Kirkus Reviews has named City of Angles one of the Ten Best Novels put out by an independent publisher in 2023. The citation includes the last line of their review: “A genuinely funny sendup of a much-lampooned industry.” This is another free excerpt. Please buy a copy here if you haven’t already: https://www.amazon.com/City-Angles-Jonathan-Leaf/dp/1637587880.
Todd Gelber suffered from an ailment that afflicted male Hollywood executives. Through his rank and power he had managed to attract a woman of undeniable beauty, and all through their courtship she had shown him how much she worshipped him with passionate lovemaking. It was almost ceaseless, and on the nights when she was weary of intercourse or incapable of engaging in it, she took self-evident joy in pleasing him in other ways. He had never been so sated. Her eyes were always seducing him, thrilling him, intoxicating him, and when they went to restaurants or film premieres her hands were wrapped around him. If intellectually he understood that a woman might be drawn to him for his money and his position, he did not feel that with her. She adulated him. This marriage was going to be different. She didn’t care about the home he lived in or the car he drove. He knew this for a fact.
But no sooner had they returned from their honeymoon than he had learned that she was pregnant, and from that point on sex was a scarce commodity. In a typical month they made love a single time during the first week, then once more towards the end. The number of her reasons for avoiding sex had proven to be as various as the positions in the Kama Sutra, if significantly less satisfying. In the winter she would refuse him if he had a cold, even one she had given him. In the summer, she was sickened by the air-conditioning. In the spring and fall, she had unbearable headaches. She did not work and had a maid and a cook, but she complained that she had no time. That compelled her to lodge herself away from the bedroom when he was about to go to sleep. Naturally, once he was unconscious, she was able to finish her vital tasks. Yet she was masterly at appearing to be an adoring spouse, and hardly anyone suspected the extent of his dissatisfaction.
Charles Tasker was one of the few friends whom Gelber felt comfortable talking with about this. A veteran director known for his trilogy of werewolf movies, he was someone Gelber could open up with as he had been the victim of an even worse confidence game. Tasker had married a notorious former fashion model and actress, a woman who had managed to earn a reputation for sleeping her way to the top in two industries. He had wed her with full awareness of how imperfect her past had been but with the absolute conviction that the wild adulterous sex they had on their film shoot would continue. The realization that he, too, had been placed on a starvation sex diet was galling. So Gelber felt less aggrieved when he was in Tasker’s company. At least his wife was respectable and warm. Tasker’s was a rancorous tramp.
They sat across from one another in a beloved Jewish delicatessen, one block from Rodeo Drive. Flanking them were bottles of cheap yellow mustard and Heinz ketchup, along with the most ordinary flatware and paper napkins. These were displayed on laminated imitation wood tables, bare of tablecloths. It was the sort of place whose sole appeal lie in its hominess and familiarity and its status as an industry landmark.
As they were both famished, they ripped into their dishes, eating as they gabbed, talking from the sides of their mouths. While Gelber felt that he could speak more frankly with his friend about his marriage, he had to be careful, even sneaky, with regard to his purpose in seeking out Tasker’s presence: the Tom Selva indie picture about which people were chattering.
His plan was simple. He wanted to be in a position to buy the film before it hit the indie circuit, so that he could bury it. That would satisfy Selva’s agent and perhaps the actor himself, when he saw it in its finished form. This would be a chit—or a blunt-force instrument—of undoubted value. But to gain hold of it he needed to employ a measure of stealth. For if others suspected his intentions they would bid on the movie as well.
To implement the plot he had to befriend one of the two women producing the film, winning her trust. Tasker knew her from the Church of Life. That was key. Gelber needed to use this connection. The aim would be to make Tasker believe that he wanted to be introduced to Vincenza as a potential mistress. Simply put, he had to seem like he wanted to screw Vincenza Morgan personally when what he wanted was to screw her professionally. Yet he couldn’t have Tasker going around saying that he was finding mattress mates for him. This was the age of #MeToo, and he had gained his job because his predecessor had been ousted for making improper advances.
Regardless, he wondered: How did you go about indicating an interest in a struggling actress you did not know without tipping off your acquaintance regarding your real concern, her attempt at recreating a John Cassavetes’s film from the days of wide ties and leisure suits? There had been times in meetings when Gelber had impressed himself by his talent for misdirection. This, though, required finesse and sleight of hand greater than that shown by a magician who hides a ballfield from the spectators sitting in it.
It seemed to him that the trick was to bring up Vincenza’s chest in the context of a photo he had seen of Tasker standing alongside her at a Church function. He had known men who were connoisseurs of fake breasts. If he pretended to be such a character, then this could be the ploy by which to bring up his desire to meet Vincenza. Yet, granted the present temper of the business and the compact position of the tables in the delicatessen, he had to speak in a low voice.
To enter into the specifics of the matter, he told Tasker that he had seen Salma Hayek a few nights before, and he had been reminded of how beautiful her figure was—allowing that he was sure her breasts were enhanced. He said this leaning forward as he spoke, if taking care not to spit the corned beef hash he was wolfing down.
“I think someone told me they know her plastic surgeon, the one who did them,” Tasker responded in a tone of considerable seriousness.
Apparently, this was not a matter to joke about.
“But this isn’t anyone that Vera goes to?” Gelber said, referencing Tasker’s werewolf-slaying spouse.
Tasker shook his head as he devoured part of a sunny-side egg. Then he glanced about to be sure no one was listening to them. “Vera’s had hardly any work done. And hers are real. You know that.”
Gelber smiled appreciatively in response. If nooky shortage was a refrain of their dialogues, he was compelled to acknowledge Tasker’s wife’s physical grace.
Pausing, Gelber stuffed his mouth with more of the hash. Then, having consumed the chunk, he entered into the matter which had inspired him to propose the meeting, which was not to listen to Tasker pitch him on a revival of his series of werewolf epics.
“I spotted you in a Church photo. You were alongside a gorgeous brunette, an actress, who must have had augmentation. I think her name was…” He hesitated, affecting uncertainty. “It was something funny. Vincentia, was it? No, Vincenza. You know her?”
Tasker blinked his eyes in agreement. “You want to meet her? I’m pretty sure she’s single.”
Gelber was surprised by how easy it had been. “I mean…you understand. We’ve talked about this. Sonya is great with the kids…it’s just that…of course, I can’t and wouldn’t do anything where I’m doing anything like offering parts. Or putting pressure on anyone.”
“Of course. Naturally. I’ll see what I can do. This isn’t about business,” Tasker said. “We’re friends. You don’t owe me anything.”
The way Tasker said this reminded Gelber that he had no real friends in the business, and Tasker would be bound to remind him of the debt. He also had to bear in mind that the Church of Life could be a formidable enemy.
The rest of the breakfast was composed of Tasker’s detailed descriptions of the plots of follow-up lycanthrope pictures and the part that his wife Vera might play in these movies. As Gelber listened, he was saddened by the awareness that Tasker was still in love with his wife, as shabbily as she treated him.