Читать книгу Keeper of the Flame - Jack Batten - Страница 7

“Damn,” I said, “I hate it when they do that.”

“Who does what, man?” Jerome said.

We were sitting at a table in the window of Freda, an intimate, stone-floored restaurant around the corner from my office specializing in pasta dishes.

“They changed the menu,” I said. “I always have the chicken sandwich. Now it’s gone. Eliminated. Disappeared.”

A young waitress appeared. Like all Freda’s waitstaff, she looked crisp and smart in white shirts and black pants. Our waitress had exquisite features and a slim build. She left us with two menus and two glasses of water.

“Chicken sandwich, man?” Jerome looked aghast. “You come to an Italian restaurant and you order a chicken sandwich?”

“It’s organic chicken!”

“Chicken sandwich ain’t a manly dish, man.”

The waitress returned, and Jerome asked for spaghetti Bolognese and a glass of red wine.

“Spaghetti Bolognese is manly, Jerome?”

“The thing speaks for itself, man.”

“You’re kidding, Jerome, right?”

Jerome smiled at me.

“I’ll have the same as my friend,” I said to the waitress.

She wrote my order and went away.

Jerome said, “What’s your opinion so far about the problem with Flame?”

“Back in the office,” I said, “I couldn’t help noticing your Mr. Carnale didn’t always have the answers to my questions on the tip of his tongue.”

“That’s ’cause he’s the big picture man.”

“Give me an example,” I said. “I assume you’re talking about the big pictures in Flame’s career?”

“Roger Carnale’s the man that spotted Flame’s talent in the first place. This was before the kid was called Flame, back ten, twelve years when he was, like, fifteen, just doing his thing in some little neighbourhood ice cream soda club.”

“Very astute of Roger,” I said. “But it’s ancient history. Not directly related to the present problem with the clergyman. What’s a more recent big picture item Roger’s promoting?”

Jerome waggled an index finger at me. “Now we getting to the reason you been hired.”

The waitress came back with our glasses of red wine.

“The big step Mr. Carnale’s rolling with,” Jerome said, “Flame’s gonna become a movie star.”

“There’s a market for rap movie musicals?”

Jerome leaned over the table. “See, man, that’s where Mr. Carnale keeps his eye on the big picture before the average guy does.”

“I’m all on tenterhooks.”

“Listen to this,” Jerome said. “Flame’s the next great romantic movie idol.”

“Not just a singer, but an actor too?” I said, probably sounding skeptical.

“Flame’s got the acting chops, man. You heard of the Stella Adler Acting Studio in New York?”

“Very leading edge, I believe. Or maybe it once was.”

“Flame’s been studying there the last year.”

“But you said something about Flame being the next romantic idol. What’s that mean? He’s going to pick up where Denzel Washington’s leaving off?”

“Don’t think colour, man.”

“What am I missing?”

“Flame’s destiny, he’ll be the Cary Grant of his generation. Flame’s post-racial, man. Doesn’t matter to the audience he’s black. They never notice he’s black, white, whatever. Flame’s romantic in the eyes of the whole spectrum, you understand what I’m sayin’?”

I didn’t respond right away.

“You have heard of Cary Grant, man?” Jerome asked, persisting.

“Jerome, it’s people of the present I’ve never heard of,” I said. “People from the past, they overlap with my past. Cary Grant was tall and handsome, cleft chin, made the ladies swoon, filled the men with envy even though they admired him as much as the ladies did.”

“Cleft chin, man,” Jerome said. “Flame’s got one of those.”

“Now that I think about it,” I said, “there’s nobody among today’s Hollywood leading men who’s Grant-like in looks or style or wit.”

“Those guys need a shave, got their little goatees. You’re right, man, they ain’t got the touch old Cary had. Maybe George Clooney, but otherwise no way, man.”

The waitress arrived with our main courses. While she went through the routine of serving us, offering fresh pepper, a sprink-ling of cheese, I wondered about Jerome’s estimate of Flame’s future.

“A young black guy as the next Cary Grant?” I said. “Hard to see it.”

“Puts you in the minority, man,” Jerome said.

“Who’s in the majority?”

“We got a finished script. Got a big-name director signed on. And, listen up here, Crang, we got a contract with a Los Angeles studio. Major studio, man. People’re putting fifty million into our project.”

I stopped chewing. “I’m impressed, Jerome. Practically speechless.”

“Gonna be a big public announcement the end of September,” Jerome said. “Providing there’s no setback before then.”

“Like the blackmailing minister of God? That kind of setback?”

“Like him, like the Reverend Alton Douglas. Only, the thing about Alton coming along at this particular moment, it’s coincidental.”

“He’s not attempting his Flame shakedown because he knows the movie contract is going to put Flame in the chips any minute now?”

“Not possible, man,” Jerome said. “Number one, he couldn’t have heard about the movie. We got the cone of silence workin’ for us till the minute we go public. There’s been nothing about the movie on Twitter, nothing in what they call the trade papers, Hollywood Reporter and such like. The Reverend’ll learn about it the same time everybody else does.”

“So, you’re telling me Flame’s worth eight million without introducing the movie money into the mix?”

“Mr. Carnale say he could snap his fingers at the bankers, man, and they’d send over ten million, twenty, in a Brinks truck, all cash money, do it in a flash.”

“I follow you, Jerome,” I said. “But the coincidence of the Reverend Alton Douglas coming on to the scene right now means that whatever he’s got on Flame could blow up the movie.”

“That’s the problem in a nutshell, man.”

“So tell me this,” I said, “what information has this Reverend put together on my new client, Flame?”

“Now,” Jerome said, “we at the ugly part.”

“We are?”

“Very ugly, man. Very.”