him in a minute, except that under his contract he had an absolute right to make the movie.
Absolute, that is, provided the film met a complicated series of production deadlines. It now seemed there was a serious possibility that these deadlines might be missed. Already the company was two weeks behind schedule and Lefkowitz knew that the studio lawyers had notified the production execs that if principal photography didn’t begin in three weeks, all bets were off. Lefkowitz would be in breach, and Shallow Grave would disappear from his company faster than a gold chain on the streets of New York.
Lefkowitz was reflecting on this when the assistant producer, a handsome, intense thirty-year-old, walked through the door.
Since he’d been working for Lefkowitz, the young man, who’d been so eager and talked so flippantly about ball-busting when he’d accepted the job, didn’t look so young anymore. He definitely wasn’t as eager. And the only privates he thought about regularly were his own.
“He’s calling at three,” the AP announced.
Lefkowitz examined his Oyster Perpetual. Five minutes. “Tell me what happened.”
The assistant producer began, “Marty—”
“Who’s Marty?”
“Jacobs. Pellam’s assistant.”
“Okay.”
“He was killed, and—”
“Jesus.”
“Pellam ended up in the hospital. I’m not sure but the way the sheriff explained it they seem to be separate accidents.”
“What happened to Marty?”
“The car blew up.”
“Jesus. What about his family?”
“The sheriff called and he told them. I made a call for your office. You don’t have to do anything, but—”
Lefkowitz said, “We’ll send flowers. You know that florist, the one I mean?”
“Will do.”
“I’ll write a note too. How’s Pellam?”
“I’m not sure. All I know is I got a message saying that he was going to be calling in at three.”
“We should get mobiles in all the honey wagons. It’s crazy we don’t. Look into that, okay?”
“Youwant, yougot.”
“Any chance we’ll get sued?”
“By who?”
“Marty’s family?”
“I don’t know. . . . But there’s something I’ve got to tell you, Alan. It gets kind of worse.”
“How could it get worse?”
“The mayor of the town where it happened? Cleary? He called. Crazy man. I’m talking PMS. They won’t issue permits.”
“Oh, Christ in a tree. Oh, Christ.”
“It’s like a real small town. They found the stuff—”
“What stuff?”
“Aw, Marty had a little grass on him. They said some crack too, but I don’t think—”
“Brother,” Lefkowitz whispered. He looked out at the huge, immaculate highway. He closed his eyes. “Why, why, why? . . .” He spun around and faced the AP. “Any chance we can buy our way in?”
“I tried. Thousands. I practically gave him head.”
“And?”
The AP swallowed. “He called me a ghoul. Then he called me a prick. Then he hung up on me. It’s cratered, Alan. The whole’s project’s cratered.”
Lefkowitz felt numb. A moment passed. Finally he asked, “Pellam’s okay, though?”
The phone rang. Both men looked at their watches. It was three. The AP said, “Why don’t you ask him?”
PELLAM LEANED HIS head against the glass of the phone booth. Cleary still had booths with squeaky, two-panel doors. He looked at two initials carved into the aluminum; otherwise there was no graffiti. One set of initials looked like JP. He listened to the buzz of the phone ringing. He felt the vibration of the healing skin under the bandage on his temple.
Alan Lefkowitz came on the phone himself, something he had never done. No secretary. No AP. Just the soft voice of a tanned, fit, eccentric, multimillionaire producer.
“John, how are you? What happened?”
He sensed some real sympathy.
“Fine, Lefty. I’m okay.” Pellam then told him in general terms about the accidents—Meg’s running into him, Marty’s death.
Lefkowitz said, “The permits. What
Absolute, that is, provided the film met a complicated series of production deadlines. It now seemed there was a serious possibility that these deadlines might be missed. Already the company was two weeks behind schedule and Lefkowitz knew that the studio lawyers had notified the production execs that if principal photography didn’t begin in three weeks, all bets were off. Lefkowitz would be in breach, and Shallow Grave would disappear from his company faster than a gold chain on the streets of New York.
Lefkowitz was reflecting on this when the assistant producer, a handsome, intense thirty-year-old, walked through the door.
Since he’d been working for Lefkowitz, the young man, who’d been so eager and talked so flippantly about ball-busting when he’d accepted the job, didn’t look so young anymore. He definitely wasn’t as eager. And the only privates he thought about regularly were his own.
“He’s calling at three,” the AP announced.
Lefkowitz examined his Oyster Perpetual. Five minutes. “Tell me what happened.”
The assistant producer began, “Marty—”
“Who’s Marty?”
“Jacobs. Pellam’s assistant.”
“Okay.”
“He was killed, and—”
“Jesus.”
“Pellam ended up in the hospital. I’m not sure but the way the sheriff explained it they seem to be separate accidents.”
“What happened to Marty?”
“The car blew up.”
“Jesus. What about his family?”
“The sheriff called and he told them. I made a call for your office. You don’t have to do anything, but—”
Lefkowitz said, “We’ll send flowers. You know that florist, the one I mean?”
“Will do.”
“I’ll write a note too. How’s Pellam?”
“I’m not sure. All I know is I got a message saying that he was going to be calling in at three.”
“We should get mobiles in all the honey wagons. It’s crazy we don’t. Look into that, okay?”
“Youwant, yougot.”
“Any chance we’ll get sued?”
“By who?”
“Marty’s family?”
“I don’t know. . . . But there’s something I’ve got to tell you, Alan. It gets kind of worse.”
“How could it get worse?”
“The mayor of the town where it happened? Cleary? He called. Crazy man. I’m talking PMS. They won’t issue permits.”
“Oh, Christ in a tree. Oh, Christ.”
“It’s like a real small town. They found the stuff—”
“What stuff?”
“Aw, Marty had a little grass on him. They said some crack too, but I don’t think—”
“Brother,” Lefkowitz whispered. He looked out at the huge, immaculate highway. He closed his eyes. “Why, why, why? . . .” He spun around and faced the AP. “Any chance we can buy our way in?”
“I tried. Thousands. I practically gave him head.”
“And?”
The AP swallowed. “He called me a ghoul. Then he called me a prick. Then he hung up on me. It’s cratered, Alan. The whole’s project’s cratered.”
Lefkowitz felt numb. A moment passed. Finally he asked, “Pellam’s okay, though?”
The phone rang. Both men looked at their watches. It was three. The AP said, “Why don’t you ask him?”
PELLAM LEANED HIS head against the glass of the phone booth. Cleary still had booths with squeaky, two-panel doors. He looked at two initials carved into the aluminum; otherwise there was no graffiti. One set of initials looked like JP. He listened to the buzz of the phone ringing. He felt the vibration of the healing skin under the bandage on his temple.
Alan Lefkowitz came on the phone himself, something he had never done. No secretary. No AP. Just the soft voice of a tanned, fit, eccentric, multimillionaire producer.
“John, how are you? What happened?”
He sensed some real sympathy.
“Fine, Lefty. I’m okay.” Pellam then told him in general terms about the accidents—Meg’s running into him, Marty’s death.
Lefkowitz said, “The permits. What
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