Evening In Byzantium Part 24
"How?" Murphy asked.
"I don't know how, but somehow," Klein said.
"Where is Thomas?" Craig asked. "Why don't we call him up and have him come over?"
"He had to leave for New York this morning," Klein said. "That's why I was calling you so frantically. G.o.d, I hate it when people drop out of sight."
"You're lucky," Murphy said. "You only lost him for one day. I sometimes lose him for three months at a time."
"Well," Klein said, "I might as well give you the whole thing. First, as I said, he wants another writer. Now, hold your hats, boys. The man he wants is Ian Wadleigh."
"Oh, s.h.i.t," Murphy said.
Craig laughed.
"You laugh," Murphy said angrily. "Do you see yourself working with Ian Wadleigh?"
"Maybe," Craig said. "Probably not. What made Thomas pick on Wadleigh, of all people?"
"I asked him that myself," Klein said. "He just happened to see Wadleigh around, you know how it is down here. He talked to the guy by accident once or twice, and Wadleigh gave him a copy of his last book. I guess he couldn't sleep one night, and he picked it up and looked through it, and something caught him."
"Wadleigh's last book!" Murphy snorted. "It got the worst reviews since Hiawatha."
"You know Thomas," Klein said. "He doesn't read reviews. Not even his own."
"The perfect reader," Craig murmured.
"What did you say?" Klein asked.
"Nothing."
"Well, anyway," Klein said, "Thomas thinks Wadleigh's just the man to bring out the feeling he's looking for in the script. Whatever that means. Don't blame me, Jesse. I had nothing to do with it. It wouldn't occur to me in a million years to read a book by Ian Wadleigh. You know my position-my client wants him-I try to get him. How the h.e.l.l was I to know that you're Malcolm Harte?"
"I understand," Craig said. "I don't blame you."
"The question is, What am I going to tell Thomas? Will you talk to Wadleigh at least? Let him read the script and see what his ideas are?"
"Sure," Craig said. "I have no objections to talking to him." While Klein had been talking, the idea of collaboration with Wadleigh had begun to seem attractive. The uncertainty that had made him put a nom de plume on the t.i.tle page of the script had not been dispelled by Thomas's approval. The thought of sharing final responsibility was not unwelcome. And Wadleigh's talent, however tarnished, was a real one. Finally, he knew, there almost never was a screenplay that was completely the work of one pair of hands. "I don't promise anything," Craig said, "but I'll talk to him."
"There's another thing," Klein said. Now he looked embarra.s.sed. "There's no sense in not putting it all on the table right from the beginning. You know, Thomas has produced his last two pictures himself. He doesn't need another producer and ..."
"If he wants to do this picture," Craig said crisply, "he needs another producer. And that producer is me."
"Murph ..." Klein looked appealingly to Murphy.
"You heard what the man said," Murphy said.
"Okay," Klein said. "There's nothing I can do about it, one way or another. I think the best thing we all can do is get on a plane to New York and talk it out with Thomas. And take Ian Wadleigh along with us and see if we can fit all the pieces together."
Murphy shook his head. "I'm due in Rome next week and London the week after that. Tell Thomas to wait."
"You know Thomas," Klein said. "He won't wait. He's got another commitment starting in January, and everybody'll have to work day and night to get this one in the can before then. One of the things he likes about your script, Jesse, is that it's easy to do and he can fit it in."
"Jess?" Murphy said. "You're really the one who has to do the talking. I can come in later."
"I don't know," Craig said. "I'll have to think about it."
"I'm going to call Thomas tonight," Klein said. "What should I tell him?"
"Tell him I'm thinking about it," Craig said.
"He'll love that," Klein said sourly. He stood up. "Anybody want a drink?"
"No, thanks." Craig stood up, too. "I have to get back to Cannes. I appreciate what you've done so far, Walt."
"Just out to turn an honest dollar for me and my friends," Klein said. "I don't know why the f.u.c.k you didn't use your own name."
"I'll tell you some day," Craig said. "Murph, why don't you drive with me to Cannes? Tell your chauffeur to pick you up at the Carlton."
"Yeah." Murphy looked strangely subdued.
Klein walked out with them to the courtyard. They all shook hands ceremonially, and then there was the ringing of the telephone from inside the house, and Klein hurried in as Craig and Murphy drove off, the chauffeur following in Murphy's Mercedes.
Murphy was silent for a long time, staring out at the wild green countryside, the trees throwing long shadows in the evening light. Craig didn't speak, either. He knew that Murphy was troubled and was preparing himself for the conversation that had to take place.
"Jess," Murphy said finally, his voice low. "I want to apologize."
"There's nothing to apologize for."
"I'm a horse's a.s.s," Murphy said. "An old horse's a.s.s."
"Cut that," Craig said.
"I've lost my touch. I'm just no good any more."
"Oh, come on, Murph. Everybody makes mistakes. I could tell you about some of mine." He thought of Edward Brenner in the empty theatre on the night after the final performance of Brenner's last and best play.
Murphy shook his head sadly. "I had that script in my hand, and I told you to forget it, and that little punk Klein got you the hottest director in the business for it with one telephone call. What the h.e.l.l do you need me for?"
"I need you," Craig said. "Is that clear enough? I should have told you I wrote it myself."
"That makes no difference," Murphy said. "Even though it was a c.r.a.ppy thing to do to me. After all these years."
"I have my own problems," Craig said. "You know some of them."
"Yeah," Murphy said. "There's one big problem I could have helped you with-should have helped you with-a long time ago ... And I didn't."
"What's that?"
"Your G.o.dd.a.m.n wife."
"What could you have done?"
"I could have warned you. I knew what was happening."
"So did I," Craig said. "In general. And late in the game. But I knew."
"Did you ever figure out why she did it?" Murphy asked. "I mean, she wasn't a nymphomaniac or anything like that. It wasn't as though she couldn't control herself. She isn't one of those women who throw themselves in bed with the boy who delivers the groceries, for Christ's sake."
"No, she isn't."
"Has it ever occurred to you how she made her choices?"
"Not really."
"If this is painful to you, Jess, I'll shut up."
"It's painful," Craig said, "and don't shut up."
"She always picked your friends," Murphy said, "people who admired you, people you worked with, people you admired."
"I can't say that I'm wild with admiration for her last choice," Craig said.
"Even him," Murphy insisted. "He's a successful man, successful at something that you're lousy at, that you're ashamed you're lousy at. You went to him for advice. You trusted him with your money. Do you see what I mean?"
"In a way," Craig said, "yes."
"And all these people always wanted to see you, listen to you, you were the center of attraction. She was always in the background. There was one way she could stop being in the background. And she took it."
"And she took it." Craig nodded.
"I saw it a long time ago," Murphy said. "So did Sonia. And while there was still time to do something about it, I kept my mouth shut, I left you with your problem. And how do I make up for it?" He shook his head mournfully again. "I become another one of your problems." He looked tired, somehow diminished, sitting in the small car, his bulk slack in the flimsy bucket seat, his voice weary, his face sorrowful in the moving shadows from the trees that lined the road.
"You're not a problem," Craig said sharply. "You're my friend and my partner, and you've done wonders for me in the past, and I expect you to do wonders for me in the future. I wouldn't know what to do without you."
"Being an agent is a joke," Murphy said. "I'm a sixty-year-old joke."
"n.o.body thinks you're a joke," Craig said. "Not me and certainly not anyone who has to do business with you. Snap out of it." He hated to see Murphy, whose style, whose reason for living, even, was to be robust, a.s.sured, overriding, in a mood like this.
"If you want, Jess," Murphy said, "I'll cancel Rome and London and fly to New York with you."
"Unnecessary," Craig said. "You'll come on stronger when they know they have to wait for you."
"Don't make any concessions before I get there." Murphy's voice was stronger now. "Don't give a f.u.c.king inch. Let me think about it overnight, and tomorrow you tell me exactly what you want and we'll figure out just how much of it you can get and how you can get it."
"That's more like it," Craig said. "That's why I told Klein to ask you to be there when I saw him."
"Christ," Murphy said loudly, "how I hate to have to split a commission with that little punk."
Craig laughed. Then Murphy laughed, too, sitting up straighter in the bucket seat, his laughter resounding in the little car.
But when they reached the Carlton, he said, "Jess, do you have an extra copy of the script? I'd like to read it again, just to see how stupid I can be."
"I'll have it for you tomorrow," Craig said. "Give my love to Sonia."
When Murphy got out of the Simca and walked over to his own car, he was striding imperiously, huge and dangerous, a terrible man to cross. Craig couldn't help grinning as he saw his friend hurl himself into the big black Mercedes.
The lobby of the hotel was crowded. There were already people in dinner jackets and evening gowns, dressed for the showing in the Festival Hall that night. Automatically, as he made his way to the concierge's desk, Craig looked around the lobby to see if Gail was there. There were many familiar faces, Joe Reynolds' among them, but no Gail. Reynolds' bruises had turned a streaky yellow. It didn't help his looks. He was talking earnestly to Eliot Steinhardt. A large young man with a blond beard was standing near the elevator, and Craig felt him staring at him. While Craig was collecting his mail and his key, the young man with the beard came up to him. "Mr. Craig?" he said.
"Yes."
"I'm Bayard Patty," the young man said.
"Yes?"
"I mean I'm Anne's friend. From California."
"Oh, how do you do?" Craig extended his hand, and Patty shook it. He had an enormous, crushing hand.
"I'm very pleased to meet you, sir," Patty said. He sounded mournful.
"Where is Anne?" Craig said. "Let's get her and have a drink."
"That's what I've been waiting to talk to you about, Mr. Craig," Patty said. "Anne's not here. She's gone away."
"What do you mean, she's gone away?" Craig said sharply.
"She's gone away, that's all," Patty said. "This morning. She left me a note."
Craig turned back to the concierge. "Has my daughter checked out?" he asked.
"Yes, monsieur," the concierge said. "This morning."
Craig looked through his mail and messages. There was nothing there from Anne. "Did she leave a forwarding address?" he asked the concierge.
"No, monsieur."
"Patty," Craig said, "did she tell you where she was going?"
"No, sir," Patty said. "And please call me Bayard. She just vanished."
"Wait here for me, Bayard," Craig said. "Maybe there's a note from her in my room."
But there was nothing from Anne in his apartment. He went downstairs again. Patty was waiting near the desk like a huge, faithful, s.h.a.ggy Newfoundland.
"Was there anything?" Patty asked.
Craig shook his head.