The Nomination

By Taylor Waters

Elliot Crane is a Hollywood legend. His rise in Hollywood started in the '70s, but with his latest Oscar nomination his star couldn’t burn brighter.

Rachel McGrath, a young journalist, is on a mission to learn Elliot’s secret, one that’s haunted him since his childhood in Brooklyn.

As Oscar night quickly approaches, Rachel’s investigation brings her face to face with flunkies, boozers, and ex-wives from Elliot's past, but it’s a trip to Brooklyn that gives Rachel what she needs to confront him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Taylor Waters
• Release date: Feb 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311097828

Taylor Waters

Taylor Waters is a screenwriter and novelist.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

He lives in a six-thousand square foot, five-bedroom Beverly Hills home overlooking the Los Angeles Basin. From his half-acre backyard he can see downtown Los Angeles to his left and the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier and the Pacific Ocean on his right. He owns close to two hundred million in assets, including a three-story brownstone in Manhattan, a lavish, hilltop condo in Aspen, and a small villa and six-acre vineyard tucked away in a cool valley in northern Tuscany. When he visits San Francisco, he stays in the top floor suite at the Palace Hotel, no charge—the owner is a close personal friend.

He keeps fifty million dollars in a series of savings accounts in five different banks, just in case, and a hundred thousand split between a wall safe and a floor safe in his Beverly Hills home. When he goes out at night, he tucks a few thousand dollars in cash into his suit pocket. The valets hopping the cars at Teddy’s or Nobu can expect to get a few hundred when they retrieve his Bugatti Veyron 16.4.

He is a famous man and the public loves him.

On this particular night he’d arrived at Nobu around ten, took his usual booth in the back, and was soon joined by an entourage of sycophants, including a gaggle of four twenty-something young ladies who pushed in, each vying for his attention. Introductions were made, bodies shuffled in and out of the booth, and two of the young ladies, a blonde and a redhead named Christy and Olivia, plopped down to surround him on both sides. They were all happy for him, for he was expecting big news the following morning. Good looking, well-dressed men and women took selfies with him and whispered private messages into his ear. He regaled them with stories of the good ol’ days and some about the recent past. He told very few about the present. There was much laughter, much drinking, and even some coke lines cut and snorted on the glass table top. He stayed away from the coke. Some things you just can’t teach the young ones, they had to find out for themselves.

Just before midnight, he told everyone it was time to go. They shouted over the din of the hip hop that it was just too early, cajoling him to stay, suggesting they all watch the show together in the morning. He politely declined, grabbed Christy and Olivia, and said his goodbyes. They all watched him leave, shaking their heads and smiling, wishing they could be his best friend.

When the Bugatti came around, the girls had to sit one on top of the other since there was no back seat. He took the winding roads up to his hilltop home with ease, weaving and gassing the million dollar car like a bucking bronco that couldn’t wait to get out of the gate. He’d driven this path so many times the past thirty years, drunk and sober; he could do it in his sleep.

When he neared his home, he tapped a button on the Bugatti’s dashboard and the twelve-foot-tall wrought-iron gate, ordained with flying angels playing flutes, opened slowly. He drove a hundred fifty feet down the winding tree-lined path and pulled into the third stall of a six-car garage. When they entered the house, he showed the ladies to the back where, with a simple voice command, the floor to ceiling glass wall parted, revealing a ten-seat bar under a thatched bamboo canopy and a nearby jacuzzi. The main pool and second jacuzzi were twenty yards down the hill. He poured them each a drink. It was a chilly January morning and the hot tub was just what he needed. Christy and Olivia didn’t have to be prompted—they stripped off their party dresses, grabbed their drinks, and slipped naked into the hot water. He walked past them, a Knob Creek on the rocks in his hand, and strolled across his manicured lawn to the low cobblestone wall at the back of his property. The area beyond the wall dropped into a steep brush filled canyon. He sat on the wall and stared out at the lights of L.A. How many times had he stood in this very same location, he wondered, looking at the very same lights? It had been a long time since he’d thought about it, but it came to him now in a flash—the sound of the gunshots. He turned away, shaking the memory from his mind.

Hey, what are you doing down there? Christy shouted from the jacuzzi.

Come on! Olivia shouted, waving her arm for him to come back and join them.

He moved back up the low hill leaning forward due to the slight incline and felt his heart pumping and the familiar twinge of pain in his right knee. He made it to the deck, took off his clothes, and slipped into the tub with the girls. They didn’t seem to care that he was old and out of shape. He’d spent the past forty years making movies and pleasing his fans. But the work and career had been in a tailspin for the past ten years. He wasn’t receiving the best scripts anymore. What he did receive was for shit—until Chance Encounter, a love story between an older man and a younger woman with a mentally challenged son. It was what they called a small film, one with heart. It debuted at Sundance, the first film of a gifted young female writer/director named Kelly Lee Simpson. She’d written the script during a semester at Sundance. An old character actor friend of his, Harold Templeton, had come to Sundance for the week to teach and help, as was customary each semester. When Harold read the script and talked with Kelly, she’d mentioned in passing that she wanted this particular Hollywood legend to star. Harold told her he would get the script to his old friend. Kelly was ecstatic.

Although the part wasn’t typical of his past work, which was mainly wise guys and hard-ass detectives, he’d jumped at the chance to work again. He knew it would be a challenge to play the soft-hearted Robert Green, but that’s also what made him so excited for the part. When the film debuted the critics used words like nuanced, understated, and pitch-perfect to describe his portrayal of the widower and amateur magician who took the shy, introverted young man under his wing and introduced him to the world of magic. They praised the chemistry between him and his co-star Julia Hathaway. James Starke, who played Hathaway’s son, was deemed brilliant and a revelation in just his third feature film. It was expected that Chance Encounter would get nominations in almost every major category.

* * *

At 5:28 am, the alarm sounded next to his bed. He awoke with a start and punched the alarm button, rubbing his eyes.

Where’s the flipper? he said, more to himself than to Christy or Olivia, who were both sound asleep next to him. He found the TV remote and flipped on the sixty-inch LED television, clicking channels until he found CBS. Someone moaned beside him and soon Christy was lying next to him, watching.

Why are you awake? Christy said, running her hand across his bare back.

It’s almost time for the nominations, he said.

What? she said.

On the television screen, Michelle Pfeiffer, looking radiant so early in the morning, stood at a podium with a pair of stylish glasses on the tip of her nose. A large high definition display screen filled the wall behind her. He smiled at the television and said in a soft and loving voice, Good morning, Michelle. I will never forget July twenty first, nineteen ninety two, in Rothenburg, Germany. Strawberry cake and hot chocolate. I am yours forever, you sweet and generous woman.

Michelle read through the best supporting actress category. He nodded approvingly at each one. Then Michelle read the best supporting actor. The last name she called was James Starke for Chance Encounter.

Fuck! he said, through clenched teeth, If they only knew.

What’s wrong? Christy said. I love James Starke. He’s so hot.

Shh, he said, quieting her as the best actress nominations were announced. The face of each actress popped up as Michelle called them out. The last one called was Julia Hathaway.

Yes, he said, pumping his fist in the air.

The best actor nominations were next. Michelle adjusted her glasses and curled her blond hair behind her ear as she peered at the prompter hidden off screen.

The nominations for best actor are... Michelle said.

He quickly sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his fat gut covering his naked lap.

Let’s watch— Christy said.

Quiet! he shouted, raising his arm and clicking up the volume.

Michelle stared out at the prompter and said, "Gary Oldman in Stalingrad, Nicolas Cage in Faster, Faster, Edward Norton in Expert Witness." The faces of Oldman, Cage, and Norton appeared behind Michelle.

His gut tightened and he gripped the edge of the teak bed frame, his knuckles whitening.

Please, he whispered to himself.

"Ryan Gosling in Dharma Bums…"

His heart thumped.

Let’s watch a movie, Christy said.

What? He didn’t hear what Michelle said, but he saw a photo of himself flash onto the screen behind her head.

What’d she say? I need to hear it. Back…where’s back?

He held the remote in both hands like a Star Wars light saber, pointing and slashing at the air between him and the TV, searching for the back button. He found it, hit it twice, and Michelle repeated, "…Gosling in Dharma Bums. He slapped his hand over Christy’s mouth and held it there and, just as his house phone rang, he heard Michelle Pfeiffer say, And hooray, Elliot Crane for Chance Encounter."

Whoo hoo! Elliot shouted and stood, spastically waving his arms over his head. He ran out of the room and down the hallway, shouting as he went. He came running back in and danced a jig while Christy watched, his man-boobs bouncing up and down along with his belly. He grabbed Christy from the bed and stood her up on the floor, gripping her by the shoulders.

You know what this means? Elliot said.

What? Christy said.

It’s an omen from God! Elliot shouted.

He danced his jig once again. Olivia stirred in the bed, turned over, and opened her eyes.

What’s wrong? Olivia said.

Elliot moved to the bed and gave Olivia a big kiss on the mouth.

What’s wrong? Elliot said. Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart. Everything’s just fine. In fact, it couldn’t be better. Elliot Crane just got nominated for his third Best Actor Oscar.

Olivia looked at him with a blank stare.

But aren’t you Elliot Crane? she said, still half asleep.

Elliot looked from Olivia to Christy then back to Olivia again. Then he stretched his arms out wide and with a big Cheshire Cat smile on his face said, That’s right, darling…the one and only.

CHAPTER 2

Later, after their shower and a breakfast of eggs, bacon, tomato slices and toasted bagel and cream cheese, Elliot shuffled the ladies into a town car and told the driver to take them home, wherever that may be. It was nine am when Elliot pulled out of his gated driveway in his Mars Red 2013 Mercedes SL Class Roadster and moved down the hill toward Sunset Boulevard, pushing the button to lower the top as he went. After a stop at his favorite florist to pick up two dozen long-stemmed red roses, he was on his way east. He punched a button on the steering wheel and said, Call Carlo. Moments later he had his best friend and legendary Hollywood producer Carlo Frenette on the phone.

I’m telling you, Carlo, it’s an omen from God. I swore if I got nominated I was going to straighten up, Elliot said.

Carlo was a childhood friend and costar in an independent film entitled West End, which Elliot co-wrote with Carlo and directed himself. They’d taken it to Cannes in 1970 and Elliot’s and Carlo’s Hollywood careers had been sealed.

God has nothing to do with it my friend, Carlo said, his voice pumped out in full Dolby sound from the Roadster’s twelve car speakers. It was old Carlo here finding you the right script, the right director, fighting with the studio—

What the fuck are you talking about? Elliot said, shaking his head. You didn’t know dick about this script. Harold Templeton brought me the script.

You sure? Carlo said.

"Look, it doesn’t matter. I’m