DRESSED IN AN EXPENSIVE blazer and an Oxford shirt unbuttoned at the collar, Del sat in a bistro facing all incoming patrons, whose attire resembled his own. The bistro was known in town as an establishment where those who wielded power often congregated to hammer out deals. A restaurant with a faux-casual flair where you ordered all side items a la carte, French fries were thick strips of fried Yukon gold potatoes, and where the tips alone were more than a family of four in Del’s hometown paid for dinner at their local diner. The atmosphere dripped with the aura of influence. Del felt the magnetism of limitless expense accounts.
Bernie Schulman walked in, dressed in a black suit and a power-red tie. He carried a small, black portfolio. Del lifted an index finger to signal his whereabouts.
“You certainly dressed for the occasion,” Del noted.
“Gotta fly to Manhattan after this. I’m meeting with Clive Davis about a couple of recording artists for the soundtrack. Getting everything in motion so we’re ready to pull the trigger on our little Beautiful Mess.”
“That’s the reason I called the meeting.”
“I figured as much.” Schulman shook his linen napkin and folded it across his lap. “Don’t worry, Del. Your role in the film is secure.” Tapping his finger on the portfolio, he added, “I have the paperwork here, ready for us to seal the deal. Arnie and I worked out all the details. You made the right choice signing with my studio.”
Schulman perused the menu. Del had lost his appetite. He wanted to press through this lunch and leave.
“I assume you saw the advance copy of the contract my assistant sent your way?” Schulman said, his voice half-absent as his eyes flicked from one entrée to the next. “I’m on a diet. Damn salads.”
“Yes, Bernie, I saw the contract. And I appreciate the generosity.” Del spoke to the guy’s oily forehead. “But I’m afraid there won’t be a deal.”
Schulman didn’t move, yet tension engulfed the space between them. A splotch of pink appeared on his brow.
The studio head placed his menu on the table and pierced Del with a glare that would have frightened Del on the set of The Prince and the Showgirl. At this point in his life, however, Del had advanced too far and matured too much to care.
“May I take your order, gentlemen?”
Schulman shot one hand, palm outward, in the waiter’s direction. “Not now.”
Without a further word, the server offered a slight bow, then spun on his heels and hustled away as fast as his casual stride could carry him.
Schulman’s eyebrows knitted together. Grooves formed along his wide, oily brow. “I think I missed something here. Did you sign with someone else?”
“No, Bernie.”
“I thought we had an agreement, Del.”
“A verbal one. An understanding.”
“When you and I were young, verbal agreements meant something.”
“Let’s say there’s been a change in circumstances.”
Schulman snorted, an understated smugness. “Is it a money thing? You want more?”
“No.”
“A producer credit?”
Del knew how much Schulman craved this deal. No doubt, the studio chief could envision a competitor swooping in and stealing this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity from his lap. But screwing him over wasn’t Del’s intention. Del had made up his mind. He needed to protect Marilyn Monroe’s memory, first and foremost. And to do so, he couldn’t allow the public to see this script.
“I don’t want anything from you, Bernie. I’ve simply decided not to make the script public. Period.”
Schulman pursed his lips, scanned the tables in his vicinity, then drilled his eyes into Del’s. Though he kept his voice subdued, the man’s glare could have frozen a hot coal.
“Don’t fuck with me, Del.”
Del sighed in resignation. “That’s not my intention. I’ve had a change of heart. It’s a personal thing.”
Schulman shook his head in disbelief. “I strongly urge you to reconsider.”
“I can’t, Bernie.”
“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying here.” Leaning forward, making sure he had Del’s full attention, he added, “You need this project to happen.”
“I used to think so, too.” Del’s mind raced through the loss of income and what that would mean, and even now, anxiety threatened to enshroud his intentions. But when he thought of Felicia, Nora…and the friend whose reputation he sought to preserve today, it bolstered his resolve. “I’ve made my decision, Bernie. This deal isn’t going to go through. Not for you, not for anyone.”
Schulman pressed his lips into a thin line again. By now, his face blistered red, and the boil had spread to his brow, ears and neck, where loose skin betrayed his age. In an obvious effort to maintain his composure, he grinned and nodded, as though he still called the shots at this power meeting.
He jabbed a stubby finger in Del’s direction, low enough so nobody except Del would see it. From the flesh of the fingertip, Del detected the aroma of cigars. Expensive cigars. Schulman’s voice, though restrained, increased a notch louder.
“You’re finished,” Schulman hissed. “You can forget about your big comeback, Corwyn—now or ever. I’ll personally guarantee you never work again—not for the rest of your miserable, washed-up life. I’m gonna kick your ass so sore, you’ll be paying a fucking home nurse to rub it down with aloe.”
And yet, Del remained at peace.
With one final glare just to communicate he meant business, Schulman straightened his tie. Slapping the napkin on the table, he arose, brushed the temporary wrinkles from his suit, and strolled toward the restaurant’s entrance. The image of power—though Del noticed a few extra inches in Schulman’s strides.
The telltale sign of a defeated man who wasn’t accustomed to losing battles.
When the waiter returned, Del ordered a Cobb salad.
And a bottle of Dom Perignon for the hell of it.