Hollywood on the Danube

Chapter Nine

That night Billy slept on new sheets, having relegated the Navajos to the status of bedspreads. Quelle difference, he thought luxuriating in cotton, though he still hated the big pillow. After Des arrived on the weekend Frieda said they could go shopping at the local Ikea. 

He was getting into a routine, six thirty a.m. radio alarm wake-up, guttural-voiced Hungarian announcer, shave, shower, and if there was time have a little breakfast. Most evenings he was with Jeremy, either having dinner or hanging out at Beckett's. So he was sleepy when the music came on and stayed in bed as long as he could. This resulted in racing around so he wouldn't be late for his ride to the studio. 

"So when are we going to have your party?" Frieda asked, marching into the writers' room, causing Billy to choke just as he was swallowing some Vitamin C. 

"I told you I'd let you know," Billy said, as he popped a multiple vitamin. 

"I love parties," Jeremy said. "Let me know what I can bring." 

"Make sure to give me notice so I'll be in town," Rodney said. 

"Soon, very soon," Billy said, downing a decongestant. It was interesting, everyone expecting him to throw a party. Yet no one had invited Billy over to their house. 

Still, he didn't want to irritate Frieda and noticed she'd been cool, assuming it was because he kept putting off the soiree. He didn't know she was freaked, getting anonymous messages inquiring about her parents, and she couldn't alert them because she had no idea where they lived. She figured it might be a bill collector hoping to shame her into paying up. "Fat chance," she thought, nevertheless bothered by all the calls. 

Rodney'd been typing all morning, and just before heading to the airport he gave Billy and Jeremy a diskette. "New strands for next week," he said, folding up his computer. Noticing Csaba and Greta in the hall, he pulled them aside and quickly conceded Pál was best for the role. "I don't know what you did with him, but he's definitely got what we want." Then, swoosh he was gone, not sure when he'd return. 

"When does he sleep?" Billy wanted to know. 

"As little as possible," Jeremy said, almost protective. "He doesn't have the time with all the things on his plate." 

"That's what intrigues me," Billy offered as an observation. "With everything he has to do, the production problems, the selling, how come he gets involved in the writing? I mean, he's an executive not a writer." 

"Oh, no, you've got it wrong," Jeremy said, his eyes widening. "He's very much a writer." 

"You're kidding?" Billy said shocked. 

"Oh, yes. He did scripts in Australia. Then he story edited the show Des is working on in Auckland." 

"I had no idea. I didn't realize," Billy said nervously, hoping he hadn't offended. "It's just that in the States it's very rare that the executives have any creative background. Most of them spend their careers giving notes." 

"It's different here," Jeremy explained. "Rodney has built up the business all over Europe, and you need to have someone with talent in that position." 

"So Rodney is a writer," Billy thought not too thrilled, because it meant there could be a subjective overview of his work that was competitive. Rodney would be more like an American show runner, not just indoctrinating him to the Marshall Worldwide system. 

But with all his other duties he might not have time to supervise, and anyway it appeared Rodney liked him immensely. In consideration of that, he was glad Jeremy set him straight. Then he took a look at Rodney's stuff and felt it was pretty good. A little cliché here and there, but it'd been knocked out very fast.