tower.
I saw it rising in my view like an obelisk. Cue the 2001 A Space
Odyssey theme music. And damn was that sucker black. Black as a producer’s
soul. And it really does tower. The closer you get to the son of a bitch, the
more it looms over you.
As you approach, you know that no building in the earthquake prone City
Of The Angels can be really very high. But if you are an aspiring anything, and
either your doom or your dreams are to be found at Universal’s Black Tower, I
guarantee that it will look like the Empire State Building when you arrive.
Here's what it's like when you enter:
After being examined by Security for hidden grenades and genital warts,
you are allowed to go to the elevator reception area. Generally men and women
dressed in million dollar business outfits are waiting there. Very rarely
shabby writers. The Suits stare at you, smiling - everyone in Hollywood
cultivates a special smile - but it's about as shallow as a Casting Director's
good intentions.
The elevator stops at each and every floor as you ascend. And if you
dare to peek out at each stop, you will be struck at how amazingly well
decorated each floor is. Lovely paintings. Plush rugs. Antique furniture.
Beautiful secretaries and receptionists.
But as you rise, you’ll also notice that the carpets get thicker and richer,
the paintings become originals, instead of just expensively framed copies, and
the secretaries grow more and more beauteous.
When you reach the rarefied atmosphere of the very top floor - which
overlooks all that the Guys With The Big Telephones choose to survey - you will
step off into wonders unknown to a common writer like yourself. While you wait,
they practically put out towels on the furniture so you won’t drip nervous flop
sweat on the Louis the XXXZZZZ antiques.
You don’t dare look at the paintings, for fear that the light of wonder
shining from your Commoner eyeballs might somehow harm them and lessen their
value.
Your feet sink into the carpeting up to your ankles and janitors in
gold-braided uniforms approach to make you wipe your feet on portable scrapers
with handles made of polished wood.
And the secretaries - well, let me put it this way. These are women who
have been genetically altered so they do not sweat, or do any of the ordinary
human things regular women do. The wondrous ladies there smell only of faint, incredibly
expensive perfume, have modulated voices that are eternally sweet, yet
commanding, and have eyes that can warm you to the quick, or turn you into ice
if you offend the dignity of the Very Top Floor Of The Black Tower. Oh, and no
matter what their race, color or creed, they speak with a charming British
accent, with a little French thrown in here and there for variety's sake.
Got the picture?
Okay, back to the action... After a small eternity, Peter ’s exquisite
executive assistant summoned us. The three of us followed her lovely, silk-clad
posterior into Peter’s Office.
It was a marvelous office. As head of production at Universal, Peter commanded
a space only a few places under the legendary Lew Wasserman and his mail-fisted
Knights Of The Golden Box Office. There were so many floor to ceiling windows,
you felt like you might fall off the face of the Earth.
And, although you could not see All The Way To Tomorrow, the view did
offer a scary glimpse of your immediate future - if All Did Not Go Well.
Peter rose from his fabulous Prince Something Or Other Desk and graced
us with that roguish smile. "Thanks for coming, boys," he said. He
nodded at Godfrey. "And you too, Al... How are things progressing with
Jack?"
We didn't realize it then, but Klugman was famously difficult with
producers, but I did note the knowing look Peter gave Godfrey.
"Every thing's coming along fine, Peter," he said. "Thanks
to your smooth handover."
Peter nodded, smiling a smile of such great sincerity, that I knew it
was at heart deeply insincere. In other words, Big Shot though he might be, he
was worried Godfrey might show him up.
Then he turned to us, oozing warmth and charm. He made polite conversation
for a minute or two, then paused. Planted his elbows on his desk and leaned
forward.
Looking me right in the eyes, and holding that gaze, he said, "Okay,
what's the story, boys."
It was like someone had rammed a spear into my heart. I knew Chris must
feel the same. Shit, the guy had insisted that HE HAD THE STORY. He'd said it
several times over the past weeks. His assistant had confirmed it only a couple
of days before.
What the hell was he doing? He was fucking us. Sure, I got that. But
for the life of me I didn't know why.
I looked helplessly at Chris, who had gone pale. I could see in his
eyes that he was thinking, shit, shit, shit.
Then - without a beat - Chris said, "Go ahead, Cole, tell Peter the
story."
If I'd had a gun, I'd have shot him. No, I would have shot myself
first, then let the gun spill before his feet so he could follow me into that
deep, dark place where ink-stained wretches are condemned to abide in an
afterlife, where there is never a period to end a sentence, but only an endless
series of commas.
This all happened in a split second. However, I hadn't been a newsman
for fourteen years to not have several shovels of bullshit ready at all times.
So, I just started spouting our research. Spewing it out in way that
might indicate that this was just the prelude to the story - a fabulous story
yet to come. In the back of my mind I was hoping that I was giving Chris time
to come up with something so I could toss the ball back to him.
Then Peter 's phone rang. Peter raised a hand, "Sorry, Allan. This
will just take a tick."
As he spoke to someone on the phone I gave Chris a look of desperation.
To my horror, the look I got back was one of equal desperation.
I glanced over at Godfrey, but he was just staring at the floor, that
crooked smile twitching his lips.
Then Peter hung up. "Sorry, boys, but I have to run down the hall
to see Lew for a second," he said. "I'll be right back."
Then he was gone. In the silent room you could sever the tension with splicing
shears. Godfrey cleared his throat, getting our attention.
My head came up to see a look of great pity. "You poor putzes,"
he said. "What the fuck is going on here?"
Quickly, we explained. We were told not to develop a story. Just do the
research.
"Peter insisted he had the story," I said once again. "But
now..." my voice trailed off.
"Never mind that shit," Godfrey said. "Let's stick our
heads together and come up with something before the son of a bitch comes back."
Twenty minutes later Peter swept into the office, took up residence in
his plush executive chair. He gave us his total attention.
And once again he asked, "What's the story, boys?"
But this time we told him.
NEXT: HOW TO STEAL A MILLION DOLLARS
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide:
Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
- "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
- "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus.
- "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
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In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself.
*****
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!
Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four episodes. Here are the links:
REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!
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