SEVENTEEN YEARS HAD PASSED since Del received his last invitation to a party following a film premiere. But tonight, the powers-that-be had requested his presence in celebration of Clint Eastwood’s latest film.
What a difference one week in the news can make.
Last month, he could stroll along Hollywood Boulevard and not a single soul recognized him. Tonight, however, as soon as he entered the soiree, actors, actresses and studio executives of all ages recognized him at first sight.
Del Corwyn was, once again, a hot property in Hollywood.
Music from an R & B artist lent the party a chic tone. As a server passed, Del lifted a glass of champagne from his tray, took an initial sip, and savored the bubbles that tickled his throat. The film’s leading man hosted this party at his home, so compared to the industry’s larger events, this evening’s gathering had turned out intimate. And like a dumbass, Del had worn his tuxedo, while everyone else had dressed in a manner much less conventional. Perhaps formalities had shifted since his heyday, as well. Yet no one seemed to notice his error. In fact, Del swore his attire fed into his classic Hollywood image, the same aura that enshrouded his current ticket to prominence, the Marilyn Monroe script.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted two young actresses sipping drinks and casting gazes of intrigue in his direction. They looked barely old enough to drink. Del sensed they were checking him out, which reinforced his belief that he had aged at a pace worthy of Dick Clark. Del raised his glass toward the young starlets to indicate hello, then sauntered in the opposite direction.
“Del Corwyn! My guy!”
A rugged, raspy voice, followed by a hearty pat on the shoulder. Del turned to find Clint Eastwood reaching forward to shake his hand. The legend’s countenance communicated confidence. His gray hair crackled and a fiery glint fueled his badass grin. Del admired the man’s stamina. Not only did Clint possess the Midas touch, turning everything he directed to gold, but he had a reputation as one of the kindest gentlemen in Hollywood.
“Clint, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other.”
“Not since—oh, you’ll have to forgive me,” the legend said with a gruff chuckle, “I lose track of these things.”
Del could understand. Besides, the man had earned the right to forget a detail here and there.
Clint lifted his glass of bourbon, which he’d ordered from the open bar. “Hey, I was talking to someone and couldn’t remember: What was the project we worked on together long ago? We figured it out at one point.”
”A Fistful of Dollars,” Del replied. “I had a bit part. Early in my career.”
“That’s right,” said Clint, shooting Del with a pistol he formed with his free hand. “A few years after Marilyn died.”
“Yes.”
“A damn shame, Marilyn Monroe. I always wanted to work with that one. Never got the chance.” Clint, deep in thought now, examined his bourbon. “That screenplay of hers—the suspense is killing me. What’s it about?”
“I’m sorry, Clint, but I can’t say. It’s on total lockdown. You understand how that goes.”
“Can’t argue with you there.” Peering over the rim of his glass, Clint scanned the crowd, downed the remainder of his bourbon, and punctuated it with a hearty exhale. Badass! “I’d like to take a look at it, consider the rights. Maybe direct it, too.”
Given the mystery surrounding the project, the director’s response shouldn’t have come as a surprise, yet he couldn’t help but marvel that a legend had his sights on something within Del’s control. That said, Del knew all the major players smelled a hit and he needed to aim high.
“To be honest, Clint, we’re looking to sell the rights to one of the studios so all the marketing and distribution aspects will be covered in one swoop.”
“I’d still like to take a look at it, though. My production company has an ongoing development deal with one of them.”
Del nodded. “You can contact my agent. He’ll set up the appointment.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Arnie Clemmons.”
“Who?”
“Arnie Clemmons. It’s in the press release.”
Clint’s eyebrows furled. The agent’s name didn’t ring a bell. Then again, why would an A-lister like Eastwood recognize it? Del felt a tad sheepish, but at this point, what could he do?
“All right, I’ll check it out.” With another clap on the back, Clint sealed their conversation with another grin. Badass! “Stay in touch, Del. I need to find my wife. She’s mingling somewhere.”
And with that, the cowboy strode away, planting his glass on a drink tray as he passed. Del, who could hear the coyote-sounding whistle from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, watched in admiration.
“Hello, Del.” Another husky voice, this one female. Enter Faye Dunaway.
“Faye! You’re a sight for sore eyes!”
“You could have seen me much sooner if you’d behaved yourself. You never called after our first date.”
How long did women remember these things? He couldn’t remember not calling her, but then again, he’d scattered many stupid mistakes along his life’s path, like a dog marking its territory. He and Faye had worked together decades ago, and he might’ve taken her out. Del struggled to find a quick response. “I apologize, Faye. My intention would never have been to—”
A full-throated chortle. “Del, you’re adorable! I was only kidding you.”
Del, attempting to save face, laughed along with her, relieved to hear he hadn’t treated her the way she’d described. It sounded like something he might have done in a prior era.
The soiree’s music transitioned to a silky ballad.
“You look stunning, Faye. Beautiful, as always.” And wow, did she ever! Adorned in a sparkling white gown, the woman possessed an ageless grace. She kept her hair long, but tonight, she wore it up in a classic style. To this day, he couldn’t resist those high cheekbones.
“You look good yourself, Del.”
“And your performance was delightful,” he added. In the film, Faye had played a vivacious grandmother who found herself attracted to her granddaughter’s landlord.
“The crazy grandma figure.” Faye rolled her eyes. “There’s not much of a place for individuals like us, Del.”
“Can’t say I disagree. The industry has changed. We’re like strangers, aren’t we?”
“What do the kids call watching our films? ‘Kicking it old-school?’”
“I think even that expression might be passé already. Of course, I’d imagine Mickey Rooney once felt the same way about you and me.” Del sipped his champagne and considered the attendees who surrounded him tonight. While a handful were his age, he doubted half were even born when he began his career. “A time for everything, as they say.”
”You’re the man of the hour, though. With that little discovery of yours, I mean.”
In spite of her encouraging remark, Del, upon closer examination, detected a combination of joy and pain in her countenance, despite her confident veneer. He wasn’t the only one who had struggled in his career. Like Del, she had experienced her share of successes and dry spells.
Del dropped his guard, loosened the chain he wrapped daily around his heart, and opted for honesty.
“When you’re in our shoes,” he noted, “you take what you can get, and you promote it as a special event.” He couldn’t stifle the wryness in his grin. “We’ve all learned how to spin bullshit, haven’t we?”
She laughed. Tension disappeared from her shoulders. “Where have you been all these years? I haven’t heard much from you.”
“Getting ready to relocate.”
“From your home? You’ve lived there forever! Where are you headed?”
“Figured I’d try Florida for a change.”
She furrowed her eyebrows. A quizzical expression emerged on her face. “Florida? Why?”
Exactly. Del still detested the notion. “The change of scenery might be nice.”
Talk about spinning the facts.
“Isn’t it a busy time for you to move?”
“It was in progress before Marilyn’s script appeared. As a matter of fact, that’s how I rediscovered it: while sorting through some boxes at home.”
If only he’d waited a few more weeks to set the house sale in motion. He could have changed his mind.
A man in his late fifties, with a professional smile and hair dyed the perfect shade of brown, strolled up to them. Del recognized him in an instant: Bernard Schulman, the head guy at one of the major film studios, one which had amassed a string of hits the last five years and now dominated the industry in both profits and power. The studio had released tonight’s film. Del almost salivated.
“I apologize for interrupting,” Schulman said, “but I wanted to say hello. Faye, a gripping performance, as always.” Schulman and Faye exchanged kisses on the cheeks.
“Thank you, Bernie. Will you excuse me, please? I’m going to get another glass of champagne.”
As she wandered away, Schulman turned to Del. “Del, good to see you tonight.”
“Bernie. Always a pleasure.”
The studio chief looked amused. “So, I finally got to read the script today. You made me sign a confidentiality agreement? Come on, Del, you know I’m a straight shooter.” At that, Schulman raised his glass, wrinkled his brow, and sipped his drink. “You’re taking this seriously. I had to read it on-site at your agent’s office. No copies, no notes, nothing.”
“I trust you understand the rationale.”
“Well, you’ve done an excellent job keeping it under wraps, I’ll give you that much. I seem to be the only one at this party who knows its premise. The script was nothing like I anticipated, by the way. I’d expected a romantic comedy from Marilyn Monroe, but this? The woman must’ve been pretty fucked up.”
Del winced at the remark. It seemed, to an extent, sacrilegious. She had written that script from a place of pain.
Del bit his lip and decided to hold his tongue. “She was deeper than many of us give her credit for.”
“How many others have read it?”
“A few.” Many.
“And have you entertained any offers?”
“A few.” Many.
Schulman regarded Del in what the actor hoped was an attempt to decode his poker face. Then the chief lifted his glass to his mouth and took in another view of the industry professionals around him, servants in his fiefdom. “Any clues on what they’ve offered? Off the record, of course.”
Del savored this. In his past life, he’d loved to play coy and jerk the collars of the bigwigs. He could get used to this again.
“Let’s just say the offers have been quite generous.”
For the next second, Del didn’t remove his attention from Schulman. He wanted to see if the guy twitched in reaction, which he didn’t. A poker face in return. No surprise. Schulman was royalty and played it cool, but Del sensed an undercurrent of envy. Behind closed doors, this guy salivated for a deal.
For once in his life, Del Corwyn was the kingmaker in this town.
Schulman nodded. “I’ll be in touch with Arnie about an offer,” he said, followed by one final smirk as he knocked back the last of his drink. “I think you’ll find we can be the most generous studio on the block.”
“We look forward to receiving it.”
“I’d like to see a deal happen between us, Del.”
Del had to marvel at what had unfolded before his eyes.
Bernard Schulman, one of the most powerful insiders in Hollywood.
And Del was in position to crush the guy’s balls with his bare hands if he had the notion.