The Last Statue

Chapter 1

THE BURBAGE

Phone machine announces the crack of doom; the bubble bursts, the dream dissolves…return to what passes for consciousness-with a Kurt Cobain sized headache; flaked out in front of the tube, where a guy in a suit covered with question marks says I’m entitled to a large share of govt. money, which seems a stark reversal of the facts such as we’ve all come to know them…
“Cinco…you there? awake? sober?” chirps my agent de Castro, after the message-beep.

A little earlier, just before the big nod-off, I’d been taking a break from trying to patch somebody’s flat-tire of a screenplay. I started watching a 1921 Fritz Lang movie called ‘Destiny’; synopsis of which follows thus: “Hoping to find her fiancŽ, a girl drinks a magical tea and faces an ominous apparition.” Which…now that I think about it, presents a certain parallel to the circumstances under which I was viewing this film.

And now, in the shrill light of morning, I’m facing my own ominous apparition in the form of de Castro, making the obligatory agent-checking-in-call: “Heh-heh…sorry to disturb your ‘work’-no…nothing much happening, heh-heh…just checking in…”

But no, not so routine, sez de Castro, “Hey, got something you might be interested in-could even be lucrative-a helluva story at the very least…maybe another ‘Heaven’s Gate…”

All right, might as well humor the chump. Pick up the phone, cut in with-”Ah, when you say ‘Heaven’s Gate’…you mean the Nike sneaker-flying-saucer suicide cult? Or the ill-fated Michael Chimino western?”
“Exactly…” says de Castro.

It was a month like many others, as they all blend, out toward the far end of the beveled edge of History…The salient features of this era, were, as I recall, something like:

-police in a major American city were accused of using excessive force
-Oprah was on the cover of O
-a generically obnoxious young blonde female celebrity was booked on a 502
-there was a disaster in Indonesia
-meanwhile…stuff was blowing up all over the Mid-East, as high ranking
generals scrambled for excuses & private contractors ran amok

And now…here’s de Castro with an unsavory blast from the past, coming at me with ‘Heaven’s Gate’ of all things, at this hour of the morning…
“In the interest of my impending deadline, and your impending tennis match, or whatever…could we be a little more specific? Maybe cut to the chase just a bit here…”

Okay, what’s the deal with Rex Learner? Didn’t you do some writing for him back in that designer-mullet infested decade we like to call the 80’s?”
“Well…the deal, in a nutshell, is that the sonofabitch still owes me about $70,000, as a rounded-off dime-on-the-dollar, arbitrated figure. Now, when you reference ‘Heaven’s Gate’, I kind of tend to visualize all the money disappearing down a black hole, or Learner & Co. all beaming up to the mother-ship or the mystery-comet or whatever it was…”

De Castro declined to elaborate over the phone, provocative but oblique, as per standard agent power-style. He extracted a commitment to meet at Anthony’s bar & grill, to which I-against my better judgment-agreed.
Prismatic shafts of light now beam through the convex window in the front room. The cats soon appear expecting food, vying for attention by releasing the ‘mute’ button on the remote. Before I can hit the ‘power’ switch, another word about finance: “Hi, I’m Phil Massinger with a new way to pay old debts…yes, yes…anything for a quiet life…”

We meet in the muted ambience of Anthony’s in Santa Monica, over requisite male-bonding beverages appropriate to the situation…pleased to meet de Castro’s old Army buddy, Richard Privette.

Privette, ex-LAPD, now a private investigator, has his own agency, employing at least a dozen people, “It’s not all about the shedding of shoe leather anymore…these kids click mice and tap keyboards…access the hall of records, the assessor’s office, DMV, the phone company…gives me time to concentrate on the more subtle cases.”

Thoughtful pause while refreshing beverages are consumed, and Privette continues, “So de Castro tells me you’re a script doctor…”

“I prefer to think of myself as a screenplay veterinarian.”

“Script proctologist,” chimes in de Castro helpfully.

“It’s my understanding that you’ve done some writing for Rex Learner, a director of quite some renown and notoriety, who, according to the leading biographical references, leaves quite a wide swath of dashed hopes and unpaid bills.”

“Well as a synopsis, that’s not bad,” I have to admit, “but I’m sort of puzzled about the ‘Heaven’s Gate’ angle that de Castro was going on about.”

“Learner’s still out there, shooting a financial sinkhole of a movie, from a massive, as yet unfinished screenplay called ‘O’Blivion’s Water’. Aptly titled, considering the flow of mula through this thing…already about 20mil beyond any production budget in Hollywood so far, must be some kind of record. Word is, somebody’s very unhappy with this whole deal, and would like to terminate this production ‘with extreme prejudice’ as they say in the movies…”

I take advantage of the pause, to have a bit of fun at the expense of de Castro, who, in my opinion, is looking way too smug about all of this…

“Geez, I appreciate the righteousness & urgency of your cause, and no doubt he’s Got It Coming, but I don’t think I’m up for anything like that,” I explain, “Uh, so how much were you offering-just scholarly curiosity…”

“Fer chrissakes Cinco, he’s not hiring you to clip the bastard-” he’s about to elaborate, but breaks off in mid-sentence, noticing my traditional smirk of Put-On.

So we all share a hearty chuckle, and order another round. Maybe take a moment to field a call from my research assistant, Becky:

“Your pal from the airport…Terry-from Lennox-says the ‘Dr. V.’ you were asking about, is probably a Dr. Vinrod…I googled & printed what I could & left it on your so-called desk…oh, and Mrs. Kurtz called, wanted to give you a heads-up about Engram Frazier, who apparently is frantic to get in touch with you. Judging from the eight or nine messages on your voice-mail, I would have to concur…something about a power lunch at Eleanor Bull’s, a splendid opportunity to review some of Mr. Frazier’s notes…also present will be Mr. Skeres, and a Mr. Poley, who, I believe, also have some ‘notes’ for your edification…”

Fuck that. This I need like a hole in the head. I’d been more than patient with these pinheads, and the stale, insipid piece of dogshit that Frazier insists is a screenplay-’Sodbusters’, an egregiously lame Bruckheimer-styled vice-squad drama patterned after the CSI cookie-cutter crime shows. 105 annoying pages of pure, unadulterated, shopworn clichŽs-a house of cards built on a foundation of quicksand. Even Frazier seemed to sense something wrong here, couldn’t I just make it…you know…more coherent or something? I doubt that anybody could, although, as far as I’m concerned, anybody can try, as long as they try somewhere else, ’cause I’m over it. On my last pass with this thing, I’d sketched-in completely irrelevant directions & gratuitous camera angles. A very annoying stunt which normally would guarantee termination of contract due to unprofessional conduct. But not with Frazier…kinda guy can’t take a simple ‘Fuck Off’ as an answer…Now, the whole point of having my research assistant sort through phone messages and E-mail, would be to screen out lost causes like Frazier & his goons. The lesson to be learned here, if any, would, I suppose, be to pay more attention to whatever the hell it is that de Castro & Privette are pitching…

“My client, Mrs. Wheeler, was personal assistant and confidant to Learner for ten years. Now, as a production assistant at Tri-star, she’s come across information that would seem to imply a threat to his life. Corroborated from several sources, this information seems reliable, if not conclusive.”

“Learner’s been shooting in New Mexico,” continues Privette, “Tight security, all very hush-hush…map points, code-words…real streamlined, fanatically loyal skeleton crew, traveling in caravan from location to location…really roughing it, sometimes camping right at the location, in RVs, teepees & bubble tents, right out in the desert…not even any craft-services…”

De Castro gives an involuntary shudder at this last revelation. Indeed, a production unit without catering; what’s the point?

“I had to level with Mrs. Wheeler,” says Privette, “Sending in an operative, no matter how well trained or subtle, could very well backfire in a situation like this. My profession seems to be undergoing an agonizing reappraisal in the post-Pelicano era. A closed set, very limited cast of characters-Learner’s not taking calls, and unsolicited visitors are firmly discouraged…”

“There is a weak link in the chain however; big problems with the script…
which leaves a vacancy: writer wanted…so, you’ve got a history with this guy…could be beneficial to all concerned if someone could get in there and take a look-no one is suggesting you take a bullet for Learner or get dangerously close to anything too nasty.
Just take a close scan for anyone, besides yourself, who doesn’t belong, or who might have an agenda pertinent to our inquiry. One of the puzzling anomalies about this entire project, is the effortless flow of money to sustain it. Maybe you could cut a deal with Learner, for the back pay, plus whatever it’s going to take to pump some life into this screenplay, which I’m given to understand, you’re already somewhat familiar with?”

“O’ Blivion’s Water & I go way back…”

“Exactly why you’re the man for the job. Mrs. Wheeler avers that Cal Habrud, a line-producer for Canopus Productions (Learners company) will put in a good word, a letter of introduction that should put you right there.”

And so we agree to meet at Privette’s office tomorrow, sign some forms, work out a few details, review a few profiles of some of the more interesting production staff and assorted hangers on. As we zoom in slow toward the bar, observe sport-sized TV screens tuned to CNN-fresh footage from the war (hard to keep track of which one exactly, but it was bloody, painful, expensive, and made no fucking sense whatsoever) blasted vehicles, daisy-cutters & cluster bombs on wedding parties…shrapnel…broken glass…charred flesh of young children…

“Holy shit!” grates de Castro, while gibbering neo-con dickheads try to put a positive spin on it all, accentuate the positive, like that book The Secret-gotta tune out those negative thoughts…can’t make a New World Order without grinding a little hamburger…

“Just like a Nam flashback-typical fucking Skull & Bones-CFR war,” opines Privette, downing the last of his drink, “What was it Jim Jones said about not learning from history? Now, he wasn’t the first to say that, but judging from this bullshit, he definitely won’t be the last either.”

According to de Castro, Privette had seen plenty of action up close & personal in Nam and Cambodia. According to the tone in Privette’s voice, he’d seen more than enough. Way more.

I’d actually lost track of Learner, at least until de Castro & Privette started this latest song & dance. I really had no clear idea if he was still in the business or even alive at this point. Learner was from the Coppola-Scorsese-Altman generation of would-be auteurs, who climbed an arc of prominence and influence, starting in the late 60s, rising to some fairly impressive peaks before crashing & burning by the end of the 70s or shortly thereafter.
Learner’s bleary, stubble-jawed hyper-realistic western & Mexican landscapes and other genre locations, seethed with atmospheric menace, and twisted sinister intrigue, juxtaposed with surreal glimpses of unraveling reality just hovering at the edge of the frame. This alone, with a body of work starting with ‘The King of Nothing’, followed by:

‘The Kenoma Kid’
‘Blood on the Saddle’
‘Thunder at the Well’
& 'Circle Round my Skull’ should have secured his place in the pantheon.

From that point, Learner began his massive, over-ambitious quartet:

‘Line in the Dirt’
‘Fool’s Tornado’
‘Fire-Wheel & Turner’
&’Oblivion’s Water’ which apparently, is still not finished, which if true would have to be setting some sort of world’s record, surpassing even Orson Welles’ ‘Othello’ as longest drawn-out production.

Learner’s feuds with Jim “The Smiling Cobra’ Aubrey at UA, and severe alienation of many other industry kingpins, contributed to his image as uncontrollable bad-boy, and made each picture increasingly difficult to complete. On the other hand, the grizzle bearded, booze-guzzling, coke-snorting, mirror-shaded bad-boy persona, was a more memorable and popular character than could be found in most movies. There were interested parties willing to participate in financing motion pictures, largely for the photo-op chance to hob-nob with an actual legendary American celebrity independent out-of-control renegade out-law “cinema auteur”. Learner hadn’t counted on this. He’d just wanted to rattle the suits, not become the poster-boy for boiling-over, unmanaged, collective rage, but it was the easiest, if not the only way that these films could get made…

“Goddamn it ,” as he was wont to say, “I’ve done some degrading and unpleasant shit to stay in this business-I’ve had breakfast with Sue Menger, lunch with Mike Ovitz, and sex with Julia Phillips, I’ve been thrown out of the office at Warner’s, by Ashley, Wells, and Calley, had meetings with Paramount brass until Stanley Jaffe bled from the nostrils, and Charlie Bludhorn foamed at the mouth, so it would be…imprudent of me to bitch about these weasels. Boring yeah, but a least they’re not spitting foam on me…”

As the years fly by and the information trickles in, to be sifted, analyzed, and interpreted, preliminary speculation indicates that Celebrity, might just possibly have (gasp!) a well…less than positive effect on human character, being, amongst other things, enticing, seductive, even addictive, which brings us to Learner, who, partly to maintain his celebrity-madman status & partly to assuage his own paranoia, had taken to publicly blowing himself up. The Russian Suicide Death Chair: place six sticks of dynamite in two hopefully even rows, or seventeen sticks in a big circle, lie down between them in a paper coffin or crouch fetal-like under a chair…the sticks detonate and form an eye-of-tornado type pocket, assuming all the sticks went off, you should be OK, maybe a little hard of hearing, but not too much more notably deranged than before. Once, up in Oregon, and at least once more at ‘Big H Speedway’ in Houston, Learner blasted his way to nihilist notoriety in front of God & anybody else that wanted to look.

“So what have you been doing? Finish that Frazier project?” inquires de Castro, carpooling on the way over to Privette’s.

“Ah, you know…reading a little William Carlos Williams maybe some Ford Maddox Ford, doing a little water-boarding…As you know, I’ve been wintering in Tuscany…digging the red-tiled roofs on the hillsides, savoring the bounty of the local vineyards, the antipasto, the tangerine orchards in bloom…the voluptuous allure of dusky Neapolitan girls straining in their Versace halter-tops, to catch the last slivered rays of the surrealist popsicle sunset…”

“All right, stop it… I was almost buying it for a second,” You could kind of tell this was leading up to something…ah, right on schedule-”So Carmen tells me you were out at her place in Zuma…and you burned a bunch of screenplays?”

“We were running low on firewood, and I’ve been rethinking my format…how about graphic novels instead?”

“Which ones?”

“Just the seven.”

“What are you, fuckin’ nuts!? I never understood what ‘The Plaster Cramp’ was supposed to be about, but we could have easily sold ‘El Hombre Verde’ & ‘The Secret Mirror’…some of those could definitely have been movies by now-”

“Yes, Yes…it did pain me considerable to deprive The Industry of these humble offerings, but y’know, The Industry, if It could hear us, would say: don’t worry about Me…there’s always ghastly remakes of earlier films-particularly French New-Wave classics, and 60’s & 70’s TV sitcoms and spy-shows, sequals, prequals, comic books, cartoons, videogames, graphic-novels, and generic, mass-produced, cookie-cutter vehicles for past and present Saturday Night Live alumni-”

“But to just burn the shit-”
“Don’t think of those stories as gone, they’re just consolidated into seven chapters of the current work…”
“What current work?”
“The one we’re in now”
“In now?”
“Yes, so try to be interesting for a change…”
“What would be interesting,” says de Castro with an agent’s innate skill for letting himself off the hook, “Is for you to remind me once more, just where you hooked up with Learner and all this ‘O’Blivion’s Water’ nonsense, I seem to be a little fuzzy on the chronology.”
“Well…First, as we all know…all roads lead to Bob Evans…”

The Kid

When I first set eyes on Bob Evans, he was being wheeled through the Paramount offices on a gurney by his chauffer David Gilruth. Evans, on this occasion, was attired in black silk pajamas, and black velvet slippers with little gold foxes hand-stitched onto the toes. No indication of anything unusual about any of this, just the usual day to day apparel of choice, and preferred mode of transportation-at least until Gilruth got him to the limo.
As executive-production-assistant-intern-understudy, my duties had so far, mainly consisted of going for coffee & bagels. And so, to wander those halls in that state of blissful ignorance, sipping morning coffee, thinking those happy thoughts, one might encounter Peter Bart, or Al Ruddy, and think to oneself: “These guys seem focused, competitive, efficient, yet still exhibiting some semblance of ethical human values…”

On the other hand, you could have an up-close and personal encounter with Evans, Frank Yablans, or Charlie Bludhorn. A very different story.

In an earlier incarnation as an actor, Evans had been selected to star in an Irving Thalberg biopic. This selection had been made by Thalberg’s widow; Norma Shearer, on the premise that Evans “looked the part”. There was common speculation that Paramount chairman/Gulf Western chief Charles Bludhorn had merely done the same, by hiring the egregiously under-qualified Evans to assume the duties of chief of production, while Bludhorn and his pals, like Michele Sindona, Paul Marcinkus, and Licio Geli, to name three, got on with the business of laundering Big Money, as it flowed in from Immobilare, Banco Ambrosiano, and such like…

Meanwhile, I was getting on with the business of screenplay courier. Seems routine enough…roll on out to Evans’ palatial estate, scoop this script and deliver to Peter Bart, possibly at a party. Say what you will about Evans, (and I will) nothing is ever routine with The Kid.

Parking my dilapidated Citron as unobtrusively as I can, I take the roundabout approach to a side door as specified in the instructions. I knock, door opens and it’s Evans himself, in full-stride, springing out the door, towing some boobalacious halter-top honey, young enough to be even my daughter…

“…Uh, hey-glad you could make it pal…here, take this,” he hands me the joint he’s been smoking with his little companion. “Got a bit of a meeting going on inside right now, so just kind of hang out sort of low-key here for a minute will ya? Niki here, and I, are gonna go get David to bring the car around-we’ll be right back…”

They disappear around the corner of some hedges, and I’m left to finish the joint and ponder the Santa Ana winds now kicking up, rattling branches & rustling leaves in the eucalyptus trees, rows of which, frame and bisect the estate.

Nothing too out of place…although Evans always seemed more like a booze, coke, and pills type; a little weed and/or ludes goes a long way toward negotiating the pendulous charms of young, coconut-butter basted So Cal female flesh. Wouldn’t you?

A couple of tokes later, I’m suddenly aware of voices traveling along the shrubbery in the opposite direction from where Evans and Niki just vanished. Getting closer…think I’ll just sit sort of crouched-over, on this quaint marble bench behind these overgrown rose-bushes bordering a row of cypress trees…here they come, almost in view…the first face to follow its voice around the corner is…Charlie Bludhorn, followed by John E. Gray, another individual later to be identified as Terrence W. Abbot, mob mouthpiece Sidney Korshak…then…Henry Kissinger!?

Jeeziz…what next? A mummer’s parade with J. Edgar Hoover & Meyer Lansky? Some sort of narco-sting ambush gambit, deploying the full brunt of Division-5 and the brutally over-funded NSA?

That Evans was chummy with the Big K, was evident from the strategically placed photographs in his office, of his cherished trophy-friends; Kissinger foremost among them…that given a pretext, Evans would show to just about anybody that would sit still for it. But it’s another thing to see the bastard oozing around the corner while I’m in the act of committing what was in those days, a schedule-II felony.

From the context of what I can overhear, it’s apparent that these mooks are having a sidebar apart from the main meeting…Gray whirls on the others, more or less focusing on Kissinger, “All right Henry, I can squash this SEC investigation, but you guys owe me one, a BIG one…Sidney, you need to talk to Senator Kefauaer for me, I’ll have some notes on your desk by closing tomorrow…” Voices drifting off as they re-enter the house through the door from which Evans had emerged.

INT. EVAN’S LIMO (MOVING)

Gilruth, as always, at the wheel…heading west down Sunset…
Our POV from back seat looking out toward 180 fish-eye lens perspective of windshield, thru which we can see palm trees sway & shiver in the balmy Santa Anas, disgorging fronds & widow-makers, blowing down to smite the vehicles of the less fortunate.

As we pan back toward the rear of the limo…The Irishman (who’s actually from Neptune) and The Kid are holding forth, while Niki & her nearly identical colleague Viki, are conversing in a completely self-contained, exclusively closed reference, pop-culture discussion among themselves, while blaring some early Wailers on a boom-box, as they roll joints of prime gold Columbian.

Kirschvasser & Cuervo await to refresh…

IRISHMAN
…that’s show-biz Kid-there’s a rhythm to it…ya can’t
rush these things. I got rushed with ‘Drive’-that ain’t
gonna happen on this one.

KID
What was it called again? Moonfire? Mooncrap?

IRISHMAN
‘Moontrap’, it’s a Don Berry story, a western-great stuff,
but needs honing. Got this kid Sharpe doing a rewrite, but
it’s goin’ kind of slow…that’s why I gotta scramble to keep
Kovaks and the Sylberts on the line…got Van Dyke Parks
for music…everything’s ready as soon as it’s writ, but no
go till the script’s finished…Which reminds me, gotchyer
telephone book right here…courtesy of Beener…436 pages
…not even close to finished.

KID
So you don’t want it?

IRISHMAN
Beener wrote it on spec for The Pro when The Pro was all
pumped-up about westerns-The Pro ain’t so keen on all that
since Altman peed on his leg up in Seattle…so he just stops
400-plus pages into it, takes his name off it…I’m a chump-
right? So I loan Beener money, and what do I get? A fuckin’
spare tire…The Pro’s sloppy seconds…

KID
“O’Blivion’s Water?” This guy’s got water on the brain. Looks
like ‘Chinatown’ on horseback to me.

IRISHMAN
Shit, I wouldn’t care if it was ‘Shampoo’ on horseback, if he’d
just finish the fuckin’ thing for once.

KID
What is this goddamn jungle music anyway?

IRISHMAN
Don’t believe I recognize that one…shit Kid, it’s another
generation, these chicks haven’t even heard of Aretha, let
alone Ruth Etting. That’s a humbling thought to keep in
mind…How old did you say these girls are?

KID
I didn’t card them…what am I their father? Viki says she’s
nineteen & Niki must be at least that…

IRISHMAN
I’m just sayin’, that’s a lot of cotton candy to have on your
plate with Ali flying in tomorrow night…Do me a favor,
huh? Be a mensch and change the sheets, or get Gilruth to
do it.

KID
Yeah-yeah…I’ve got it covered, Niki, Viki, and Ali, all get frilly things…real high-end kinky lingerie from Suzy Creamcheese…everybody’s happy, no
problems…The Kid will abide, The Kid will live & learn…

IRISHMAN (sings)
The Kid will crash & burn…

KID
Which reminds me…

The Kid turns, hefting the massive screen-play, which plops onto the unsuspecting lap of Cinco, who, until this second, had completely lost his place among temporal-spatial coordinates, as the result of total cannabis saturation, almost from the minute that Evans answered the door…

KID (to Cinco)
Make sure this gets to Peter Bart…we’re gonna drop
you at this party-if he doesn’t show up, hand it to him
in person at the office-under NO circumstances are you
to turn this over to Frank Yablans or even let him see
it-got that?

IRISHMAN (leaning forward)
There’s gonna be an amigo there by the name of Emilio,
we’d like you to convey our regrets at having just missed
him, but make sure he gets treated real good, OK? I knew
I could count on you pal…

The Irishman deploys The Smile, which has never been known to fail.
The limo is slowly losing its race with the solar orb toward the western horizon of orange & pink & darkening azure…lights twinkle on across the bay, the trees still swaying and undulating in slow motion like deep-sea flora…

Trancas

Somewhere during the hazy ride to the beach, I’d gathered just enough presence, or absence of mind, to exchange phone numbers with one of the babble-on girls in the Limo. It had seemed like the suave Irishman-like thing to do, but now, I couldn’t for the life of me, remember which one. Would it, could it, possibly matter? But there was nobody around to answer that question as the limo pulled back onto the Coast Highway toward the general direction of The Game.

It’s Bad-Boy night at Trancas Beach. I should have known that Bart would have the good sense & foresight to sit this one out. Pouring a shit-load of booze & blow into the likes of Gary Busey, Jan Michael Vincent, Don Johnson, and David Carridine, would seem to imply a fairly self-explanatory punch-line.

Feminine presence is slow in arriving, due to the volatile possibilities just outlined. The primary exception to that paradigm being, the Margolin-Kidder-Salt team that I knew slightly from parties at Nicholas Beach. Less formally known as Janet, Margo, and Jennifer, they always seemed to present an amiable and witty buffer to the accumulation of coke-dilated egos that occur as an oft-repeated motif at Malibu parties. In stark contrast to most party hostesses on the scene, their graciousness often extended even to those of us yet to achieve the various intermediate states of celebrity enjoyed by the majority of the guests (Scorsese, De Palma. Spielberg, etc.) Intelligent, articulate, opinionated actresses, eager to discuss literature & writing craft with anyone besides the morbid, suicidally self-absorbed Paul Schrader or the blustery, shot-gun wielding John Milius.

Tonight at Trancas, out on the deck, in the rear of the house facing the ocean, is an impromptu band jamming on a Hank Williams tune. There’s Busey on guitar & vocals, Rick Danko on bass & vocals, Dennis Wilson-who seems to be having some difficulty in staying upright-on drums, with Jesse ‘Ed’ Davis & Ron Wood on guitars …noted medications consultant Kathy Smith lurks nearby.

Big commotion from inside…the guest of honor; Emilio Fernandez has arrived. A celebrated actor/director of the Mexican cinema, Fernandez also has a rep as a far, far Badder Boy than everyone here tonight put together. A larger-than-life man of passionately expressed aesthetic preferences, he has been known to occasionally kill disrespectful critics & uncooperative extras on movie sets. rounding out the rŽsumŽ with a series of duels, bankruptcies, and volatile relationship entanglements, not to mention massive sombreroed Presence as an actor, and an astonishing body of directorial work.

The band (’Teddy-Jack-Eddy’ according to a slurred Busey when asked) is growling its staggering path through a John Lee Hooker song, sounding pretty good too when:

Shots-broken glass-shouts-cries-sobbing panicked hysteria…
Inside: Everyone scatters…Don Johnson headed for the side-door, exits through sliding glass window-Schrader paranoically crouched beneath the dining room table fumbling for his piece…I can see Busey out on the deck, dive right over the rail and into the surf…

The storm had already passed even as I bolted into the den. Fernandez had holstered his pearl handled 44. and was standing transfixed by a full-face close-up of Maria Felix on the tube. A shredded painting & splintered frame were strewn on the floor…I think it was a Schnabel-I really couldn’t tell. As a man of highly refined aesthetic sensibilities, Emilio was bound by honor to deliver the coup-de-grace to the offending canvas.

I think it was Janet Margolin, who, in the midst of all this, had calmly walked over and flipped the tube over to a Spanish language station. Margolin was later heard to say, “I always regarded TV at a party, as a crass dŽclassŽ bummer; something we’d only put up with to humor Spielberg, but over there on channel 34 was an old Emilio Fernandez movie. Go figure…”

The motion is seconded by Harry Dean Stanton, who had been serenely chain-smoking out on the deck through the entire outburst…now steps to the microphone with an acoustic, to deliver a beautiful, aching rendition of ‘Las Golondrinas’…followed by an early Henry Porter tune

So Bart would get the screenplay-just not that that night. A bargain would be struck, terms negotiated, a favor repaid…A call placed by Sidney Korshak from his usual table at the Bistro, sitting as always, equidistant between two phones, one of which would convey The Deal as pitched by Korshak, to interested parties, who, having an aggregate IQ exceeding room-temperature, would acknowledge the futility of refusal, and accede to the terms without further delay. Learner would take possession of the screenplay, and I reasonably assumed that once having been fobbed off on Bart, “O’Blivion’s Water” would be out of my life, soon forgotten as we all move on to other things.

So much for reasonable assumptions…

“All right, let’s click up a few of the folks you’ll likely be meeting in the next few days…” Privette swivels the screen around to our line of vision, “Exactly what the practical function is for some of these individuals is frankly a mystery to me. A most unusual entourage…”

“OK, here’s Charles Kyd L’Maigne-early LSD chemist from the 60s Bay area culture…in the same circle, but never as famous or prolific as Owsely, much more low-key, hence difficult to indict or convict. Indeed, the one case filed against him, dried up & blew away when the Company-connected star witness for the prosecution took a brody.”

“Here’s Major Hector Arcana, ex-Air Force intelligence, former consultant to the Eviary & the Aquarium

“So I’m at my sister in law’s, right? A total fuckin’ Republican dingbat. At a regretfully inevitable social commitment, she starts going on about Clare Booth Luce or some shit, and I remember this entry in an antique encyclopedia I’d bought over the weekend at a garage sale that read:
Nor is Antichrist unknown to Mohammedan theology in
which he is called Masth al Dajjal, the false or lying
Christ…He is to be one-eyed and marked on the forehead
with the letters CFR, i.e. Cafir or infidel.”

“CFR, huh? Well…she’s got the same Encyclopedia Britannica right there in the dining room. As a patriotic Christian, I’m thinkin’ she must want to know, right? With any luck I thought, it should ruin her thanksgiving. So, lo & behold, I go to look, and…there’s no entry. Everything else in the book is the same, except page 126, where that one specific paragraph is missing. The difference? My copy is 1904, hers:1919. Did a little googling, found that a preacher from Austin Texas, named Texe Marrs, has written concerning the very same entry. Reverend Marrs, who happens to be a retired USAF officer, who has taught psychology, political science, American defense policy, aerospace studies, and strategic weapons systems (nice rŽsumŽ Texe), claims in ‘Circle of Intrigue’ that in 1919, as the Council on Foreign Relations was forming, a certain Colonel House arranged to buy the rights to the Britannica, so as to expunge the offending material. Texe comes up a little short on documenting this assertion, but if you google on out to where the buses don’t run, you might come across that early photo of Col. House & Ezra Buckley III, shaking hands at the closing of a deal.”