Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [42]
UNLIKE F. TODD WALLACE, Sal Sensibar could smell a deal in the making from two continents away. He’d go through trash cans, listen from stalls in the men’s room, supply girls for a key lawyer at the studio. Sal knew what was going on and he didn’t learn it from reading Variety.
There was a particular producer in town I truly admired, Judd Schlosberg. Who wouldn’t? He had been a wonderchild, running a studio when he was twenty-seven. Later, he became one of the first independent producers in Hollywood.
When you meet with a producer and he says, “I have the greatest respect for the writer,” you know the son of a bitch is lying. Judd Schlosberg probably never uttered those words but he had worked successfully with Maxwell Anderson, Tennessee Williams, and John Steinbeck. That was really what attracted me.
He usually left his writers alone and a goodly number of his scripts were lush and translated to the screen with great care and taste. Schlosberg had four Oscars on a shelf behind his desk for best picture, plus the Thalberg Award for lifetime achievement and the Hersholt Humanitarian Award.
When Sal found out Schlosberg had purchased an obscure little story about the great Texas gunfighter, John Hardin, from Atlantic I told him I wanted him to get me the job.
Judd Schlosberg was a short man, barely over five feet, with a kind of angelic face. His office was a subtle showcase of his achievements, a holy room topped off with a dozen Remington paintings and statues.
Judd Schlosberg had heard enough bullshit from the lips of glib writers to create landfill for a medium-sized city. I wasn’t about to give him his first snow job.
“You don’t have any track record as a Western writer,” he said.
“This story could be set on a ship, with a gang of tunnel workers, with a football team. The whole world is one big cowboy story. There’s no mystery to a Western. I asked for a crack at this because I know what you saw in the story and what you want out of it.”
“What did I see in it?”
“You’ve got everyone in Hollywood riding in those sixteen saddles. Maybe the whole world.”
He knew my perception and approach were exactly like his and gave me four weeks to do a treatment. I took no shortcuts. It was the best I could write. I needed this one so badly I found places my typewriter had never roamed.
Sal turned it in and the agonizing wait began. After two weeks, Sal called. “We’ve heard from Schlosberg’s office. He wants to see us tomorrow at ten.”
Heart in the throat time. “How do you read it, Sal?”
“I’m positive he wants to go into screenplay.”
FROM THE TIME Junkyard had left for Hong Kong, I never spoke with Val about the gist of our evening. Nonetheless his words preyed on my mind, constantly. If I were to make one last shot at being a novelist I had to find the courage to overcome my dread of loneliness. I knew that there were a raft of other phobias I would have to conquer in order to become a complete novelist. It doesn’t fall like manna from heaven.
I had made the decision that if Judd Schlosberg gave me the screenplay I would do it alone in St. Barthélemy. One of the cheapest commodities in the world is unfulfilled genius. All of us want to be known as a unique individual, the one who broke out of the pack. So, you offer yourself up as a sacrifice and what you’re afraid of is losing and being thrown back into the pack. One question taunts you. Do you want to have, or do you want to be?
I realized now that I’d have to prove something all my life. I could never go a hundred yards without a barrier blocking my way.
I had run out of time in keeping my plans from Val. Tomorrow Schlosberg might give me the screenplay and I’d have to tell her.
We were at poolside. Val was fixing drinks. She had on high heels and a bikini. Still a dynamite-looking woman.
“Cheers,” she said with a kiss. “So, tomorrow’s the big day. Why don’t we go to New York or Vegas for a long weekend and shoot out the lights?”
My expression must have been grim. She reacted with apprehensive curiosity. “You certainly don’t look like the man who