“It’s open.”
He stepped in and closed the door behind himself. “How are the accommodations?”
“Not bad. The electricity’s on, the plumbing works and the bed’s tolerable.”
“You didn’t mention the kitchen.”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Am I fired?”
“Nope.” Fitz smiled at the slightly hopeful note in his assistant’s voice. Burke hated location work. “But you’re not going to get fed until I can get into town to shop for some decent supplies.”
Catering fare on film sets didn’t interest him, as a rule, and he liked to cook. He spent most of his days being what other people wanted him to be. When he dabbled in the kitchen he could relax, and be himself, and please himself.
Hell, in that respect, cooking was more relaxing than sex.
“So?” he asked. “What’s up?”
Burke hesitated. “Stone called.”
“Damn.” Fitz didn’t need to ask what the producer had called about, or what the message was. “No deal.”
“He says he’s not fond enough of the script to take a chance on a western right now.”
“We’re not asking him to put up any money.” Fitz stood and started to pace, but there wasn’t enough room in the trailer to get up to speed. “All we need are some connections. A nudge here or there.”
He grabbed a Corona from the tiny refrigerator and offered another to Burke. “What is it he’s not saying?”
Burke avoided the question with a long, slow sip of beer.
“Samantha Hart.” Fitz twisted off the bottle cap with a little more violence than necessary. “Leno.”
“He did mention it.” Burke shrugged it off. “You knew going in on this a western was going to be a tough sell.”
“But not impossible.” He tossed out his arms. “Hell, I’m surrounded by the evidence.”
He stared at the view outside the window, looking past the base camp of white vans clustered in raggedy rows, past the tidy nineteenth-century farmhouse on the slight knoll behind them. When his gaze lifted to the jagged silhouettes of the mountains sprouting from silver-green pastureland, his pulse kicked with anticipation.
Maybe he’d read one too many Louis L’Amour novels. Maybe it was genetic—his grandfather had lassoed the family’s Hollywood connections working with John Ford on Stagecoach. Maybe he was just a sentimental fool. Whatever the reason, he wanted a chance to make The Virginian, and to play that role, with a passion he hadn’t felt for anything else in his adult life.
It was a huge gamble, but if he wanted to win big, he had to bet big. Myron Greenberg had howled with rage and expanded his cursing vocabulary when Fitz had signed on for this relatively small Van Gelder film. But there was a lot more riding on this Montana location shoot than the filming itself. If he could pull this off, if he could prove to the studio heads that audiences would pay to see him on horseback, he could make his movie the way he wanted it made. Big, and bold, and packaged with the best a production could have.
All he had to do over the next few months was focus on Wolfe’s Range—act his heart out, promote it until he was ready to drop and then keep all available appendages crossed that it made a profit.
That, and keep his nose clean and his name out of the tabloids.
He settled on the sofa and glanced at Burke. “So, what’s the next step?”
“Word’s out you’ve been talking to Stone.” Burke squeezed into the compact dining booth and folded his legs under the miniature table. “Seems that brought another interested player out of the woodwork.”
“Funny how that works.” Fitz took a drag of his beer. “Give me the edited version.”
“Lila Clarkson likes the story.”
“The Lila Clarkson who produced Virtual Indemnity?”
Burke nodded. “That’s the one. She’s working with a hot new script doctor. Says he’s a whiz at punching up visuals and dialogue. Can make any project more marketable.”
“Doesn’t she have a first-look deal with Warner?”
“Yes. Yes, she does. But if the Warner execs like what they see, they’d come in on the financing.”
“Or they could tie it up for years.” Fitz set the bottle aside. “Hell, I might never get it back.”
“There’s always the other option.”
Fitz set his jaw to stubborn. “I’ve done everything on this I’m going to do.”
“Look, Fitz.” Burke spread his hands on the table’s surface. “You’re already doing everything an executive producer does, anyway. You’ve optioned the script. You’ve put up the initial financing. You’re trying to get some of the players in place. Hell, you did the whole Cannes scene last month.”
“Don’t remind me.”
There were few things Fitz hated more than Cannes. The tedious glitz, the shallow glam, the deals bubbling underneath it all like brewer’s yeast in a septic tank. He’d gone over early to set up his office, and he’d made his pitch to the international investors, mucking around in the filth along with the other beggars. It had taken a week for him to wash off the stink. But he’d do it all again, and more, if it meant he could make this film his way.
“It’s your deal,” said Burke. “Why not see it the rest of the way through? Why not take the credit?”
“I don’t need to see my name up on the screen more than once.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“Burke.” Fitz shifted forward. “Can you honestly see me setting up and running a production company? I barely manage to do the one job I’ve got.”
Burke pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Yes, you somehow manage to do as little as you possibly can. And brilliantly so, in my humble but expert opinion.”
“Besides,” said Fitz, ignoring Burke’s sarcasm, “I’m just not convinced I can do it up right. The way it needs to be done. And I want this done right. I want—”
He held out his hand, grasping for an eloquence worthy of the scenes and emotions in his head, but they slipped away yet again. All he had was his idea, his vision—and his faith in both.
And determination. He’d dredged up plenty of that, for once in his life. He curled his fingers into a fist and brought his hand down, slowly, firmly, on the sofa arm. “I want this done right.”
“Then do it,” said Burke. “You’ve already got everything you need. The name, the connections, the clout.”
He probably did. His mega-paychecks automatically translated to mega-power. But Hollywood loved to watch the mighty fall. He’d done plenty of tripping over the years, but so far he’d managed to keep his balance by keeping to his one small place in the shuffle.
He was an actor, plain and simple, not a hyphen director, a hyphen producer, or a hyphen screenwriter. He’d leave the hyphens to the people with the dual and triple ambitions. One ambition at a time was enough for Fitz Kelleran.
One ambition. To make one film. One perfect, classic version of a perfect, classic novel. To play the role of his lifetime, a part that would require all his talent and ability. He didn’t want to dilute that effort or diffuse his concentration, to ruin his vision at the very heart of its creation. “No,” he said.
“It isn’t the money.”
“No.