when I refused to let her photograph the performers naked in the burlesque movie senior year. My prudishness paid off in spades when we earned $600,000 in revenues because we got booked into legitimate movie houses.
Her smile drooped. She was running on adrenaline and marijuana. I reached into my briefcase. “I heard you were out of lox,” I said, hefting the slim square box packed with fish and dry ice.
She was absolutely amazed. “You carried this all the way from Zabar’s?” She turned it reverently between her hands. “Welcome,” she said, smiling.
“Remember your mom carting these to school like Care packages?”
“I’d give away a gross point for cream cheese with scallions,” she sighed. I reached back into the bag. “I can’t believe it,” she giggled, opening the container to smell the scallions. She clamped the lid shut and looked at me cautiously. “What are you really doing here?”
“Where’s your star?”
“I’m the star of my movies.” She sounded nuts; I watched her hand the boxes to Allen, who set them on the table, crossed his arms, and watched us.
“How’s Jack feeling?” I asked delicately.
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “His back is out. He insisted on carrying a hundred-pound cross.”
I had to smile. What a metaphor. “The old back routine?”
Anita rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
When a star wants things his way, he can’t just walk off the set, because the studio would sue him for the entire cost of the movie. Instead he keeps slowing down the shooting by absenting himself until he wins.
“He claims he’s in terrible pain,” she said airily, lighting another cigarette with a big wood matchstick, “and he’s got a local virus. He says he needs hot sulfur baths by the hour, massages, and he’s even got some Swiss doctor shooting novocaine into the muscle spasm.”
“You got big headaches,” I said, slowly shaking my head. I didn’t bother to ask if she was watching out for his depression over the breakup of a ten-year relationship. The gossips said the lady refused to marry him because she liked living in her converted barn in Wales. I figured it had more to do with his legendary womanizing.
Paul was tugging on my elbow, standing above me. “I got to go for gas.”
Anita’s head snapped up at him. “You picked her up?”
“Yeah.”
“A fucking conspiracy,” she muttered.
“I bumped into her at the airport,” he lied sheepishly.
She smacked at the floor tile.
“Let’s sit on chairs like humans,” I said.
She rejected Paul’s arm as she clambered to her feet with the crutch. Allen dragged out two carved wooden chairs.
“We were talking about Jack,” I said, watching Paul walk happy children out the door.
“Jack won’t take direction.”
“Anita, we need his face in the movie.”
She waved her fingers dismissively. “I got the idea last week. He’s not a convincing Christ, so I’ll just hide his face.”
“You’re a maniac. You’re not making sense. Nobody wanted to finance you until he committed.”
A hurt look lit her eye. I heard Allen curse under his breath behind me. “The power broker speaks.” Anita shifted her weight off one hip. “In this business the only art is raising money.”
I put my hand on her bare knee. “A human Jesus has a face.”
“Look, the way I see it, everybody’s got a private image of Christ,” she said in a rushed voice, “and it’s not his sexy shallow face.”
“You cast him, you liked him at first.”
“Don’t change history,” she snapped, “you forced him on me.”
“Poor you, always being bullied.” I smiled. She didn’t.
“When De Mille shot
The King of Kings
he never let anybody see the face of the big star playing Christ. On lunch breaks, the guy ate through his veils.”
“The man became too drunk to work,” I reminded her.
“You saw
Ben Hur
and
The Robe
,” she continued, gnawing at her hair. “They shot his shadow, his effect on
Her smile drooped. She was running on adrenaline and marijuana. I reached into my briefcase. “I heard you were out of lox,” I said, hefting the slim square box packed with fish and dry ice.
She was absolutely amazed. “You carried this all the way from Zabar’s?” She turned it reverently between her hands. “Welcome,” she said, smiling.
“Remember your mom carting these to school like Care packages?”
“I’d give away a gross point for cream cheese with scallions,” she sighed. I reached back into the bag. “I can’t believe it,” she giggled, opening the container to smell the scallions. She clamped the lid shut and looked at me cautiously. “What are you really doing here?”
“Where’s your star?”
“I’m the star of my movies.” She sounded nuts; I watched her hand the boxes to Allen, who set them on the table, crossed his arms, and watched us.
“How’s Jack feeling?” I asked delicately.
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “His back is out. He insisted on carrying a hundred-pound cross.”
I had to smile. What a metaphor. “The old back routine?”
Anita rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
When a star wants things his way, he can’t just walk off the set, because the studio would sue him for the entire cost of the movie. Instead he keeps slowing down the shooting by absenting himself until he wins.
“He claims he’s in terrible pain,” she said airily, lighting another cigarette with a big wood matchstick, “and he’s got a local virus. He says he needs hot sulfur baths by the hour, massages, and he’s even got some Swiss doctor shooting novocaine into the muscle spasm.”
“You got big headaches,” I said, slowly shaking my head. I didn’t bother to ask if she was watching out for his depression over the breakup of a ten-year relationship. The gossips said the lady refused to marry him because she liked living in her converted barn in Wales. I figured it had more to do with his legendary womanizing.
Paul was tugging on my elbow, standing above me. “I got to go for gas.”
Anita’s head snapped up at him. “You picked her up?”
“Yeah.”
“A fucking conspiracy,” she muttered.
“I bumped into her at the airport,” he lied sheepishly.
She smacked at the floor tile.
“Let’s sit on chairs like humans,” I said.
She rejected Paul’s arm as she clambered to her feet with the crutch. Allen dragged out two carved wooden chairs.
“We were talking about Jack,” I said, watching Paul walk happy children out the door.
“Jack won’t take direction.”
“Anita, we need his face in the movie.”
She waved her fingers dismissively. “I got the idea last week. He’s not a convincing Christ, so I’ll just hide his face.”
“You’re a maniac. You’re not making sense. Nobody wanted to finance you until he committed.”
A hurt look lit her eye. I heard Allen curse under his breath behind me. “The power broker speaks.” Anita shifted her weight off one hip. “In this business the only art is raising money.”
I put my hand on her bare knee. “A human Jesus has a face.”
“Look, the way I see it, everybody’s got a private image of Christ,” she said in a rushed voice, “and it’s not his sexy shallow face.”
“You cast him, you liked him at first.”
“Don’t change history,” she snapped, “you forced him on me.”
“Poor you, always being bullied.” I smiled. She didn’t.
“When De Mille shot
The King of Kings
he never let anybody see the face of the big star playing Christ. On lunch breaks, the guy ate through his veils.”
“The man became too drunk to work,” I reminded her.
“You saw
Ben Hur
and
The Robe
,” she continued, gnawing at her hair. “They shot his shadow, his effect on
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