Sticks and Stones

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Paul clutched the telegram between tight fingers. The paper was balled up, damp, the ink running. Not that he would need to read the message again. The words were imprinted on his brain permanently. Fifty years from now, when he was an old man, living out his final years in peace on some tropical island, the words would still be haunting him. New picture. W/ Jack Wells. June release!

Paul didn’t even bother to call his agent. Josh didn’t know anything. After all, the guy was dumb enough to think Paul would want to be in a movie with Jack Wells, of all people. But that was fine. He didn’t need to ask Josh to do his dirty work. Vance Jesson produced nearly all the musicals at MGM, and Paul had no doubt he was responsible for casting Jack f*****g Wells. He even knew where to find Jesson, too, and nothing was going to get in his way.

The blast of cold air greeted him as he yanked the sound stage door open. It was the only sound stage with a good, working air-conditioner, and Jesson wasn’t above using his connections and power to claim that sound stage for himself. There were dozens of people between Paul and his destination, but he ignored all of them. They didn’t exist. As far as Paul was concerned, in that moment, only three people existed in the world. And Paul wasn’t going to be happy until at least one of those people was sent back to the Cockney rock he crawled from under.

Jesson had his head bowed over a clipboard, his pen scribbling over a piece of paper. Paul thrust the telegram under Jesson’s nose without preamble. “What the hell is this?”

Batting Paul’s hand out of his way, Jesson returned to his notes. The scratch of his pen shredded the last of Paul’s nerves. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Jack Wells? Are you kidding me? Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“Do you see me laughing?”

“I’m not doing a film with that…punk.” Paul spat the final word.

With a sigh, Jesson capped his pen and leaned back in his chair, resting his ankle on the opposite knee as he gazed up at Paul. The pose was deceptively casual, and if he’d been some neophyte extra on his first film, Paul might have fallen for it. But Vance Jesson had grown up in the Hollywood studio system. He was seasoned against every kind of tactic, every brand of behavior. He might be annoyed by Paul’s ire, but he would never show it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this upset about something before,” Jesson commented. “I didn’t even think you knew Jack.”

“I don’t need to know him to know that I don’t want to work with him. There are about a hundred stories from his last shoot, and every single one of them is about what a jackass he is. Sure, he’s had a few minor hits, but let’s be realistic here. He’s not a great dancer, he has a horrible voice, and he’s not a good actor. If you like him because he’s pretty, there are plenty of other better looking guys waiting for their big break.”

“He can’t really sing, no.” The concession was unexpected, and for a moment, Paul’s hope flared. Jesson’s next statement shot it back down to earth. “But that’s why you get all the solos. And the acting is subjective. Audiences love him. His Dreaming of Angels didn’t make as much money as your Beholden, but review for review, he’s got you.”

The mention of the money only darkened Paul’s mood. Nobody missed the opportunity to remind him that Beholden had done well, but under-performed expectations. A lot. Paul decided to gloss over it. The less said about that, the better. “The reviewers don’t know what the hell they want. And acting is not subjective. There’s good acting, and there’s whatever Jack Wells does. It’s like he thinks he’s on the stage instead of in front of cameras. Somebody needs to tell him that he’s about thirty years out of date.”

“Good. Then you’ll have something to teach him when you two report to the set next week.”

“Did you miss the part where I said I’m not going to do a film, any film, with that guy?”

Jesson didn’t blink. “Did you miss the part in your contract where you don’t have a say in the matter?”

Paul sighed. “What about Brett Dawson? He can sing. He’s talented.” And he wasn’t the least bit attractive, but Paul decided to leave that part out.

“In New York until after Christmas. If we want a June release—which we do—we need to start shooting now. You’re stuck with Jack, whether you like it or not.”

“What about Dore Schary? Did he sign off on this craziness?”

For the first time since Paul’s arrival, Jesson smiled. “Who do you think had the idea in the first place to put you two together?”

“When this film bombs with the critics and costs MGM millions of dollars, I’m going to be here to tell you I told you so.”

“It won’t bomb. The pair of you will be golden.” Something steely glinted in his gray gaze. “The studio’s counting on you to help us groom the kid, Paul. I know he’s a little wet behind the ears, but he’s got the chops to do more than a little song and dance. And you’re just the one to show him how to do it.”

“The studio thinks it can take any two-bit punk from the streets and turn him into a star. I’ll make your movie, but I’m not going to go help you groom your little pet project.” Paul dropped the telegram on the floor at Jesson’s feet and turned on his heel. Nobody could say that Paul Dunham didn’t know how to make an exit.

Afterward, he would remember noticing the grips wheeling in the potted palms when he stormed onto the soundstage. Not that it would have made a difference in his trajectory. But just maybe, if he hadn’t been quite as incensed at how myopic the studio could be, or infuriated that he was going to have to share any kind of screen time with a no-talent wannabe like Jack Wells, he would have seen the giant fronds passing by out of the corner of his eye.

His shin caught the rim of the bucket of sand in which the palm sat, sending Paul careening sideways. The grip dropped the dolly in alarm, but when the tree teetered from the impact of its base hitting the floor, the burly man chose to save it rather than the unfortunate actor now sprawled along the edge of a beach set.

Slow clapping drew his furious gaze back to Jesson. “Want my advice, Paul? Keep that particular move to yourself.”

Paul pushed himself to a seated position, refusing to rub his shin, even though it throbbed. In an effort to protect his pride, he wrapped himself in another layer of anger. “Are you going to stand there clapping like a monkey or are you going to help me up?”

With a bemused smile, Jesson set aside his notepad and stood. “Should I not consider helping you get choreography credit on this new project then?” he asked, holding his hand out.

Paul took his hand and allowed Jesson to pull him to his feet. “Maybe you should consider trying very hard if you want me to help you make Jack Wells look good.”

His chuckle didn’t exactly fill Paul with confidence. “See you Monday.”

The chuckle followed him out of the sound stage. He squinted against the bright sun, wishing he had remembered his shades before storming out of his house. It would be best to go home, put ice on his leg, and find something to distract him from his current plight. He marched over to the parking lot, but swerved at the last second to head toward the small building that housed the assistants and their staff. He still had one ally on the lot. And he wasn’t going to go home until he had exhausted every avenue and bitched to every friendly ear that would listen.

He didn’t bother to knock once he reached Martin’s door. He never did. He flung it open with all the force of his anger. “Have you talked to Jesson at all today?”

As one of Paul’s oldest friends in Hollywood, Martin Pryce didn’t even get flustered at the startling entrance. He marked the page of the script he’d been reading and tossed it onto his desk, then stood and crossed to the pot of tea he always had ready, no matter when Paul showed up. “I’m assuming they told you about Jack Wells.”

“Yeah, they told me. How long have you known about it?”

“Just since yesterday.” His long, slim fingers expertly handled the cups of steaming tea, putting the one lump of sugar in Paul’s that he always took. “They asked if I’d like to be the bearer of the good news.” He was obviously fighting a smile as he held out Paul’s tea. “Considering how I thought you were going to react, I declined.”

“You should have told me as soon as you found out. Look at how my chickenshit agent decided to tell me.” He thrust his palm out, remembering too late that he had dropped the telegram at Jesson’s feet. Martin smiled and pressed the handle of the cup into Paul’s fingers. “Thanks. And Jesson is just a moron. It’s amazing that guy still has a job.”

Martin waved Paul toward the couch, picking up his own tea before joining him. “Lilah and I had plans last night. If I’d told you, you would’ve trapped me for hours doing just this, Lilah would have locked me out of the house for standing her up, and nobody would have had a good night. This way was better.”

“No, it really wasn’t. We’ve got to stop this from happening, Marty. Jesson doesn’t get it, but I know you do.”

Marty ducked his head and sipped his tea. His glasses did little to hide the sudden wariness in his eyes. “Did Jesson not tell you this was Schary’s idea?”

“Yes, but Schary isn’t completely irrational. You could talk to him. He likes you. He’s even invited you to lunch a few times.”

“Yes…except I don’t think he’s necessarily wrong in this case.”

Paul’s mouth literally fell open. “You’re kidding me. Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“I could. I’d be lying, though.”

“Come on, Marty. Jack isn’t the type of guy you want to act with. You’ve seen his movies. He’s selfish with his costars. He overacts everything. He’s young. He’s inexperienced. I don’t want to work with him.”

Setting aside his tea, Martin shifted on the couch to face Paul, bending his knee so it rested between them. “I’m going to say something here, and I already know you’re not going to like it, but I’m going to say it this one time and get it out there, because you’re my best friend and you need to hear it, understand?” He didn’t wait for a response. “You really need to get over this Jack Wells problem you have. It’s okay to feel threatened by him, but honestly, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Threatened? Threatened? Why would I be threatened by somebody like Jack? If he’s what Hollywood really wants—some shallow, no-talented, pretty boy hack—then maybe that’s my sign that I should retire.”

“There’s more than enough room for both of you. There always has been. And yet, you’ve harbored these issues with him ever since you dragged me to go see his first movie.”

“Because he shouldn’t be in movies. Christ, why am I the only one who gets this? And now I have to put up with him every day for weeks. Maybe even months. Then there’s the publicity. I don’t know, Marty, maybe you should just shoot me now.”

“I’m not going to shoot you. Schary would shoot me then.”

“How am I supposed to get through this, Marty?”

“One day at a time. Honestly, I don’t think it’s going to be as bad as you think. I’ve met Jack. He’s a very charming, personable young man.” He paused. “When he wants to be.”

“Oh, great, that’s just what I need to deal with. A no-talent, pretty boy hack who acts like a brat. Lovely. That’s lovely.” Paul straightened. “You’ve got to work on this shoot. I won’t get through it otherwise.”

“Jesson already has—” Martin stopped when Paul opened his mouth to argue again. “I’ll see what I can do. I can’t make any promises, though.”

“Get Lilah involved if you have to. There’s isn’t a man alive who can deny her anything.”

“Yes,” Martin said dryly. “Because prostituting my wife’s charms always works so well for me.” He shook his head. “You know, there isn’t a single person involved in this project that believes you and Jack aren’t going to be gold together.” Paul winced at his casual repeat of Jesson’s words, though Martin didn’t notice. “He’s not nearly as talentless as you seem to think. I think you’re going to be quite surprised once you work with him, one on one.”

“I think the biggest surprise this experience will hold for me is that Jack is capable of actual speech,” Paul muttered.

“Well, lucky for you, then, the first few days will be learning all the songs and the choreography.” He patted Paul’s shoulder with a smile before rising and returning to his desk. “You’ll have plenty of time to see firsthand that Jack’s a stronger performer than you’re giving him credit for. By the time you actually get around to shooting dialogue, you two will be fast friends.”

“I don’t want to be his friend. Do you even have a clue on what the script is like? Who’s playing the female lead?”

If Martin had looked wary before admitting to agreeing with the casting, he seemed ready to bolt now. The desk was between them, his fingers drumming silently on his blotter before he met Paul’s gaze and said, “Promise you won’t get mad first.”

“I’m already mad. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“At least promise you won’t blame me. I told Schary it was a bad idea. More than once. Especially considering your history.”

Paul forced himself to smile pleasantly. “I won’t be mad at you, Marty. I know you don’t make the final decisions around here.”

Martin took a deep breath. “Betty Thayer.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite hear you. I think there might be something crazy in my ear.”

“I know. But Schary loves her. And you have to admit, she can dance. After all, she learned from the best.”

Paul just stared at him. Betty Thayer was a five-foot slip of nothing blonde he’d met on his second film, where she’d been a struggling chorus line dancer and he’d been desperate for stardom. Their affair had lasted until the film’s release, only to crumble under the weight of his accelerated career path. Betty had never forgiven him for what she considered “not trying hard enough.” He’d never been called a quitter until the night he walked out of her life.

“Martin, I’m going to ask you a question. And I want you to answer me honestly, because we’re friends, and we’ve been through a lot together. Does Schary hate me? Is he trying to force me to break my contract? Because I don’t see any other explanation here.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Marty said sympathetically. “The Betty thing is dumb luck, and I honestly wish he’d listened to me before getting her to sign. But if it’s any consolation, Jack can’t stand her. He made quite a scene last night when he heard about that.”

“So, I hate Jack, Betty hates me, Jack hates Betty, and I could be really happy if I never saw Betty again. After I finish this shoot, I want a long vacation. I’m going to make sure Josh knows that.”

“If this picture does half as well as everybody thinks it will, you’ll be able to ask for anything you want, Paul.”

Paul didn’t see how it could possibly do well at all. Betty couldn’t sing either. Though she could move that little body of hers like nobody’s business. “I think I need to go get a drink. You come with me. I’ll buy.”

“Why do I have the feeling you’re not going to stop at one?”

“Probably because I’m not.”

“In that case, let’s go back to my house.” Opening a drawer, he tossed the script inside. “I’ll let you finish my twenty-five-year Glenmorangie, and then you can spend the rest of the night telling me how much you loathe Jack Wells because he dances like he has rocks in his tap shoes.”

This time, Paul’s smile was genuine. Marty always knew exactly what would make Paul happy. Even when Paul was in one of his most stubborn, belligerent moods, Martin could talk him down. “It’s a deal. And I promise, I won’t spend the whole night talking about Jack Wells. Well, I’ll try not to.”

“If I only had a dime for every time you said that.”

“Ha ha. Come on. I need to get off the lot before I totally lose my mind.” Paul held up his hand. “And don’t you dare say that it’s too late.”

Martin held the door open for him, his eyes bright with amusement. “I’d never dream of it.”

“Yeah, right.” But the smile was still in place. He wasn’t happy about the movie. Chances were, he’d never be happy about the movie. But he hoped that by the end of the night with Marty, he’d no longer be tempted to risk his job. He was a professional. He had been involved in films since he was twelve. He could get through this.

One way or the other.