I first met William Friedkin at my roadside tikka stall in Burbank. He said he wanted a spot of lunch to counteract the whisky and pills he’d had earlier that day. He said he was pleasantly surprised to see me.

“Breakfast of champions, pills and whisky. You’ve got balls setting up here, by the way. The Tamale Cartel, this is their territory, they’re gonna cut off your tremendous gorilla balls.”

I tried to explain that no such organization existed, but he kept going. “Well they’re gonna kick the shit out of you before the day is through. Say, this chicken is aromatic. You ought to come work for me. Now I don’t want to read in the papers that the Tamale Cartel resorted yet again to killing. I have foreseen all.”

As far as I knew, there was one old lady who went up and down the boulevard selling tamales. She had something like fourteen grandkids. She kept inviting me to church, the old dear.

I went to work for Friedkin anyway because he pointed out it was a way forward in life. I catered a few of his films and a couple of his orgies as well.

“These cornichons are a nice touch,” said William Friedkin.

“Thank you, Mr. Friedkin.”

“Bill. Call me Bill. A nice palate cleanser for all these game hens you’ve stuffed in, what’s it, pistachios and saffron. Vaguely Arabic. Possibly Venetian. I enjoy the ethnic ambiguity of it all. We’re all one race. That’s always been my feeling.  Anyways, can’t orgy on an empty stomach. I learned that at Cannes the hard way, well the not-so-hard way if you catch my drift!”

“Oh, Bill, you are a rake. I’m glad you’re enjoying the fare.”

“What are these little dumplings, in the gravy?”

“Malai kofta. A potato and cheese dumpling. Say, Bill, I’m a big fan of Sorcerer.”

“Kind of you. Hell of a picture if you don’t mind me saying. An intelligent film, well apprised of horror, the horror of nitroglycerin, but also the horror of living as a man.”

“I’d thought about writing a novelization,” I said.

Friedkin’s face turned suddenly dark. He disrobed again, naked save for what I took to be his sluttiest pair of jorts. “You do that, boyo, and they’ll have to exorcise my fist from your spleen. You understand me?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“It’s a reference to The Exorcist. I’m William Friedkin.”

***

William Friedkin had always been a bit surly about Sorcerer (1977). He said it was an adaptation of the novel The Wages of Fear, which the 1953 film of the same name was based on, and not a remake of this earlier film itself. I suppose he considered a remake beneath his talents. It was my understanding through his press agent and private secretary—I never saw Friedkin outside of orgies or film sets—that he felt a novelization of Sorcerer would confuse matters even further. But I just thought Sorcerer had been so well-cast and well-shot and I wanted to capture all of that in my planned novelization and wouldn’t copies of it look fantastic in an airport bookstore display. Imagine a young honeymooning couple on their way to Polynesia, the husband’s forgotten his John le Carré on the train home from work: well no matter, here’s the novelization of Sorcerer to tide him over on a fourteen-hour flight, a portable cinematic experience in prose.

***

At the next orgy of his, Friedkin wouldn’t even say hello to me. He walked into the orgy hall eyes forward with a gait that seemed to connote, I’m here to screw. I’m William David Friedkin and I’m here to screw and do my part to ensure we do become one race in the end. He sent over various orgy mates whenever he wanted food or refreshment—studio heads, starlets, practically half of Hollywood. I had finally obtained a license to serve liquor and Friedkin kept sending over for vodka gimlets. Finally, staggering out of the venue at the end of the night, William Friedkin pointed and shouted at me from across the crowded floor, “Screwing is thirsty work, ain’t it Mister Malai Kofta, you audacious bastard. Stay the hell away from Sorcerer.”

***

I’d made enough money to open my own restaurant, The Sepoy’s Revenge. “Curries made to order. Curries made to kill.” It was meant to be funny. We closed after six months and I needed a job. I’d heard Friedkin was shooting a new film in New York City and I flew out to meet him. I thought he would appreciate the gumption and he did, or so he claimed.

“I’ve always said you had tremendous gorilla balls, haven’t I? The way you wouldn’t let those goddamn Mexicans intimidate you. The way you demanded, with a tikka skewer at my neck, to novelize my film Sorcerer.”

“There was no Cartel, Bill. That didn’t happen, Bill. I’m a gentle soul.”

We were at the bar of his hotel. He looked considerably older, though it had only been a year or two since I’d seen him last.

“Sure, kid. Sure, sure, sure. Well, listen I’d love to hire you, but I need Pacino buff and cut on this one.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Yeah, I fear this is the way of the future,” Friedkin started. “From here on out, film is a medium for bodies, not characters. Everyone’s gonna get cut and buff. Everyone’s gonna look olympian. Here’s a totally original sentiment and you can quote me on this. Are you ready?”

“Sure, I’m ready.”

William Friedkin lit a cigarette and then leaned over and said emphatically, “Everyone is beautiful. But no one is horny.”