Read Online Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 3 - Venus Besieged by Andrews, Austin - Free Book Online Page B
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the phone rang. Checking the caller ID, I picked up to hear
Barrett wanting to talk about the e-mail file containing the first seventy-five
pages I'd sent her.
"Teague,
you ought to spend more time out of the sack and at the computer. Good
stuff."
"I'm
very glad you like the script, Barrett," I said, intentionally completing
full sentences to let Callie know who was on the phone and what we were talking
about, and thinking that married people's lives must simply border on hell.
"I
like everything about your work..." Barrett's words dangled like a lure at
the end of a fishing line—letting "work" encompass the screenplay I'd
written for her or the sex I'd once had with her, her tone trying to snag me
like a hook passing a hungry fish. I didn't take the bait.
"So
I'll continue writing brilliant work and—"
My
upbeat tone annoyed her because she abruptly interrupted. "I sent it on to
Jacowitz, to let him know you're on it, and he had a couple of comments that I
don't think are too off base. Is this a good time?"
That
was the Hollywood version of
I'm-letting-you-know-I-have-manners-but-I-hold-your-career-in-my-hands.
"Great
time, shoot," I said, the last word obviously Freudian.
"You've
done wonders with what you've got. I love the interplay between the housewife
and the husband, dead-on in its honesty. Makes me believe you're
straight." And Barrett laughed so I laughed. "First dialogue between
the women, nice. Jacowitz loved it.. .but he thinks it needs to be a little
grittier. Maybe develop a kind of sexy grunge, make it a little more hip, and
of course that's going to be hard unless we make a few character tweaks. He was
thinking, we make the nun a therapist—"
"A
therapist nun..." I repeated, trying to be open-minded. After all, the
novice is studying psychology.
"Therapist,
period. Drop the nun. And the therapist is trying to help this psychologically
abused hooker."
"Hooker?"
My mind was scrunching into a psychotic ball.
"Don't
you love it?" Her voice was gleeful.
"But
the abused wife is—"
"Gone.
She's the hooker. Who better to know about psychological abuse, to have
experienced abuse, than a hooker? So the therapist and the hooker give you that
kind of grunge right from the start, and you don't have to deal with the whole
church thing and having the movie picketed and all that BS. Now we can get some
language in there that's sexier because the hooker can say things like pussy and cunt, where the housewife wouldn't—"
"Why
does she have to say pussy and cunt?"
"She's
a hooker!" Barrett shouted as if she'd written the entire screenplay and I
was too dense to get it. I was silently clouding up, the spectrum of my
internal energy waffling between corpse gray and hearse black as Barrett rushed
her closing remarks. "Think about it. It would make Jacowitz happy to know
you're at least listening."
"Look,
I'm listening but—"
"I
know you're listening." She verbally stroked me. "You listen better
than any writer I know, you're the best. It's a small change. You okay with
it?"
I
sighed. "I wouldn't call it okay—"
"Look,
this is your first motion picture with a big-time director. The important thing
here is the relationship, right?" Pause. "Right?"
"Right,"
I repeated at her prodding and then hated myself for it. Why is the
relationship the most important thing? The work is the most important thing.
"He
works with people who get it. You've got to show him you get it."
"Got
it," I said, dejected beyond description.
"Got
to go to a meeting at the Bev," she said, apparently forgetting I would
know why she had a meeting at the Bev—it was her casting couch. "Call me
if you have questions and hi to the blonde." She hung up before I could
comment further.
Putting
my face in my hands, I moaned. "I'm a whore writing about a hooker."
"Don't
say that!"
"I'm
a fucking Hollywood hamster who jumped back on the wheel of ‘love your story,
let's do your story, let's change your story, was this your story,
Barrett wanting to talk about the e-mail file containing the first seventy-five
pages I'd sent her.
"Teague,
you ought to spend more time out of the sack and at the computer. Good
stuff."
"I'm
very glad you like the script, Barrett," I said, intentionally completing
full sentences to let Callie know who was on the phone and what we were talking
about, and thinking that married people's lives must simply border on hell.
"I
like everything about your work..." Barrett's words dangled like a lure at
the end of a fishing line—letting "work" encompass the screenplay I'd
written for her or the sex I'd once had with her, her tone trying to snag me
like a hook passing a hungry fish. I didn't take the bait.
"So
I'll continue writing brilliant work and—"
My
upbeat tone annoyed her because she abruptly interrupted. "I sent it on to
Jacowitz, to let him know you're on it, and he had a couple of comments that I
don't think are too off base. Is this a good time?"
That
was the Hollywood version of
I'm-letting-you-know-I-have-manners-but-I-hold-your-career-in-my-hands.
"Great
time, shoot," I said, the last word obviously Freudian.
"You've
done wonders with what you've got. I love the interplay between the housewife
and the husband, dead-on in its honesty. Makes me believe you're
straight." And Barrett laughed so I laughed. "First dialogue between
the women, nice. Jacowitz loved it.. .but he thinks it needs to be a little
grittier. Maybe develop a kind of sexy grunge, make it a little more hip, and
of course that's going to be hard unless we make a few character tweaks. He was
thinking, we make the nun a therapist—"
"A
therapist nun..." I repeated, trying to be open-minded. After all, the
novice is studying psychology.
"Therapist,
period. Drop the nun. And the therapist is trying to help this psychologically
abused hooker."
"Hooker?"
My mind was scrunching into a psychotic ball.
"Don't
you love it?" Her voice was gleeful.
"But
the abused wife is—"
"Gone.
She's the hooker. Who better to know about psychological abuse, to have
experienced abuse, than a hooker? So the therapist and the hooker give you that
kind of grunge right from the start, and you don't have to deal with the whole
church thing and having the movie picketed and all that BS. Now we can get some
language in there that's sexier because the hooker can say things like pussy and cunt, where the housewife wouldn't—"
"Why
does she have to say pussy and cunt?"
"She's
a hooker!" Barrett shouted as if she'd written the entire screenplay and I
was too dense to get it. I was silently clouding up, the spectrum of my
internal energy waffling between corpse gray and hearse black as Barrett rushed
her closing remarks. "Think about it. It would make Jacowitz happy to know
you're at least listening."
"Look,
I'm listening but—"
"I
know you're listening." She verbally stroked me. "You listen better
than any writer I know, you're the best. It's a small change. You okay with
it?"
I
sighed. "I wouldn't call it okay—"
"Look,
this is your first motion picture with a big-time director. The important thing
here is the relationship, right?" Pause. "Right?"
"Right,"
I repeated at her prodding and then hated myself for it. Why is the
relationship the most important thing? The work is the most important thing.
"He
works with people who get it. You've got to show him you get it."
"Got
it," I said, dejected beyond description.
"Got
to go to a meeting at the Bev," she said, apparently forgetting I would
know why she had a meeting at the Bev—it was her casting couch. "Call me
if you have questions and hi to the blonde." She hung up before I could
comment further.
Putting
my face in my hands, I moaned. "I'm a whore writing about a hooker."
"Don't
say that!"
"I'm
a fucking Hollywood hamster who jumped back on the wheel of ‘love your story,
let's do your story, let's change your story, was this your story,
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