And Sons (43 page)

“Gaaaaaaaaaah,” Eric exhaled.

Richard nodded like
Gaaaaaaaaaah
summed things up nicely.

“My fucking iPhone,” Eric said, holding up two phones. “My assistant said she was going to transfer my contacts to the Droid, but nobody’s in here, so I guess not, and I’m not someone who knows phone numbers, not like that’s a Hollywood thing, just a regular thing, I mean who knows phone numbers anymore, that’s just a normal phenomenon, right, because my whole message is to stay away from—message? My whole goal, just goal, a goal, the goal, for me, is to be real, and not keeping-it-real real, just real real, a real regular person, particularly when I’m acting.”

“Must be difficult,” Richard said, thoroughly confused.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m on your side,” Richard said.

“My side?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m on your side too,” Eric Harke said, offering his hand for a slap.

“Okay,” Richard said, obliging.

“You and me.”

“Sure.”

“You’re from here, right?”

“A long time ago.”

“But you know people here.”

“Not really.”

“But do you know anyone who likes to have a good time, like go out and have a good time, like hey, let’s have a good time and party, like—”

“You’re looking for cocaine?”

A quick “Yes” followed by a relieved if guilty grin.

It was almost charming, Eric’s timidness, as if he had no idea how to be famous. C’mon, man, the world was his drug dealer. Drive in front of any random club and ask the bouncer, troll any happening spot, just show up and in thirty minutes Eric Harke would find his nose kneeling and in an hour his Droid would be thrumming with news from a hundred friends who could provide whatever needed providing. But he was young. Richard thought maybe this was his first independent foray into lose-my-soul New York, alone and desperate and seeking the only known cure. And maybe it was his age, his dressing up as Edgar Mead, his celebrity that endeared him to Richard, who was maybe thrilled to be back in the old whirlwind, in a limo, like he was cruising his past, and maybe Richard wanted to try to keep Eric safe, or expose him as a hard-core fool, or maybe more than anything wanted to dabble in his nastiest fears and fall without consequence, maybe that’s why he called his brother and put in an order of No Soap Radio. But as the limo stopped in front of Jamie’s walk-up and Richard got out and buzzed the front door, he began to think this was a bad idea, maybe his worst ever.

Jamie finally came down.

“Holy shit,” Richard said, seeing his face. “What happened?”

“Got into a fight.”

“Yeah.”

Jamie smiled, teeth first.

“Fuck,” Richard said.

“Nice, huh?”

“How’s the other guy?”

“Maybe
fight
’s the wrong word.”

“About a girl?”

“In a way.”

“You know you’re not seven anymore. Teeth don’t grow back.”

“Aren’t half yours fake?”

“Just three.”

“And look at your lovely smile.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Richard said. “But seriously, are you okay?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” Jamie showed him the baggie with an udder of whitish powder.

“What is it?” Richard asked.

“Good old-fashioned cocaine, like you requested. My neighbor had some.”

Richard’s pulse hit the gas instead of the brake.

“No Soap Radio,” Jamie said. “What we have here is a mixture of Arm & Hammer, Advil Cold & Sinus, a handful of Ambien—I thought you needed some controlled substance in there—Altoids for their curiously strong flavor, a dousing of Anbesol dug up from the bottom of my dopp kit, all of it chopped up and mashed together. It’s over the top. That’s why I call it—wait for it—Michael Caine.”

“That’s insane,” Richard said, pleased.

“In keeping with your request.”

“Kind of yellow too.”

“That’s the Anbesol, possibly a mistake. Either way, this Michael Caine isn’t fooling that Michael Caine.” Jamie looked toward the limo. “He in there?”

“Yep.”

“Why are you doing this?” Jamie tried to shoot his brother a look of genuine concern, which ended up hurting his head. “It’s got to be a slippery slope. And do you really think he’s going to do your movie if you supply him with pretend coke?”

“It’s not that at all,” Richard said.

“I realize you’re the addiction expert here, but this”—Jamie shook the baggie—“cannot fall under any standard drug treatment practices, even by Hollywood standards. This shit ain’t methadone, it’s just shit with a minty aftertaste.”

“I’ll be fine,” Richard promised. “It’s not like it’s real.”

“Yeah, but we Dyers can get pretty fucked-up on imitation real.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Just abandon ship and come up to my place.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m having fun.”

“What, are you a star fucker now?”

Richard gripped imaginary lapels. “That’s a stupid thing to say.”

“Says the man pushing an ounce of Arm & Hammer.”

“Shut up.”

“Says the man with the history of profound drug abuse.”

“Enough.”

“Says the man hanging with the cover of
Tiger Beat
.”

Richard shoved Jamie, an instinctive shove and without much force, but Jamie’s balance was already compromised and he stumbled and fell, finding mostly humor in the fall, like he was on roller skates.

“Crap, I’m sorry,” Richard said, reaching down.

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” Jamie got up. “Like old times.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Seriously.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

This minor piece of violence hardly registered within the history of their fights, but a certain nostalgia trailed behind, a mutual rhythm of regret and blame. One of the limo’s windows rolled down and Eric Harke appeared like a worm eating its way through black fruit. “Everything all right? Because I’ve got a party I’ve got to go to.”

“Everything’s fine,” Richard called back.

“Not to rush you guys.”

“No, everything’s fine.”

The worm wiggled back.

“What’s with the bow tie and the glasses?” Jamie asked.

“I have no idea,” Richard lied.

“The Ambien might help.”

“Yes, a genius addition.”

“You promise you won’t touch this stuff?”

“I promise.”

“I can’t help feeling this is bad news,” Jamie said.

“Have you looked in the mirror?”

“Do me a favor and do not go near whatever party he’s going to.”

Richard patted his shoulder. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Please do.”

“You might want to see about your nose.”

“You too.”

The brothers shared a brief unsaid moment before going their separate ways, an appreciation of the long day and all the parts they had played and how they had looped back together again, here in Brooklyn, practically different people, Richard turning for the limo and breathing in a familiar odor, as if the eighties burned in an alley somewhere, while Jamie heard the reverb of a dozen more unsaid things as Richard opened the door and slipped in, but before the limo could pull away, the door opened again and in scooted Jamie, who took his place across from his brother, his smile a keyhole in search of a key.

“I just need a lift into Manhattan,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” from Eric Harke, a more-the-merrier kind of guy.

Jamie feigned astonishment. “Hey, you’re Eric Harke.”

“Shh, don’t tell anyone.”

“Very cool to meet you, man, very cool.”

“And you are …?” Eric asked.

Jamie turned toward Richard. “You going to introduce me?”

“Um, this is Jamie James.”

Jamie frowned at his brother.

“Nice to meet you, Jamie James,” Eric said.

The limo drove from Kane onto Clinton toward the Brooklyn Bridge. From Richard’s unfortunate christening, Jamie mined a personality: lawlessly fey. And the busted-up face? That was the price of doing bidness in this town. It was no surprise that Eric Harke wanted to sample the product first thing, though Jamie begged him to go slow since this was like nothing he had ever snorted before. “This is haute couture for your nose,” Jamie said, rather enjoying his persona, “artisanal shit.” Eric dipped the corner of his American Express Black Card into the baggie, not before apologizing for having an American Express Black Card, something his manager got him, absurd but feel the
weight, fucking titanium. The black gained a pile of ugly-looking white. Eric leaned over and the brothers parroted his body English. After a quick, hard sniff—always an amazing disappearing trick—the hand inside Eric’s puppet face turned into a fist. Jamie James clapped his approval. “Tell me that shit’s not something?” It took Eric a minute to recover before he agreed, his buzz helped along by the sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, hands down his favorite bridge, which bounced him from window to window, the suspension cables strumming like harp strings. “I love everything about this fucking bridge,” he said as they gained Manhattan. “I even look like Washington Roebling.”

“I can see that,” Jamie went along, “in the eyes.”

“Exactly.”

“And the set of the jaw.”

“Precisely.” Eric exhaled. “I’m getting a weird taste in my throat.”

“Yeah, right,” Jamie confirmed.

“Almost refreshing.”

The limo turned up Centre Street.

“You should have a drink.” Jamie grabbed a bottle from the minibar.

“Maybe some water,” Eric said.

“If by water you mean tequila.” Jamie handed him a half-full glass.

“I was thinking water.”

“It’s Patrón.”

Jamie clinked his glass and they both drank.

“You know what,” Jamie said. “You’d be great in a western.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely.” Jamie refilled their glasses. “But you should be the bad guy.”

“The guy in the black hat.”

They clinked glasses again and drank.

“I do love me a good antihero,” Eric said.

“Travis Bickle.”

“Tom Ripley.”

“Ooh, good one. Michael Corleone.”

“Edgar Mead,” Eric practically shouted.

“Edgar fucking Mead,” Jamie seconded, his eyes raised. “How about you, Richard?”

“What?”

“Do you have a favorite antihero?”

“Um, Tony Montana.”

“Tony Montana!” Eric definitely shouted this time and in went the Black Card. “You want some?” he said to Jamie.

“I’m good.”

“Richard?”

“I’m okay,” Richard said, sounding unconvinced.

Eric recovered quicker after this snort. “I have to say, this is weird stuff.”

“Totally,” agreed Jamie.

“Not much of a pop.”

Jamie poured another shot. “It’s all about subtlety nowadays.”

“I certainly prefer”—down went the tequila—“subtlety.”

“Hell yeah—fuck yeah.”

The music, up till now a low-fi presence, bounded onto their laps as Jamie heard an old favorite and turned up the volume loud enough that Keith Richards seemed to be playing their lower intestine.

Let’s drink to the hardworking people
, sang Keith.

“ ‘Salt of the Earth,’ ” Eric said, ever the eager student.

“That’s right.”

“Beggars Banquet.”

“Exactly.”

“Nineteen sixty-eight.”

“I guess.”

“Last song on the B side.”

“Wow, that’s some deep knowledge.”

Raise your glass to the good and the evil
.

“I do love this song,” Eric said.

Jamie clinked glasses. “Because it’s a great song.”

“A masterpiece of ambiguous irony,” Eric said.

“Okay.”

“So crazy cynical too.”

“You are wired, my friend.”

“I suppose I am. It’s all about the fucking subtext.”

The song’s slow open gained momentum, now driven by Mick, with
Jamie and Eric and even Richard joining in, not with singing so much, though there was some of that, but with a sense of ownership, like they were an essential part of its creation, members of the eternal present right there in the backseat—
They don’t look real to me, in fact they look so strange
—the limo cruising up Park, climbing above Vanderbilt, curling around Grand Central, coming through the dark vault onto the more Technicolor aspects of Manhattan—
Let’s drink to the hardworking people
in full chorus—and finally after a left and another left and a final left stopping somewhere between the past and the future.

“Here we are,” Eric said.

Richard and Jamie knocked eyes.

They were in front of their father’s apartment.

“Um, what’s happening here?” asked Richard.

“A big book party at the Frick,” Eric said, “hands down my favorite museum. It’s for
The Propagators
. You heard of it? Because it’s going to be huge.” Eric scooped himself another Black Card bump of Sir Michael. “Fuuuck!” he said, pinching his nostrils. “It’s like my nose is getting kicked in the groin.”

“That’s funny,” Jamie said.

“I’m thinking of playing the gorilla in the film adaptation.”

“Of what?”

“The book.”

“A gorilla! No way!” Jamie was getting drunk.

“A bonobo actually. All CGI. It would be motion capture.”

“How many movies are you attached to?” Richard asked.

“Just the ones I’m interested in. And the character’s a girl too.”

“A girl gorilla,” said Jamie, impressed.

Eric took a deep minty breath, then said, “Let’s roll.”

Outside the entrance none of the smokers recognized the celebrity in their midst since they were too busy interviewing themselves with their tiny filtered microphones. Up the steps and the sound of the crowd inside pushed past them with the current of a single crowd creature, a giant luminescent jellyfish that floated and pulsed, floated and pulsed, tentacled by a hundred dazzling conversations, and Richard and Jamie had the brief sensation of being buoyant. The woman manning
the list gave Eric Harke a wide, lovely smile that without question included Richard and Jamie. Into the Frick the three of them glided, or Eric Harke glided, though
glid
might be the better word, he glid into the Garden Court and accepted his position as the most famous person in a room already packed with self-regard, those nearby throwing down tongues instead of rose petals. Eric remained guarded while his watery baby blues signed autographs and shook hands, his smile smug yet warmhearted. Richard and Jamie wisely followed—or flid—close behind.