Kingdom Come

By Edward Norton

The movie had been on TV for years. No one cared until it became a "classic," and now it's the rage, with restaurants named for it. It was made in black/white and resulted in a murder, Living participants meet in LA and relive the movie no one paid attention to at the time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Norton
• Release date: Sep 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466183247

Edward Norton

Edward C. Norton, author of more than 10 novels, was an award-winning reporter/editor in New Jersey and New York. He was named a Nieman Fellow at Harvard University.Norton left daily journalism to write about public affairs and business issues for Mobil Corporation in op-ed ads in Time, The New York Times and Reader’s Digest. He retired as communications manager from Hoechst Celanese Corporation.As a free lance, Norton has had articles published in various magazines, including New York. and the first daily internet newspaper on Cape Cod. His novel, Station Breaks , was published by Dell [1986] and The House: 1916, [1999] was also published by RavensYard. His novels have been published under pen names, such as Adrian Manning, Lane Carlson, West Straits and Ted Neachtain.Norton can be reached at [e-mail]

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Kingdom Come

by Edward Norton

Published by Ravensyard Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Edward Norton

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1

The Invitation

About all you have left at the end are the memories and the fragments of dreams. The old man thought of that often. He shifted his weight from his painful hip. He was sitting in the elegant wingback chair he liked. It faced the window. The warm sunlight was comfortable. He could smell floor wax. The sun and the smell were pleasant. He liked the sunny days. He disliked the nights. The others, well, they had their flickering televisions.

He didn't have a television. He disliked television. That was understandable, as he had worked for more than l5 years as a television producer and director. He had stopped when he realized that the work would eventually kill him. He had more than enough money for his small needs. It wasn't financial security that he needed as much as mental peace. He didn't differ from about 90 percent of those his age. Most people found no refuge from their problems in age--they just found more problems.

Television, he knew, gave no one security, just a temporary disconnect from reality. He had quit what they called the industry and few of his colleagues were surprised. The industry, of course, flowed like a wide river, uncaring who or what was floating in it. It was like any polluted river in the country, only more so.

You have a phone call, Mrs. Sudmeyer called from the hallway. The old man was startled by her voice. He was listening to the voice in his head. His phone calls usually came on his own phone in his room, and very infrequently at that. Usually it was some salesman trying to sell him something, a cold call.

Mrs. Sudmeyer went back into her office in the front of the modern brick building. He shuffled along behind her, angry with himself over his unresponsive legs. They always go first, he had heard all his life.

Hal?the voice asked.The old man recognized Lou Wattstein's voice. The old man grunted. Wattstein had been the young Wharton grad he had hired back in the 70s, the kid who wanted to plunge into Hollywood, the dream of millions of like-minded accountants. Now Wattstein was a producer, but of what the old man could not say immediately. The old man wondered if he should just hang up, silently. But hang up all the same.

Lissen, Wattstein said, I had a hell of a time finding you. I had to pull some strings at the bank. I said it was a matter of life or death. Wattstein laughed. They gave me your address. The old man was silent.

Hal, you gotta come out here next month. Lissen, UCLA is givin' us a festival, a fucking festival. Just for the movie. Whatdja say?

The old man thought quickly, hard to do these days. He knew that if he backed down that it would lead to an endless argument, and more phone calls.

Sure, Lou, he said. Next month.

Great! Wattstein said. Lissen, I'll get you a suite at the Century, huh? The studio isn't puttin' bubkis into this. I gotta be straight with you. The putzes are too busy with real estate in Mexico, and cocaine from who-rode-the horse. Bastids!

The old man held the phone away from his ear as the tirade continued.

He knew that it was hopeless to stop Wattstein in the middle of one of his complaints. He knew that the producer would soon fade into an excoriation of the former agents, lawyers and real-estate dealers who had taken over the film and television production industry in Los Angeles. The old man didn't have anything against them all, particularly, other than the fact that he didn't want to be among them.

"I told the guy at the school that you'd need a limo, too, ' Wattstein said.

Yeah, Lou, the old man said. He thought about how he had groomed Wattstein years before as a junior half-ass producer of one of the comedy westerns then in vogue. Wattstein had come to the company about l980, he guessed. Wattstein had stuck it out, actually making a name for himself in the industry--for his ability to pressure cook the fat out of a production and shooting budget. Wattstein was not a favorite of the below-the-line guilds, the craftsmen who really made movies. Wattstein had a nose for padding and he cut ruthlessly.

After what seemed like an hour the old man hung up and shuffled out of the office. He returned to the chair and the sun. This was just another complication, he thought, one that he would have to handle. It wasn't only that Wattstein had found him, but the old man was sure that Wattstein would now put the word out on the coast, and God knew what would follow. He could see the headline in The Reporter: Hal Lee found living in geriatric home in the east. Then it would begin, he felt sure. He felt very tired.

From what little the old man had seen of local news television programs, he knew that the two stations were desperate for anything that boosted the region, or anything that smacked of the bigtime. The region was definitely small time, but like most of the United States it consciously worked to correct that in the minds of residents. The old man wondered sometimes if people really cared that they lived in the Golden Triangle, or The Twin Cities, or any of the other made-up names. Even New York was the Apple. LA was LA. It didn't used to be that way, he remembered. People came from Pittsburgh, or Montana, and that was that.

As he slipped toward the edge of sleep, the old man decided that his peace and security would be shattered as soon as the first camera crew climbed out of their truck. He would be discovered, a one-day sensation, ninety seconds on the evening news.

As Wattstein put down his phone he had a smug, satisfied feeling. He had found the old bastard. He had run him to ground. It had taken the efforts of his son-in-law, a lawyer with the state attorney general's office. It was the lawyer who had applied the pressure on the bank to give up Hal Lee's whereabouts. And he was successful, Wattstein knew, because he had known that Hal Lee was Harold Lauer.

Got 'im! Wattstein said to himself. With Hal Lee, he knew, he could make a real splash at UCLA. A real festival. Without Hal Lee, Wattstein knew, he was left with a couple of shaggy assholes on the faculty, and 6,000 angry fans, all under 30. With Hal Lee,

Wattstein felt he could turn the thing into a deal, something to trade.

Wattstein grabbed the phone and punched the buttons. He swung back in his oversize executive chair. This one ought to be good, he thought. He would be very interested to hear about Hal Lee. He thought about the reaction that he was sure to get.

The guy had been looking for Hal Lee for years. Every time Wattstein brought the name up the guy turned red. Wattstein knew that it had something to do with the guy's former wife and money. Didn't it always, he thought.

Hal Lee's chin was nearly on his breastbone when the housekeeper tried to wake him. He felt depressed, as depressed as he had been in Palm Springs.

That goddam Wattstein, Lee thought. The bastard wants to get me killed.

Chapter 2

Taking A Meeting

It was Wattstein's persistence that was rewarded. A final shooting script from Kingdom Come, marked by Hal Lee. He had gotten it from Hal Lee's agent, Maury Fishbein.

Don't tell him I'm giving you this, Fishbein had said.

I saved it for some reason. I don't collect scripts.

The agent was a shrunken, old man now. "I got out in 1980. I was taking my pills and they were taking theirs. I remember that Hal was broken up, losing his wife about that time. Who wouldn't be?

Let me tell you, I had my share, but I never made it my work. It was sort of a hobby. The old man laughed silently.

I had warned him about Laurel. But who listened? She was a slut, sure. And he needed work. Fishbein had seemed to shrink further into his pale sweater. The room was too hot.

Listen, Fishbein said, I was afraid that skinny guy was never gonna work again, y'know? He didn't have any rabbis in the business. He came cheap, and he couldn't get hooked up at that time with a major.

You mean you couldn't get him a contract, Wattstein had said.

Listen, it wasn't easy, Fishbein said, rising in his chair. He cost me good money. Lost commission. Who remembered the good work he did? The studios wanted today, not yesterday. Then he made that hit, what was it called? Anyway, he was loose, see? The industry was changing then. Boy, was it ever. The ass was falling off. Even Louie B had to take a walk.

Like how? Wattstein asked.

Like the boy wonders were running the studios, and they were all over themselves wanting new, new. There was television, wrestling at first, and who knew what it all meant? The studios didn't want any part of it, at first. The first in there were the over-the-hill guys. I mean, who wanted to make a movie with Eddie Cantor then? So he went into TV. Well, he said, clearing his throat, you know what happened.

Wattstein nodded. Ah, Kingdom...

Yeah, well, they gave Hal an office at Sterling. Small. He worked there with Rosen and that writer, whatsisname, uh, Levy. Real pain in the ass, that guy. He and Rosen fought over every page of the script. Levy was hired in New York. Fishbein looked at Wattstein sharply. You a writer? Wattstein shook his head no.

Good, Fishbein said. I had one rule in my agency. No writers. I peddled comics, bum actors, fags, dykes, you-name-it. But no writers. I learned from my uncle. He told me in 1943 they were all pains in the ass, and that you couldn't make a living off them. They all had fat mouths. Bastids! Well, anyway, Levy was the writer, the book, too. Had nice sales, I remember. I was there, over at Sterling, a few times. They battled over every page. Rosen made a mistake when he hired Levy for the script. There were tons of guys around would've done what they were told on that one. So, Rosen hired the author and suddenly he's got this monster on his hands.

"Hal tells me that for a beginner, it wasn't bad, see? Hal trimmed it. But Rosen wanted more changes and that's where the fighting got goin'. It was something to see. This Levy, he doesn't know that you don't argue with a studio producer, he's

gonna make a movie out of your book. You should, them days, kiss his ass on Melrose Avenue at noon."

What was Levy like? Wattstein asked. Fishbein twisted in his chair.

Tall thin guy, a real shtarker, to hear him tell it. He said he had been in Israel in '48, you know. And he was in the big war. Before that he was even in Spain. He was one of those guys we had around then, always telling us how we were all putzes, fuckin' away our lives in the industry, when the real world out there needed our help. He even asked me to help him out...

How so? Wattstein asked. Fishbein twisted again. It was clear that he was uncomfortable. Ah, lissen, between us, huh?

Wattstein nodded. Sure.

Well, Fishbein said. When I first met him, it wasn't an hour later that he started in on me, about Israel, you know, how every Jew had a duty, bullshit, bullshit. I told him that I was 4F. He said, 'bullshit'. He said that I could go over there and front for some stuff they had going in various places...

"I said,'What the hell you talkin' about?' and he said that when he got the movie done he was going back and run some guns for them. I think he was involved with the Irgun, y'know...At that time you had Longy running around California, puttin' the

arm on people for Israel..."

Longy? Wattstein asked.

He could see that Fishbein was disappointed by the question.

"You're makin' me feel old, kid. Mean to say you never heard of Longy Zwillman, the man from New Jersey? He was a real shtarker, with Costello and them back in New York. He liked to come out and roll around, a real heavyweight, not some actor puttin'

on a face like Cagney. Longy was the real McCoy. Well, Longy was puttin' the arm on people, fund raising, except no one would say no to Longy. Levy I could say no to.

Hey! I told him that I'd give him a donation, he wants. He never collected. The movie took up his attention, then the shooting, and well, then he was dead...

Did he get along with Hal? Wattstein asked.

Fishbein rubbed his chin. Yeah, sure. Fishbein cleared his throat and moved again in the chair.

"See, Hal was a tough guy then, too. He came back from Korea all shot up. Never said a word about it, but we all knew.

Was he happy to get the work? Wattstein asked.

You bet your ass. Lissen, I told him that that dame had him racked up. She'd made him a laughingstock, see? First, every one in town in envious, see, 'cause he can go home, bang her, he wants. Then she starts banging her way around town and he has to throw her out. Some of us knew the real story, even at the time,see? The rest of the schmucks, he shrugged. They believed the bullshit.

So, how long did it take to get a shooting script? Wattstein asked.

Fishbein's wrinkled brow knotted in concentration. About two weeks, I think, they worked on it. Just a matter of puttin' the scenes into camera setups, y'know...

Who did it? Wattstein asked.

Hal, of course. The other two were fighting, and Hal put it all together. Nice job, too. He should have gotten screen credit for that, too.

Didn't Hal Lee and Levy get along? Wattstein asked.

Hal made a big mistake when he let Levy come along on location. Hey, in the studio most directors didn't even want to see a writer on the sound stage. I guess Hal figured this guy'd be helpful. Ha!

But Hal got along with Levy?

"Sure, I told you. Hal was a tough guy, but he was unusual in those days. He worked like these television directors do today--bang, bang, he was done. May not be art but it's in the can. The other guys around then, they were used to working in the studios, where the shooting schedule was loose, say 40 days, hell, take 50, so what? L.B. would jump up and down, and what the hell. Retakes after retakes. I know of one director met this bimbo in the middle of a picture, and shooting and all, and he took off for Palm Springs with her. Made a hell of a mess.

"'So what?' they said in those days. ' It's only money.' The movies made money, so who cared?

Hal Lee didn't fuck around, I'll tell you. He wasn't like many of those prima donnas in those days. They had a girl friend, boom, they wanted her in some bit part, or her aunt, or someone. All kinds of games they played. Fishbein shrugged. Well, they play the same games today, he said softly. "But lots of them guys charged technicians to work on their films, y'know? You get a good light man, he needs a couple of good months, see, maybe he'd knock back some bucks for a western out in Arizona. Ha! Today they don't even make westerns no more.

But lots of that kind of shit went on, bimbos, kickbacks, and puttin' relatives on the payroll. Hell, the studios did it every day...

Wattstein came away from the meeting at sunset with his head filled with trivia about the studio system as Fishbein had experienced it in the 40s and 50s. He knew that the old man had had a good rep as a second-rank agent. Not one of the super

agents, by a long nose, but respectable. The primary rule in that world was survival, and Fishbein had survived. Many of the other high flyers had lost the touch, in Fishbein's own words.

Driving back to his office, Wattstein mused over the production of what was one of the most influential movies of the present generation. It had started in acrimony between the producer and the writer, both less than first rank in the Hollywood spectrum of 40 years ago. And a director picked from the back lot, good for action and saving money. Hell...it sounded like a bad movie script, Wattstein thought. Not many good movies ever made about movie making. Wattstein was aware of the irony of the multi-million dollar lunches at Ma Maison, for projects that end with a thud, and his knowledge that on some back street right now a couple of has-beens, or young never-wases were planning tomorrow's blockbuster. It summed up the whole entertainment business in a nutshell. You couldn't ever predict. Crap roll every time.

Wattstein had tried to explain it at a business lunch once, to the financial vice president of a soda company that had bought into a studio. He remembered with distaste the man's unblinking stare. The guy had no idea what the industry was like. He didn't know that you couldn't plan production the way you could schedule bottles out of a plant in Alabama. The product was not consistent, and the public didn't