Life Blood --II---Page 6

Apparently, when he started out, somebody told him cable
audiences possessed an insatiable appetite for bare-skin-and-
jiggle. Hey, he figured, that stuff he could grind out in his sleep.
His first, and last, epic in the skin genre was Wet T-Shirt
Weekend, whose title says it all. He explained the economics to
me once, still baffled why the picture hadn't worked. He'd
assumed all you had to do was find a bunch of nineteen-year-olds
who looked like they're sixteen, go nonunion someplace down
South with a beach, and take care the wardrobe trailer has
nothing but string bikinis. "Cost only a million-eight to make," he
declared with pride, "but every penny is on the screen."
        He insisted I watch it, perplexed that it was universally
regarded as a turkey. It was a painful experience, so much so I
actually began to wonder if his heart was really in it. (The great
schlockmeisters secretly think they're Fellini; they're operating at
the top of their form, not consciously pandering.)
        Chastened financially, he decided to move into low-budget
action-adventure. His efforts, most notably Virtual Cop, had car
chases, blue-screen explosions, buckets of fake blood.
Somebody died creatively in every scene.

They did business in Asia and Southern Europe, but he was dumbfounded when nobody at HBO or Showtime would return his calls. It gnawed at his self-esteem.

That was the moment we found each other. He'd just

concluded he needed somebody with a quality reputation to give Applecore an image makeover, and I'd realized I needed
somebody who knew more than I did about the mechanics of making and distributing independent films.

We were an odd couple. I finally shook hands on the

partnership after he caved in and agreed I could do anything I

wanted, so long as it looked mainstream enough to get picked up
by Time-Warner or somebody else legit. Well, quasi-legit. We
both agreed on no more bikinis and no more films about places
that required cholera shots. It was something of a compromise on
both our parts.

Thus far, though, we were getting along. Maybe luck was part
of it, but Baby Love was still on schedule and on budget. And I
already had a deal nearly in the bag with Lifetime, the women's
channel, that would just about cover the costs. Everything after
that would be gravy. Again, hope hope. Maybe not the theatrical
release I'd been praying for, but good enough—so he had to smile

and not give me a hard time about the money I'd just spent. Had
to, right?

I took a deep breath.

"David, I did a little extra shooting this morning that's kind of. . . outside the plan. But it's really important. Want to hear about it?"
        "What! I thought you were finished with principal

photography." He looked disoriented, the deer in the headlights. Hints of extra crew time always had that effect on him. "You're saying this wasn't in the budget?"

"Just listen first, okay?" Like a politician, I avoided giving him
a direct answer. I told him about the interview with Carly and the
reason for it.

"Nice of you to share the news with me." His eyes narrowed.
"I think we've got some big-time communication issues here."
        "Look, don't worry. I'll figure out how to save some money
somewhere else."

"Morgy, before we continue this unnerving conversation,

we've got to have a serious review of the matter of cash flow." He
frowned, then went back to whirling the pencil, his hair
backlighted from the wide window, his eyes focused on its stubby
eraser as though he'd just discovered a new strain of bacteria.
"So let me break some news regarding the current budget."
        He put down the pencil, adjusted its location on his desk, and
looked up. "I didn't want to have to upset you, since the picture
seems to be going so well, but we've drawn down almost all our
cash. I actually think that's why Nicky was here today, sniffing
around, wanting to see a rough cut. He's got a keen nose for indy
cash-flow trouble."

"What are you saying?" It was unsettling to see David turning so serious. "Are we—?"

"I'm saying we can cover the payroll here, all our fixed nut,

even Nicky's vig, for maybe six more weeks, if you and I don't pay
ourselves. Of course, if we can get an advance on some kind of
cable deal, that would tide us over more comfortably till this thing
is in the can. But right now we're sailing pretty close on the wind.
I've bet Applecore on your picture, Morgan. We can't screw this
up."

I swallowed hard. I knew we were working on the edge, but I didn't know the edge was down to six weeks.

"David, I'm all but ready for postproduction. I'm just thinking I may need one more interview. Just a one-day shoot. I'm going to make this picture work. You'll see."

He sighed. "All right, if you think it's essential, get the footage.
Maybe I can even shake another fifty out of Nicky, if I string him
along about the distribution deal—don't look so alarmed, I won't go
through with it. Anyway, I can tell he's impressed with the picture
so far. Happy now?"

No, I wasn't happy. What was I going to do if Hannah Klein had bad news? Adoption? I finally was facing the fact I'd possibly been making a movie about myself all this time. Like Yeats,
penning his own tombstone. "Cast a cold eye, on life, on death. ."
        So why not give him the whole story?

"David, if it turns out Steve and I can't have a baby, I've begun thinking about trying to adopt." There it was. More pain. "Maybe I'm about to become the heroine of my own picture."

He stared at me incredulously.

"Morgy, you of all people should know by now that adopting
would take up all your energy, like a giant sponge. Come on. I've
seen your dailies. I got it, about how hard it is. You telling me now
you didn't get it?"

He was right. Righter than he realized. But then I thought

again about Carly Grove, who'd found Kevin in no time at all, with zero hassles. The only troubling part was that it was all so
mysterious. . .

After I left David's office, I remembered I hadn't actually had lunch, so I grabbed two hot dogs with sauerkraut (okay, it was junk, but I secretly loved kosher franks) and a Diet Pepsi to go, from one of the striped-umbrella vendors, then hailed a cab
clutching the grungy brown bag.

I was heading for Hannah Klein's office on the Upper West
Side. And now I had another clock ticking in addition to the
biological one. The big money clock in the sky was suddenly on
final countdown.