“I’m on location, Sam.”
“Here, listen to this.Variety,” he said. “Banner headline, across five columns: ‘Scribe Silenced in Location Mystery.’ Subhead reads: ‘Police Attention to Williams.’ How’s that?”
It didn’t sound great to me. It sounded like something to be worried about, with an eye to a libel suit. I said so.
Appelbaum was undeterred. “Here’sThe Hollywood Reporter. Same big banner: ‘Scribe Nixed onBloodrockPix.’ Two subheads: ‘Question Star Foul Play’ and ‘Production Shutdown for Mourning.’”
I couldn’t help thinking that Appelbaum was off his rocker. That wasn’t great publicity at all. It wasn’t a sensation. It sounded mostly like the truth:Bloodrockwas a picture in trouble with a new piece of added trouble.
“Sam,” I said, “even if this is a murder, I don’t think they have anything solid to link Clete to it. With all those rumors going around about the police about to book him yesterday, they never actually did it.”
And Perkins still hasn’t even questioned him, I thought to myself.What the hell is he waiting for?
“Don’t be negative,” Appelbaum said. “I’m telling you—this is a sensation, an absolute sensation. It’s Sensation City.”
I sighed. “Speaking of negative, why is Robinson coming out?”
“Who knows? Maybe he can’t get a date for tonight in town. I don’t know. All I know is he says he’s going to the location, and all anybody says is, ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Greenblatt doesn’t mind?”
“Greenblatt doesn’t have a lot to say about it. Sure, he probably minds. So what?”
“Have you seen Robinson?”
“Saw him yesterday. He’s in a foul mood.”
“But I gather there’s no talk of cancellation?”
“Not now.” There was a pause. “You really think Clete didn’t do it?”
“I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything about anybody. I just think you’re getting way ahead of yourself.”
Appelbaum sighed. “What will be, will be,” he said. “Que sera, sera. Did you know I was unit publicist on that picture?”
“What picture?”
“The Man Who Knew Too Much, what do you think?”
“You worked for Hitchcock?”
“He’s a pussycat,” Appelbaum said, “and the picture did six times negative cost. The coverage was superb. I’m just reminding you. Call me later today if you have something.”
I promised I would.
* * *
Walking down the hallway to Perkins’s room, who should I run into but Jerry Fisher. You’ve probably never heard of Jerry Fisher. Nobody has, outside the business. Jerry Fisher is the biggest agent at CMA except for Sue Mengers, and some people say he’s bigger than her. A couple of CMA clients won’t talk to anybody but him. He has a list of big names, and one of them is Clete Williams.
If you’ve ever had a heavy smoker in your life, I guarantee you that person didn’t smoke half as much as Jerry Fisher. He was a professional smoker—a walking, talking nicotine cloud—and I’m pretty sure studio executives, even if they were amateur smokers themselves, said yes half the time just to end the meeting and go get some fresh air. “Jason,” he wheezed as he flicked ashes on the motel carpeting, “what the hell are you doing about this mess?”
That was exactly what Greenblatt said to me two days ago. Count on an agent to be two days late.
“Jerry,” I said, “we have it all under control.”
“Under control? The press is terrible. It’s all over the country, people saying that Clete Williams killed this guy, what’s-his-name.”
“McDougall,” I said.
