For the past hour, Danny Gold had watched executive producer Stan Hutchins flip through Danny's screenplay with his left hand while smoking a fine Cuban cigar in his right. Stan, a large fat bald man with massive jowls and who had what little remained of his hair slicked back with a pound of gel, was impossible to read. After each page, Stan took a puff of his cigar and blew it into Danny's face. Soon, his spacious Hollywood office, with its walls plastered with posters of all of his smash hits, was hazy with smoke.
It was so quiet that Danny could hear almost every phone call taken in the reception area to their left. He glanced at the clock, knowing that his appointment was already running long. 3:02 P.M. Maybe it was a good sign. After all, Stan wasn't one to let time slip away from him like that.
At last, the final page. Stan glanced at it, closed the screenplay, and pushed it back across his glass top redwood desk. He then stared at Danny through his thick glasses and took a long drag of his cigar. Puff.
"Danny, I like ya, so I'm gonna let ya down easy," he said in his raspy Brooklyn accent. "It's shit."
Danny twitched in his leather chair. The backside of his suit coat and pants had marinated in his sweat for an hour. Now everything ran cold.
"Stan, I can try to punch it up a little," he squeaked out with an anxious laugh.
"Nonono. This needs more than a little if you want me to set you up as producer, writer, and director. I mean, Christ," Stan groaned. “Look as a producer, you’re fine. You co-produced that little war picture, um… what was it?”
“Banzai at Henderson Field,” Danny proudly answered and nodded his head effusively.
“That’s the one,” Stan coughed and gave a thumbs up. “People like shit about World War II. Makes ‘em feel good seeing us win. Anyway, ya did a good job turning that around after John decided to bury his face in coke and hookers’ tits halfway through. Pulled it together and we made a net quarter mill on it. Not bad, ‘specially ‘cause I was thinkin’ of shitcanning the whole thing.”
“I’m always happy to help, Stan!”
Stan raised his hand and motioned downward like he was calming an excited puppy. He then put out the remnants of his Cuban in the cigar graveyard that was the crystal ashtray to his right.
“Writer. Look, that ain’t your thing. Not with this. You’re trying too hard to make it good. Comes off all wrong,” he coughed again, jabbing his finger into the screenplay. “We all talk about Oscar bait. This is getting on your fucking knees and screaming ‘I’M SO FUCKING CLEVER! YOU HAVE TO GIVE IT ME! I’M BEGGIN’ YA!’ Christ. You could slobber on the Academy’s collective cocks and it would have more dignity.”
Danny had nothing to say to that because, after all, he was desperate. The relative success of Banzai at Henderson Field put dreams in his head that had never been there before. At 33, he was too old now to pull off what Orson Welles did with Citizen Kane at 26, but something similar danced across his vision every time he closed his eyes now.
“Since you’re on a roll, Stan, you want to roast me on directing?” Danny tried to lighten the mood, giggling uncomfortably.
Stan rolled his eyes and snapped his suspenders against his white silk dress shirt.
“Directing’s tricky. Never understood it and I bet you don’t, either,” Stan chuckled and started picking his lunch out of his teeth with a toothpick.
“I’ve watched some of the greats do it, but—” Danny started, but Stan cut him off with a swipe of his hand.
“Watching ain’t doing,” Stan waved a finger. “At least you don’t want to be the lead, too. You don’t, right?”
“Oh, no!” Danny chuckled. He’d thought about it, but being a slightly-built awkward curly-haired Jewish guy from Chicago wasn’t exactly the stuff of a lead actor. Not outside some art houses in New York, at least. “I can’t act to save my life!”
Stan snickered and pushed the screenplay even further away from him.
“So, here’s what I recommend. Listen good. First, punch up on your writing. Take some classes or somethin’. Take another crack at it. From scratch. Don’t build off this. It’s… it’s just—”
“Shit,” Danny conceded.
“Shit, yeah,” Stan laughed and coughed again as he reached to light up another cigar. “Meantime, I got some real work for ya. People still want these war pictures. They’re cheap. They’re easy. They pay the bills. And you have some skill there already. Build on it. Make a little cash. Splash around in it. See what happens.”
Danny nodded and lightly sighed, his heart aching from the grief.
“Okay. Will those be this next year?” he asked, trying to keep a brave face.
“Yeah. I got two slots I’m thinkin’ ‘bout in ’49. Should fill out the studio’s calendar. I’ll set you up with some good writers and directors for ‘em. Got a lotta folks lookin’ to break through. Maybe you’ll make some friends and that’ll give ya your next shot, okay?” Stan smiled with an outstretched hand.
He took it, but almost immediately Stan broke away and wiggled it like he’d touched something disgusting.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Jesus, kid! You’re so fuckin’ sweaty and cold. Go get yourself an early dinner or something, okay?” Stan laughed, almost squealing. “We’ll talk next week. Meantime, get Pauline in here when you’re headin’ out.”
“Thanks, Stan,” Danny barely mumbled with a weak smile.
He stepped out into the reception area, his legs wobbling, and he waved to get the attention of the busty blonde at the desk nearest Stan’s office.
“Pauline?” He meekly started. She looked up at him in shock. He wondered how sweaty and disheveled he really looked. “Mr. Hutchins wants you.”
“Oh,” she gasped and stood up to straighten her pink and white dress. “I’ll go right away. Thanks, Donny.”
“Danny,” he corrected her so softly she didn’t even hear him.
Out in front of the studio offices, he stood with his suit jacket over his arm that also held his briefcase. It was a damn hot Los Angeles summer day, at least 95 degrees and the sun was baking the ground. When the taxi finally came to get him, he was ready to faint. The ’47 Packard Clipper Taxi was pretty uncomfortable itself with its backseat ripped open in three or four places and various things spilled all over it, but he was glad to be sitting down for a bit again.
The heavyset driver scratched at his scruffy beard as he repositioned his cigarette with his lips.
“Where you headed?” the driver asked in a deep voice.
“Uhh…” Danny hesitated. He hadn’t even thought about it. Part of him just wanted to go back to his apartment, but he decided to take Stan’s advice. “Let’s make it Saul’s on Sunset. Know where that is?”
“’course I do,” the driver laughed. “Saul’s on Sunset. You got it.”
After they stopped at the third set of lights.
“You look like you’ve had a rough day, kid,” he said in a sympathetic tone, which was a priceless rarity in Hollywood.
“I’ve had better,” Danny chuckled and dabbed sweat from his forehead. “Sometimes you take that big swing and miss, you know?”
“Heh. Yeah. I know the feeling,” the driver answered as the light turned green again. “But you never know what comes of it. Failure makes other opportunities, that’s what my dad always said.”
“Nice thought,” Danny sighed and dabbed the still ever-flowing torrents of sweat off his forehead. “What happened to your dad?”
“Got me there. Died in a roofing accident in Detroit.”
“Ah,” Danny cautiously offered. “My condolences.”
“Anyways, we’re here,” the driver said and pointed to the big front windows and flashing sign for Saul’s. “A buck fifty.”
“Here’s three. Keep the change!” Danny cheerily said as he tumbled out awkwardly with his suit coat in one hand and his briefcase in the other.
Once he got into Saul’s, he went straight for the bar in the center of the dimly-lit smoke-filled restaurant only to see the shockingly familiar cherubic face of Orson Welles sitting by himself in the red cushioned booth across from him. Normally, he wouldn’t even think of going over and making an ass of himself in a rushed way in front of his idol, but the dehydration and stress of the day made it seem like a better idea than normal.
Stumbling and bumbling, Danny rounded the bar and came to the opposite side of Orson’s booth.
“Mr. Welles!” he exclaimed in something between a shout and a gasp. Orson looked up from the lobster onto which he had just squeezed lemon juice. He blinked several times. “I’m not sure you remember me from that afterparty, but I’m—”
“Danny Gold, co-producer on ‘Banzai at Henderson Field’,” Orson joyously rumbled with his unmistakable baritone. “A fine picture and a mighty fine party, to be candid with you. We didn’t talk much, but I remember you. You seemed a bit happier then than you are now. I know the look you have. You were either romantically turned down or professionally.”
Motioning with his briefcase, Danny chuckled.
“Ah, professionally, then,” Orson said with a grimace. “Well, I’m always happy to get to know people better. It’s where good writing comes from, you know. Talking to people, working through their problems, hearing their ideas and so on. All the best writers in history followed that and it’s a fine tradition, so please sit down.”
Danny pointed to a second plate of lobster on the table.
“I don’t want to take someone else’s seat if you’re with company,” he said apologetically.
“Oh no, that second one is also for me. Can’t a man eat two lobsters in one sitting if he chooses?” Orson smirked with a mischievous lilt. “Please, it’ll be my pleasure.”
Danny pulled out the chair on the side of the table opposite Orson’s cushioned booth and took in the sight of his idol’s serene confidence. It was shocking for Danny to think that Orson wasn’t any older than he was, but yet the great Orson Welles commanded the mystique of a man twice his age.
Orson snapped his fingers to bring the waiter over.
“Pardon me, but my friend here just arrived and he’ll be having a bottle of…?” Orson prompted Danny with a tilt of his hand.
“Just a glass of—” Danny started.
“No, a bottle. You’ve had a rough day and we’ll split it,” Orson insisted. “My treat. Actually, whatever you pick, we’ll have a bottle each. The more wine we have, the better the conversation. It’s a strict mathematical relationship, you see.”
“Uh… In that case, the Krug Estates pinot grigio,” Danny said quietly, prepared to go with something else if Orson disapproved. Orson, however, nodded.
“Excellent choice, sir,” the waiter said before shuffling off.
“Good pairing. You’re a man of culture, Mr. Gold and I respect that. By the way, the black pepper chicken I ordered along with the lobsters isn’t to my liking, but you can have it and it’ll go well with the wine, too,” Orson offered with another tilt of his hand. “Now, let’s talk about this prospective picture of yours.”
With the wine flowing, Danny became more and more comfortable explaining what he wanted to do while Orson sat and nodded sagely. By the time he emptied out his bottle, and the evening music started playing in the background, Danny felt sufficiently emboldened to just lay the question out there.
“Mr. Welles,” Danny started, realizing his speech was slurring badly. Orson, for his part, looked slightly sleepy from his feast, but otherwise lucid. “How did you make Citizen Kane at 26? Or I guess 25 when you were actually shooting it. I’ve been trying to claw up for the past 12 years and I can’t figure out how to do it. Some things are going right, but—”
Orson smirked and took a sip from the glass of Sherry he just had delivered.
“There’s luck involved, Mr. Gold. A lot of luck,” Orson rumbled wistfully. “Alexander the Great conquered most of the world, or the parts people cared about at that time at any rate, by the time he was 32. And then he died. Hopefully, both of us do a bit better on that last point even if we’re off pace on the former.”
“Cheers to that,” Danny said, raising a now empty glass. Embarrassed, he tucked it away in a hurry. “But surely there’s something to making one’s own luck, right?”
Orson winced and moved his eyes around as though he was scanning his own brain like a dusty old library. He then wiggled his hand, beckoning Danny to lean in closer.
“Truth is, Mr. Gold, making an acclaimed picture, there’s a game involved,” Orson said with a hint of mystery.
“I get that people in Hollywood play games,” Danny sighed. “But—”
“No, I mean a literal game,” Orson intoned, drawing still closer over the table.
Danny’s eyebrows raised far into his forehead and he made a face.
“You mean, like things kids play?”
Orson laughed.
“It’s difficult to explain,” he said, smirking again. “Come with me. And we’ll need a bottle of absinthe.”