“His Psycho days!”
“His Birds days!”
“Why, when people in the motion-picture community thought Arthur was dead last night …”
“Then you’d heard about that,” Michael said, suddenly alarmed.
“Yes, of course, it was all over television.”
“We were so relieved when he called,” Mary said.
“To say he was alive.”
“We couldn’t believe it was him calling. He was supposed to be dead. But there he was on the phone! It was a miracle!”
“Believe me,” Gruber said, “there was universal mourning in the motion-picture community when …”
“MGM, too,” Mary said.
“When his murder …”
“United Artists, Columbia, Disney. Not only Universal,” she said.
“When his murder was erroneously reported. Genuine and universal grief for this genius cut down in his prime, this new master of … excuse me, what did you say your name was?”
“Bond,” Michael said. “Michael Bond. No relation.”
“Because you look familiar.”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
“Have I seen you in anything?” Mary asked.
“No, I’m just with The New York Times.”
“Exactly my point,” Gruber said. “Mr. Bond, I think you understand what I’m saying. I’m saying there is greed and malice everywhere in this world, but honesty and truth will prevail as surely as the cry of a newborn babe.”
“Do you write fortune cookies?” Connie asked.
“Do you understand me, Mr. Bond? Whoever told you that Arthur Crandall’s new film is … what did you say you’d heard?”
“I heard it was crap.”
“Crap, I can’t believe it,” Gruber said.
“The man’s a fucking genius,” Mary said.
“Crap,” Gruber said again, shaking his head.
“Who told you this?” Gruber asked.
“His wife, actually,” Michael said.
“That bitch!” Mary said, and her husband gave her a look that said, This is The New York Times here, so watch your fucking language.
“What she said, actually,” Michael said, “was that in television he’d been doing crap …”
“Absolutely,” Gruber said.
“… and he left television to do a really fantastic film …”
“Truly fantastic!”
“… that didn’t make a nickel …”
“Not a dime,” Gruber said.
“… but now he was back doing crap again.”
“False,” Gruber said. “Do you know how much this new movie cost to make?”
“How much?” Michael asked.
“Three times what Solitude cost.”
“Thirty-six million dollars,” Connie said at once. “This is very good, this toddy. Why do they call it a toddy?”
“Thirty-six million, correct,” Gruber said, “plus I have to figure at least another five, six million for prints and advertising, and it’ll come to forty, forty-five million before all is said and done. Now tell me something, Mr. Bond, how can a forty-five-million-dollar picture be crap? Can you tell me that, please? You don’t plan to print that, do you? His wife’s remark?”
“I mean, she is a bitch,” Mary said, shaking her head.
“What we planned to do,” Michael said, “was leave the review to the daily reviewer …”
“Who?” Gruber said at once. “Canby? Or Maslin? Don’t say Canby or I’ll have a heart attack.”
“I don’t think it’s been assigned yet.”
“It hasn’t been assigned yet? It’s opening on the second, we had screenings all last week, it hasn’t been assigned yet?”
“Not that I know of. But the Sunday section’s approach would be …”
“I’ll bet it’s Canby,” Gruber said to his wife.
“That prick,” she said.
“We thought we’d talk to Charlie Nichols, take an oblique approach to …”
“Why don’t you talk to Jessica Wales? She’s the star of the fucking thing,” Gruber said, “why don’t you talk to her?”
“Well, we wanted a unique approach …”
“I thought you said oblique.”
“And unique.”
“We’ve got some great stills of Jessica, you could use those with the story.”
“The scene where they’re coming at her with the knife, oooooo,” Mary said, and shuddered.
“The ghosts,” Gruber said.
“What she thinks are ghosts.”
“Don’t give it away, for Christ’s sake,” Gruber said.
“They aren’t really ghosts, don’t worry,” Mary said to Michael, as if trying to still the fears of a very small child.
“That’s right, tell him,” Gruber said, shaking his head. “Give away the whole fucking plot.”
“Are you really a rabbi?” Connie asked him. “What?” he said.
“Because I didn’t know rabbis talked that way.”
Gruber blinked.
Mary rolled her eyes and said, “Whatever you do, don’t mention Gaslight.”
“Very good, tell him not to mention Gaslight,” Gruber said. “That’s like telling somebody not to stare at somebody’s big nose. Did you see that picture?”
“No,” Michael said.
“The Martin picture.”
“Sheen?”
“Steve. Anyway, this isn’t Gaslight we did, this is an entirely new and original approach to psychological suspense. Jessica Wales gives the performance of her career and Arthur Crandall has never been …”
“I wonder, Mr. Gruber, do you think you could let me have Charlie Nichols’s address, please?”
“You’re determined to do this interview with Charlie, huh?”
“That’s my assignment, sir.”
“Who thinks up these crazy assignments? Gussow?”
“I’ll bet it’s Canby,” Mary said.
“Do we even have his address?” Gruber said.
“I mean, he’s a bit player. Why the hell do you want to interview him?”
“I just take orders,” Michael said.