Moving on, my next stress-point was to meet with my young boss, the
afore-noted David Roth, who was CEO and First Operating Kvetcher of
Applecore Productions, a kinda-sexy guy whose heart was deeply engaged,
often unsuccessfully, with bottom lines. The issue was, I'd done
today's shoot, the interview with Carly, without troubling to secure
his okay. Without, in fact, telling him zip--the reason being I was
afraid he wouldn't green-light the idea. Now my next move was to try to
convince him what I'd just done was brilliant.
Actually I liked David a lot, and hoped the occasional tangles we'd had
over the film wouldn't stand in the way of a friendship. The truth is,
you don't meet that many interesting, stable men in my line of work.
Our artistic goals weren't always in sync, but all the same, he'd done
an enormous favor for somebody close to me and for that I'd vowed to
walk through fire for him.
When I marched into his cluttered, dimly lit office, my mind still
churning over Carly's strange adoption story, what I saw sent my
problem-detector straight into the red. There, sitting across from him,
was Nicholas Russo, a five-seven smoothie in a charcoal Brioni
double-breasted, the gentleman David sometimes referred to as Nicky the
Purse. Another land mine in my life. He operated off and on as
Applecore's "banker" when cash flow got dicey and real banks got
nervous. It was an arrangement of last resort, since Nicky's loans had
to be serviced at two percent a week. Do the numbers: He doubled his
money in a year. I knew too that putting money out to independent
filmmakers was part of Nicky's attempt at a legitimate front; the real
cash went onto the streets of Hell's Kitchen, just outside our door,
where he got five percent a week. And Nicky's overdue notices were not
sent through the mail.
He also had a piece of a video distributorship, Roma Exotics, that
reputedly specialized in . . . guess what. It was all stuff I tried not
to think about.
I had a strong hunch what was under discussion. The $350,000 David had
borrowed to finish my picture. We'd gotten the loan three months ago,
when cash was tight, and we both figured we could pay it back later in
the year, after we got a backup cable deal (though I was ultimately
hoping for a theatrical distribution, my first).
Shit! What did Nicky want? Were we behind on the weekly juice? I'd
signed on with David partly to help his bottom line. Was I instead
going to cause his ruin?
At the moment he had his back to Nicky, seemed to be meditating out the
window he loved, its vista being the grimy facades that lined the far
west of Fifty-eighth Street. His office, with its wide windows and
forest of freshly misted trees, told you he was a plant nut. Outside it
was early April, the cruelest month, but inside, with all the trees,
spring was in full cry. The place also felt like a storage room, with
piles of scripts stacked around every pot. The office normally smelled
like a greenhouse, but now the aroma was one of high anxiety.
David revolved back and looked across the potted greenery, then broke
into a relieved smile when he saw me. I could tell from his faraway
stare that he was teetering on the verge of panic.
"Hey, come on in," he said. "Nicky's just put a brand-new proposition
on the table."
David had a keen intelligence, causing me to sometimes wonder if he was
in a line of work beneath him. (For that matter, maybe I was too.) He
was dark-haired, trim, with serious gray eyes and strong cheekbones.
This morning he was wearing his trademark black sweater, jeans, and
white sneakers, a picture of the serious go-for-broke New York
indy-prod hustler. He'd already made and lost and made several fortunes
in his youthful career. My only sexual solace since Steve left was an
occasional glance at his trim rear end. I also saluted his fiscal
courage. His congenital shortfall, I regret to say, was in the matter
of judgment. Exhibit A: Nicholas Russo's funny money.
"Nicky, you remember Morgan James, the director on this project."
"Yeah, we met. 'Bout four months back." Nicky rose and offered his
manicured hand, a picture of Old World charm. His dark hair was parted
down the middle and his Brioni, which probably fell off a truck
somewhere in the Garment Center, had buttons on the cuffs that actually
buttoned. "How ya doing?"
"Hi." I disengaged myself as quickly as possible. The slimeball.
Again, why was he here? The way I understood it, we'd signed a
legitimate, ironclad note. Nicky wasn't exactly the Chase Manhattan
Bank, but I assumed he was a "man of honor," would live by any deal
David had with him. "Do we have some kind of problem?"
"Nah," Nicky said, "I'm thinking of it more in the way of an
opportunity. Dave, here, showed me some of your picture this morning,
and it ain't too bad. Got me to thinking. You're gonna need a video
distributor. So maybe I could help you out."
Oh, shit and double-shit. I looked at him, realizing what he had in
mind. "How's that? Applecore already has a video distributor. We use--"
"Yeah, well, like I was telling Dave, I got a nose this picture's gonna
do some serious business." He tried a smile. "Whenever I see one of
these indy things that don't add up for me, like this one, I always
know it's a winner. What I'm telling you is, I think you got something
here. He says you're figuring on a cable deal, and maybe a theatrical
release, but after that you gotta worry about video. I'm just thinking
a way I could pitch in."
Pitch in? The last thing I needed was some skin-flick wiseguy getting
his sticky hands on my picture. Forget about it.
"Well, I don't really see how. I'm shooting this one by the book. I've
got a standard Screen Actors Guild contract, and everything is strictly
by the rules. If we're current on the loan, then . . ." I looked at
David, who appeared to be running on empty. Maybe, I thought, I didn't
understand what was at stake. What had Nicky said to him? This was a
man who could make people disappear with a phone call to guys nicknamed
after body parts. "Look, let me talk to David about this. I don't know
what--"
"You two're just gonna 'talk' about it?" Russo's penetrating eyes
dimmed. "Now that's a little disappointing, I gotta tell you, since I
sent for my business manager, Eddie down there in the car, hoping we
could reach a meeting of minds right here. Sign a few things. Roll that
note I'm holding into a distribution deal and give everybody one less
worry." He turned in his chair, boring in on me. "Like, for instance, I
checked out your locations and I noticed there ain't no Teamsters
nowhere. All you got's a bunch of fuckin' Mick scabs driving them vans.
Now that can lead to circumstances. Inadequate safety procedures. Of
course, that wouldn't have to be a concern if we was partners together.
Then you'd have good security. The best."
I looked at David, who seemed on the verge of a heart attack. Why was
he letting this even be discussed? Get in bed with Nicky Russo and the
next thing you know he's got somebody hanging you out the window by
your ankles.
Besides, ten to one the guy was bluffing, seeing if he could scare us.
I refocused. "Mr. Russo, it may ease your mind to know that our
security is managed by a former agent for the FBI. He was with them
here in New York till about a year ago, when he came to us full time.
His name is Agent Lou Crenshaw. You're welcome to check him out. He's
familiar with union issues, and he carries a .38. He also has plenty of
friends down at 26 Federal Plaza. So if you have any lingering concern
about our security procedures, why don't you run it by him?"
The mention of Lou seemed to brighten David's listless eyes. He leaned
back in his chair and almost smiled.
He had good reason. The favor he'd done for Lou, and indirectly for me,
was enough to inspire eternal loyalty. Lou would face off against half
of Hell's Kitchen for David Roth.
"That ain't the point, exactly," Russo said, shifting uncomfortably.
"Thing is, Roma could do good distribution for you. We work with a lot
of people."
"Then why not submit a formal proposal? In writing. I'm in charge and
that's how I do business. If your numbers work, then we can talk."
"Just trying to be helpful." He glared at me, then seemed to dismiss my
presence. I disappeared from his radar as though lifted away by an
alien spacecraft, and he turned back to David. "You know, Dave, me and
you've kinda drifted apart lately. Old friends oughtn'ta do that. We
ought to keep more in touch. I think we get along okay."
In other words, get this pushy broad out of my face.
"It's just business, Nicky," David said, trying to conjure an empty
smile. "Business and pleasure don't always mix."
Yes! David, tell the creep to leave us alone. Tell him.
"Doing business with me ain't a pleasure?" Nicky Russo asked, hurt
filling his voice. He'd brought out a large Havana and was rolling it
in between his thumb and forefinger. "I figured we was best friends.
_Paisans_."
"We're not _not_ friends, Nicky. We've just got different goals in
life. You know how it is."
I worked my way around behind his desk and glanced out the window. The
lingering day was beginning to cloud over, a perfect match for my state
of mind. After this I had a late appointment with Dr. Hannah Klein. I
feared she was going to end my baby hopes.
"Yeah, well," Nicky Russo said finally, rising, "I gotta be downtown in
a little while, so I guess we can talk about this later."
"Okay, sure." David made a shrugging sign. Like: Women! What can you
do? Then he got up too. "Look, Nicky, let me chew on this. Maybe I'll
get back to you."
"Yeah, you think about it, all right?" He rose without a further word
and worked his way out the wide double doors, stumbling through the
ficus forest as he struck a match to his cigar.
"David, don't sign anything with him. Don't. I'll handle the Teamster
stuff if it comes up. I know how to talk to them."
"Okay, okay, calm down. He was just seeing if he could push me. I know
him. You called his scam with that talk about Lou. By tomorrow he'll
forget about the whole thing." He looked at me, his eyes not quite yet
back in focus. "Thanks. You can say things to him I'd get cement shoes
for. Nicky's not really ready for people like you. He has this macho
front, but he doesn't know how to handle a professional woman with
balls."
"You're welcome. I guess." Balls? I adored those vulnerable male bits,
but I preferred not to think of myself in those terms. Truth was, Nicky
Russo played a large part in my personal anxieties. "But I mean it. N.
O."
"I hear you," he said, sighing. Then he snapped back to the moment. "So
where do things stand otherwise?"
I'd come for an after-the-fact green light of the day's shoot, but
already I was thinking about Hannah Klein. "David, I'm going to find
out in about an hour whether Steve and I are ever going to have a baby.
But truthfully I don't think I'm pregnant. I think it's over." It hurt
to say it. He knew about Steve and me--I'd written some language on
maternity leave into my contract--and I think he was mildly rooting for
us. Or maybe not.
"Could be it's all for the best," he declared. He'd sat back down,
picked up a pencil off his desk to distract himself, and was whirling
it pensively, one of his few habits that made me crazy. "Maybe you were
destined to make movies, not kids."
I listened to his tone of voice, knowing he often hid his real feelings
with safe, sympathy-card sentiments. He rose to eloquence only when
nothing much was at stake. He'd even sent me flowers and a mea-culpa
note twice as a makeup after we'd had a disagreement over costs and
scheduling. And one of those times, I should have sent him flowers.
Sometimes I wondered why we worked so well together. The truth was, we
operated on very different wavelengths.
Some history to illustrate. Over the past eight years, before I teamed
up with David, I'd done three "highly praised" documentaries. But
getting to that point meant busting my behind for years and years at
the lower end of the professional food chain. After NYU, I toiled as a
script supervisor on PBS documentaries, about as close to grunt work as
it comes. Eventually I got a fling as a production assistant,
assembling crews, but then the money dried up. (Thank you, Jesse
Helms.) Whereupon I decided to try capitalism, working for three years
as an AD on the soaps: first Guiding Light, then As the World Turns,
then Search for Tomorrow. I can still hear the horrible music. Then a
connection got me a slot at A&E as a line producer. Eight months later
the series got canceled, which was when I decided the time had come to
take my career into my own hands. I hocked every last credit card, went
to Japan, and made a documentary. The result: I was an "overnight"
success. Men started addressing me by my name.
My first film was about the impact of Zen on Japanese business. As part
of my research, I shaved my head and lived three months at a Kyoto
temple, eating bean curd three meals a day, after which I had enough
credibility to land long interviews with Tokyo CEOs. I then sold the
edited footage to A&E. When it became a critical hit, they financed a
second film, about the many gods of India and how they impact
everything about the place. There, I also got caught up in the mystical
sensuality of ragas, Indian classical music, and took up the violin
(one of my major professional mistakes). Next I moved on to Mexico's
southern Yucatan to film a day in the life of a Maya village for the
Discovery Channel. They wanted me to add some footage from Guatemala,
but I scouted the country and decided it was too scary. Instead, I
spent several months in Haiti filming voodoo rituals, again for A&E.
And met Steve.
Then one day I checked my bank account and realized that, financially
speaking, I was a "flop d'estime." I was doing the kind of work that
does more for your reputation than your retirement plan. I decided to
go more mainstream and see what happened. But to do that I needed a
commercial partner, a backer.
Ironically enough, when I first teamed up with David, he had
bottom-line problems too, but from the opposite direction. He was busy
disproving the adage that nobody ever lost money underestimating the
taste of the American public. He knew something was wrong, but what?
Apparently, when he started out, somebody told him cable audiences
possessed an insatiable appetite for bare-skin-and-jiggle. Hey, he
figured, that stuff he could grind out in his sleep. His first, and
last, epic in the skin genre was _Wet T-Shirt Weekend_, whose title
says it all. He explained the economics to me once, still baffled why
the picture hadn't worked. He'd assumed all you had to do was find a
bunch of nineteen-year-olds who looked like they're sixteen, go
nonunion someplace down South with a beach, and take care the wardrobe
trailer has nothing but string bikinis. "Cost only a million-eight to
make," he declared with pride, "but every penny is on the screen."
He insisted I watch it, perplexed that it was universally regarded as a
turkey. It was a painful experience, so much so I actually began to
wonder if his heart was really in it. (The great schlockmeisters
secretly think they're Fellini; they're operating at the top of their
form, not consciously pandering.)
Chastened financially, he decided to move into low-budget
action-adventure. His efforts, most notably _Virtual Cop_, had car
chases, blue-screen explosions, buckets of fake blood. Somebody died
creatively in every scene.
They did business in Asia and Southern Europe, but he was dumbfounded
when nobody at HBO or Showtime would return his calls. It gnawed at his
self-esteem.
That was the moment we found each other. He'd just concluded he needed
somebody with a quality reputation to give
Applecore an image makeover, and I'd realized I needed somebody who
knew more than I did about the mechanics of making and distributing
independent films.
We were an odd couple. I finally shook hands on the partnership after
he caved in and agreed I could do anything I wanted, so long as it
looked mainstream enough to get picked up by Time-Warner or somebody
else legit. Well, quasi-legit. We both agreed on no more bikinis and no
more films about places that required cholera shots. It was something
of a compromise on both our parts.
Thus far, though, we were getting along. Maybe luck was part of it, but
_Baby Love _was still on schedule and on budget. And I already had a
deal nearly in the bag with Lifetime, the women's channel, that would
just about cover the costs. Everything after that would be gravy.
Again, hope hope. Maybe not the theatrical release I'd been praying
for, but good enough--so he had to smile and not give me a hard time
about the money I'd just spent. Had to, right?