life. As of the moment he was working on a film called Stool Pigeon.
‘I’m doing the swamp scenes tomorrow. I hope they’ve fixed up better heating in the dressing-room. Last week I spent four hours under the lamps before getting rid of that pain in my knee. Roger at the gym says that’s the classic way to get arthritis.’
The servant didn’t reply. Stone read the letter again.
From the desk of Marshall Stone
Wednesday evening
Dear Peter,
The idea of a biography of me has come up from time to time but I have always vetoed it. However, a writer of your talent and reputation could bring a whole new dimension to it. Who better to do a star’s biography than the man who wrote the very first script of Last Vaquero?
Now, no show-biz crap, Peter, a real warts-and-all portrait, and damn the publicity boys! And not just a book about an actor! A book about the electricians, the camera assistants, the extras, the backroom boys in production offices. In fact, about the way it all comes together.
Talk to my private secretary, Mrs Angela Brooks, and arrange our get-together as soon as you like.
The piece you did for your paper last month was damned good and mightily flattering to boot! I can’t wait to see what you will do in a whole book devoted to such a humble thesp as,
MARSHALL STONE
He crossed out damned and inserted bloody, hooking the y of ‘you’ with the loop of its b. There should always be at least one alteration in a letter. It gave the personal touch. He put his signet ring into the hot bubbling wax and sealed both envelopes.
‘Is Mr Weinberger here yet?’
‘I showed him into the library, sir.’
‘Good.’ Stone’s vocal cords had tightened enough to distort his voice, and he tasted in his mouth the bile that anxiety created. On such sudden visits his agent always brought bad news.
‘He has documents with him. He’s working on them. He seems content.’
Oh my God: documents. ‘You gave him a drink?’
‘He declined, sir.’
‘People always decline, Jasper. You must persuade them.’ Stone cleared his throat.
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Cut along to the bank, then, and be outside at eight-thirty: the Rolls, and tell Silvio I’ll have my usual table. I’ll probably sleep here tonight. You can tell the servants at Twin Beeches to expect me for dinner tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Stone closed the roll-top desk, locked it and went to the bathroom.
He did little more than splash cold water on to his face. Then he dried it carefully, so that the warm yellow towel would not be soiled by eye-black. He selected high boots, a faded shirt, and tied a red kerchief at the throat. After looking in the mirror he retied it and put a crucifix around his neck on a fine gold chain. He tucked it into the front of his shirt. It was almost, but not quite, out of sight.
‘Viney!’ he said as he entered the library. He spread his hands wide apart in an almost oriental gesture of hospitality. For a moment he stood there without moving. Then he walked to his agent and took the proffered hand in both of his.
Weinberger looked like a gigantic teddy-bear that had survived several generations of unruly children. He was tall, but of such girth that his Savile Row suit did little to flatter him. He had a dozen such suits, all of them equally undistinguished except for the cigarette burns that he inevitably made in the right side of the jackets. His hair was unkempt and his club tie was, as always askew. Under sadly sagging eyebrows his eyes were black and deep set. His nose was large and so was his mouth, which only smiled to show the world that he would endure without complaint the slings and arrows that were his outrageous lot.
It was his desire to be as unsurprising as possible. He succeeded: except to the people who read the fine print in his contracts. His voice had the gruff melancholy that one would expect from such a man.
‘Sorry it had to be tonight, Marshall. No real problem: a formality, really, but it needs your signature.’
Stone did not release the hand. ‘It’s good to see you, Viney. Damned good to see you.’
‘Epitome Screen Classics – that’s Koolman’s new subsidiary – want TV rights for resale.’
Stone released the agent’s hand. ‘Do you realize that we only see each other to talk business, Viney? Couldn’t we get together regularly – just for laughs, just for old time’s sake?’
‘I don’t know why they let us have that approval clause in the contract. I’d put it in to sacrifice it for something else.’ Viney shook his head sadly. ‘They left it in.’
‘Business! That’s all you think about. Have a drink.’ Stone cocked his head and nodded, as if the affirmative gesture would change his guest’s mind. Back in the days when ventriloquism was a popular form of entertainment, such physical mannerisms had encouraged wisecracks about the cocky little star being seated upon the knee of the doleful giant who was his agent. But these jokes had only been made by people who hadn’t encountered Marshall Stone.
‘No thanks, Marshall.’ He looked at his notes: ‘“Three years after completion of principal photography or by agreement.” It’s only got six months to go anyway.’
‘A small bourbon: Jack Daniels. Remember how we used to drink Jack Daniels in the Polo Lounge at The Beverly Hills?’
Weinberger looked around the huge room to find a suitable space for his papers. Arranged upon an inlaid satinwood table there were ivory boxes, photos in silver frames, instruments to measure pressure, temperature and humidity, a letter-opener and a skeleton clock. Weinberger moved some of the objets d’art and used a small gold pencil to make a cross on both letters. ‘It needs your signature: here and here.’ He put the pencil away and produced a fountain-pen which he uncapped and then tested before presenting to his client.
Stone signed the letters carefully, ensuring that his signature was the same precise work that it always was.
‘Read it, Marshall, read it!’
‘You don’t want me interfering with your end of it.’ He capped the pen and handed it back. ‘What movie are we talking about, anyway?’
‘Sorry, Marshall. I’m talking about Last Executioner. So many shows are losing sponsors that they want to network it in the States to kick off the fall season. It looks like the Vietnam War is going to be the only TV show that will last out till Christmas.’ Stone nodded solemnly.
‘Except for the scene on the boat, I was terrible.’
‘They’ll want the sequels too. Leo said you gave a great performance. “Marshall gave a sustained performance – conflict, colour and confrontation.” You got all three of Leo’s ultimates.’
‘What does that schmuck know about acting.’
‘I
