Magic Hour, Susan Isaacs [life changing books txt] 📗

“Okay. So what do we have? He was upset with her, angry with her, but he was still hot for her despite her lousy performance. But then she seeks out Santana as an ally—and Lindsay’s way of forming an alliance is to fuck somebody.

Then, within a day or two, Sy is looking to replace her. With other actresses for Starry Night. And with you for sex. So I’m asking: What’s your gut? Doesn’t it look like Sy knew?”

“It sure looks like it. I can’t say definitely, because he had an enormous ego, and it would have been hard for him to accept that a woman would prefer anyone else to him. But on the other hand, he was very, very astute. And he had crossed her off his list. Now, you could call it a business decision, maybe a smart one; I don’t know enough about the economics of moviemaking to say. But it was personal too.

This was Lindsay’s first soft, romantic role, and he was letting it leak to everyone in the business that she—his lover, girlfriend, fiancée, whatever—didn’t have the versatility, the charm, the comedic talent, to

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handle the light stuff. He knew what the gossip would be:

‘If Sy has to replace Lindsay, she must be doing a horrendous job.’”

“Was he trying to ruin her?”

“If he could have, he probably would have. But I told you: no producer today has the power to ruin a star. Still, Sy was out to do Lindsay as much damage as he could.”

“At the dailies, a few people were talking about lightning special effects. Sy said if Lindsay got hit by lightning, it would be the answer to his prayers. Obviously he was kidding about the completion guarantee business, but the impression was that for all he cared, she could be dead, and in fact, if she had been dead he probably would have thrown a party.”

Bonnie was doing a great job chewing her knuckles. “Okay, Sy had fallen in love and had been cuckolded and was out to get even.”

I nodded. “Right. Now all we’ve got to figure out is whether his Lindsay passion was a temporary lapse for such a dispassionate man, or if he was starting to lose his marbles.” I went and unlocked the strongbox on the top of my closet, got out my service revolver, then got my suit jacket. “I have this feeling he was really losing his marbles.”

“Why?” She watched me putting on the holster and the jacket. I could see she didn’t want me to leave. I could also see that, unlike every other woman I’d ever slept with (except for girl cops), she didn’t blink or recoil or raise eyebrows or in any way show discomfort in the presence of a .38.

“Sy had this assistant or associate producer,” I said. “A new guy he hired for Starry Night. A guy from around here.”

“Super WASP?”

“My brother. His name’s Easton.”

“He’s your brother? Oh. Sy told me about him.”

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“What did he say?” Bonnie didn’t want to tell me. “Go on. I know what he is.”

“Sy said he was very good-looking, personable, but a little…”

“A loser.”

“Someone who hadn’t had much success in life. But he turned out to be terrific. Sy liked him a lot. It was a perfect match. Sy needed someone who’d be on call twenty-four hours a day, who’d jump to do anything he wanted done.

It sounded as though your brother was thrilled to do that.

And more important, it sounded like he didn’t have—forgive me, but I’m just repeating what Sy said—much ambition. Sy saw him as someone for the long haul.”

“A glorified valet.”

“Why don’t we just say a lifetime retainer?”

“That’s my brother. Anyway, I was over at Easton’s, with Robby Kurz. Department ethics: I couldn’t question my own brother. So I’m sitting there, and I pick up a script. Easton says Sy told him it was their next movie.”

“Was it mine?”

“No. Okay, now; in all fairness, I just glanced at it. And I never read a screenplay before. But I’m telling you, Bonnie, what I read was such complete, unmitigated shit I couldn’t believe it. He was losing his marbles.”

“Do you remember the title?”

“Yeah. Night of the Matador, by—”

“Mishkin! Milton or Murray.”

“You read it?”

“Years ago. Look, Sy wasn’t going to make Night of the Matador. Not in a million years. It was a joke. Well, the writer hadn’t written it as a joke, but Sy had gotten it about a year after we were married, and it was so terrible it was funny. It was one of his Hideous Scripts collection. He treasured it. He used to

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give readings from it: ‘I kill the beast to kill the beast in my heart, Carlotta.’ Now, I’ll grant you, Sy did get a little goofy over Lindsay. But he never would have gotten goofy enough to make that movie.”

“Then why would he tell my brother that was the movie they were going to do together?”

“Kidding around.”

“I don’t buy that.”

“Knowing Sy, maybe he wanted to see if your brother had the guts to stand up to him, tell him it was the worst hundred and twenty pages in the world. And God forbid if he said he liked it; Sy would torture him about it for the next twenty years.”

“Easton was positive this was Sy’s next project.”

“Well, it could all be a mistake. Maybe you just looked at the wrong screenplay.”

“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll give my brother a call.” I walked to the door. “We have a deal,” I reminded her. “You won’t leave till I get back.”

“I know.”

“I said five, but if it’s six, just hang on. I know it’s rough on you. What can I tell you?”

“Tell me, ‘Bonnie, you’re beautiful. You’re a truly fine person. And I love you.’”

“Bye,” I said.

“See you around, big boy.”

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