Murder For Revenge

“Friday. His office. I pulled in some favours to get you in so soon. Four P.M. I’ll be at my house in Malibu. Call me when you’re through.”

“Steve…”

“Yeah, Mort?”

“Thanks for sticking with me.”

“Hey, it’s an honour. To me, you’re a legend.”

“What I need to be is a working legend.”

“I’ve done what I can. Now it’s up to you.”

“Sure.” I set down the phone, discovered I still had my broken pencil in one hand, dropped it, and massaged the aching knuckles of my other hand.

The reason I’d left L.A. two years ago, at the age of sixty-eight, was that my dear wife-

– Doris-

– my best friend-

– my cleverest editor-

– my exclusive lover-

– had been diagnosed as having a rare form of leukaemia.

As her strength had waned, as her body had gradually failed to obey her splendid mind, I’d disrupted my workaholic’s habit of writing every day and acted as her constant attendant. We’d travelled to every major cancer research centre in the United States. We’d gone to specialists in Europe. We’d stayed in Europe because their hospice system is humane about pain-relieving drugs. We’d gotten as far as Sweden.

Where Doris had died.

And now, struggling with grief, I’d returned to my career. What other meaning did I have? It was either kill myself or write. So I wrote. And wrote. Even faster than in my prime, when I’d contributed every episode in the four-year run of ‘The Sidewalks of New York.’

And now a network yuppie bastard with the cultural memory of a four-year-old had asked for my credits. Before I gulped a stiff shot of Scotch, I vowed I’d show this town that this old fuck still had more juice than when I’d first started.

Century City. Every week, you see those monoliths of power behind the credits on this season’s hit lawyer show, but I remembered, bitterly nostalgic, when the land those skyscrapers stood upon had been the back lot for 20th Century-Fox.

I parked my leased Audi on the second level of an underground ramp and took an elevator to the seventeenth floor of one of the buildings. The network’s reception room was wide and lofty, with lots of leather couches where actors, writers, and producers made hurried phone calls to agents and assistants while they waited to be admitted to the Holy of Holies.

I stopped before a young, attractive woman at a desk. Thin. No bra. Presumably she wanted to be an actress and was biding her time, waiting for the right co

I’m not bad looking. Although seventy, I keep in shape. Sure, my hair’s receding. I have wrinkles around my eyes. But my family’s genes are spectacular. I look ten years younger than I am, especially when I’m ta

My voice has the resonance of Ed McMahon. “Mort Davidson to see Arthur Lewis. I’ve got a four o’clock appointment.”

The would-be-actress receptionist sca

So I waited.

And waited.

An hour later, the receptionist gestured for me to come over. Miracle of miracles, Arthur Lewis was ready to see me.

He wore an Armani linen suit, fashionably wrinkled. No tie. Gucci loafers. No socks. His skin was the colour of bronze. His thick, curly black hair had a calculated, windblown look. Photographs of his blond wife and infant daughter stood on his glass-topped desk. His wife seemed even younger and thi

“It’s an honour to meet you. I’m a fan of everything you’ve done,” he lied.

I made an appropriate humble comment.

His next remark contradicted what he’d just said. “Did you bring a list of your credits?”

I gave him a folder and sat on a leather chair across from him while he flipped through the pages. His expression communicated a mixture of boredom and stoic endurance.

Finally his eyebrows narrowed. “Impressive. I might add, astonishing. Really, it’s hard to imagine anyone writing this much.”

“Well, I’ve been in the business quite a while.”

“Yes. You certainly have.”

I couldn’t tell if he referred to my age or my numerous credits. “There used to be a joke,” I said.

“Oh?” His eyes were expressionless.

“ ‘How can Mort Davidson be so prolific?’ This was back in the early sixties. The answer was ‘He uses an electric typewriter.’”

“Very amusing,” he said as if I’d farted.

“These days, of course, I use a word processor.”

“Of course.” He folded his hands on the desk and sat straighter. “So. Your agent said you had an idea that might appeal to us^”

“That’s right.”

The phone rang.

“Excuse me a moment.” He picked up the phone. Obviously, if he’d been genuinely interested in my pitch, he’d have instructed his secretary that he didn’t want any calls.

An actor named Sid was important enough for Arthur Lewis to gush with compliments. And by all means, Sid shouldn’t worry about the rewrites that would make his character more ‘with it’ in today’s generation. The writer in charge of the project was under orders to deliver the changes by Monday morning. If he didn’t, that writer would never again work on something called ‘The Good-time Guys’. Sid was a helluva talent, Arthur Lewis assured him. Next week’s episode would get a 35 ratings share at least. Arthur chuckled at a joke, set down the phone, and narrowed his eyebrows again. “So your idea that you think we might like.” He glanced at his Rolex.

“It’s about an at-risk youth centre, a place where troubled kids can go and get away from their screwed-up families, the gangs, and the drug dealers on the streets. There’s a centre in the Valley that I see as our model-an old Victorian house that has several additions. Each week, we’d deal with a special problem-teenage pregnancy, substance abuse, runaways-but mostly this would be a series about emotions, about people, the kids, but also the staff, a wide range of interesting, committed professionals, an elderly administrator, a female social worker, a Hispanic who used to be in the gangs, a priest, whatever mix works. I call it-“

The phone rang again.

“Just a second,” Arthur Lewis said.

Another grin. A producer this time. A series about a college sorority next to a fraternity, ‘Crazy 4 U’, had just become this season’s new hit. Arthur Lewis was giving its cast and executives a party at Le Dome tomorrow evening. Yes, he guaranteed. Ten cases of Dom Pérignon would arrive at the producer’s home before the party. And beluga caviar? Enough for an after-party power party? No problem. And yes, Arthur Lewis was having the same frustrations as the producer. It was mighty damned hard to find a preschool for gifted children.

He set down the phone. His face turned to stone. “So that’s your idea?”

“Drama, significance, emotion, action, and realism.”

“But what’s the hook?”

I shook my head in astonishment.

“Why would anyone want to watch it?” Arthur Lewis asked.

“To feel what it’s like to help kids in trouble, to understand those kids.”

“Didn’t you have a stroke a while ago?”

“What?”

“I believe in honesty, so I’ll be direct. You put in your time. You paid your dues. So why don’t you back away gracefully?”

“I didn’t have a stroke.”

“Then why did I hear-?”

“My wife had cancer. She died…” I caught my breath. “Six months ago.”