Blue Screen (14 page)

T
ONY GAULT
told me,” I said to Jesse, “that if you sign onto a movie deal and don’t know much, you could end up with a percentage of the profit.”

“Uh-huh.”

Jesse had put a bowl of water on his office floor for Rosie, and she was drinking from it and making a lot of noise.

“And he told me that there were accountants out there who could make it look like
Gone with the Wind
didn’t make a profit.”

“Which is why you’re better off,” Jesse said, “with a piece of the gross.”

“I forgot for a moment that you used to live out there,” I said.

“And my wife was an actress—sort of.”

“I forgot that, too,” I said. “So you know all this.”

“Everybody in LA knows all this,” Jesse said.

Rosie continued to slurp at the water dish.

“But maybe if you were a shylock from Boston,” I said, “and you trusted your cousin, you might not know all this.”

“Especially if you were a dumb shylock,” Jesse said.

“You think Moon is dumb.”

“Moon’s success is rooted in greed and meanness,” Jesse said. “Got nothing to do with smart.”

“So, say this dumb shylock puts a bunch of cash into a movie. He has a bunch of cash, thinks putting it into the movie will launder it. He gets a nice piece of the profit. And he gets to hang around with movie stars.”

“Heaven,” Jesse said. “You think your dog is going to stop drinking anytime soon?”

“She takes tiny, ladylike swallows,” I said. “So she has to do it for a while.”

Jesse nodded. Rosie continued to slurp.

“So,” Jesse said. “Suppose Moon puts a lot of money into this
Woman Warrior
movie. Do you know how it did?”

“It may not even matter with creative accounting,” I said. “It could have tanked for real, or Buddy could have cheated him.”

“Our Buddy?” Jesse said.

“Just supposing,” I said. “Either way, Moon’s out his original investment and any earnings he might have hoped for.”

“Which no one likes,” Jesse said. “But shylocks hate.”

“Hate,” I said.

“And if we believe Uncle Felix’s guy, Eddie,” Jesse said, “Moon’s collection technique is to spare the debtor and kill people around him.”

“And according to Erin, he’d been to the house and knew the sister,” I said.

Rosie stopped drinking water. Jesse looked down at her.

“Already?” he said.

“Rosie believes in moderation,” I said.

Rosie came around Jesse’s desk and lay down on her side on the floor under my chair with her feet out straight. Her small body was so muscular that the top set of feet stuck straight out in the air.

“This line of thinking gives us a nice suspect,” Jesse said.

“Our first one,” I said.

“Well, I kind of liked the black-belt pimp from LA, too,” Jesse said.

“We can keep him in reserve,” I said.

“Bench strength,” Jesse said, “is good.”

“Of course, we have absolutely no proof for anybody,” I said.

Jesse nodded. “And if it turns out that
Woman Warrior
turned a profit, might shake our theory a little,” he said.

“I wonder if we can get an audit,” I said.

“Probable cause?” Jesse said.

“None,” I said.

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“I can ask Tony Gault what he knows, and what he can find out.”

Jesse nodded. He appeared to be looking thoughtfully at Rosie.

“You like Chinese food?” Jesse said.

“I do.”

“Would you care to come to my place tonight,” Jesse said, “and eat some with me?”

“Why yes I would,” I said.

J
ESSE STONE
’
S
condo was on the harborfront, with a small balcony off the living room that jutted out over the water. Framed on the wall behind the bar in the living room was a huge black-and-white photograph of a baseball player diving sideways, reaching for the ball.

“Who’s that?” I said.

“Ozzie Smith.”

“I knew it wasn’t you,” I said.

“Because he’s wearing a big-league unie?”

“Well, that,” I said. “And he’s black.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Why is he there?”

“Best shortstop I ever saw,” Jesse said. “If I made a martini, would you drink it?”

“Up, with olives,” I said.

He went to the bar and made a shaker of martinis and poured two. Mine with olives, his over ice with a twist.

“Can I have a tour?” I said.

“Won’t take long,” Jesse said.

There was a kitchen, a bedroom, a bath off the bedroom, and the living/dining area with the bar. The place was very neat. On the night table by the bed was a photograph of a good-looking woman.

“Is that your ex-wife?” I said.

“Yes,” Jesse said.

We walked back into the living room.

“In good weather it’s nice to have a drink outside, on the little balcony,” Jesse said.

“Unless you’re not drinking,” I said.

Jesse took a small sip of his martini and smiled at me over the rim of the glass.

“Or you are trying to drink socially,” he said, “like a responsible adult.”

“How’s that going?” I said.

Jesse lowered the glass and his smile got wider.

“This is my first night,” he said.

I looked out through the French doors at the harbor, and the lights across.

“You like it here?” I said.

Jesse came and stood beside me. He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Yes. I guess I do.”

“Different than Los Angeles,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You can make a difference here,” I said.

“Yes.”

We stood quietly, holding our martinis, looking at the harbor.

“In LA,” Jesse said, “any big city, you’re just bailing a leaky boat. You don’t sink, but you can’t stop bailing, you know?”

“Too much crime,” I said.

“Here there’s not so much,” Jesse said. “You have a significant crime, here, you solve it, you restore the whole town.”

“So the town becomes yours,” I said. “In a way that LA never could be.”

“Yes.”

We each drank a bit of martini. There was enough moonlight so we could see the water. It was cold and uninviting, but there was something eternal about it.

“You get the constituency small enough,” I said, “and it can become yours.”

“Why you quit the cops?” Jesse said.

“I suppose so. That and the, ah, chain of command.”

“Ah, yes,” Jesse said.

My glass was empty. Jesse took it and went to the bar and made me another martini. His glass was half full. Though, with a lot of ice in there, it was a little hard to tell. He brought my glass back to me and we stood and looked at the harbor some more.

“So you’re home,” I said.

Jesse thought about it.

“It’s what I have,” he said after a while. “I struggle with booze. My love life is a mess. Being the Chief of Police in Paradise, Massachusetts, is what I’ve got.”

“Love life is not the same as sex life,” I said.

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

I walked to the couch and sat at one end. Jesse turned, still by the balcony door, and looked at me.

“And sex life is an insufficient substitute,” I said.

“It is,” Jesse said. “But better than no substitute.”

Jesse walked to a chair opposite the couch and sat. He drank a little more of his martini. I could feel his carefulness.

“Jenn is cheating again,” he said.

I felt as if I were watching a genie materialize out of a bottle. I nodded and didn’t say anything.

“I guess it’s time to talk about it,” Jesse said.

He got up and made himself a second drink and sat back down in his chair.

“Ever since I was with her, Jenn had a tendency to wander. At first I didn’t know it. Then I did, and figured there was something wrong with me. I drank too much. I was just a cop. I expected her to feel about me the way I felt about her. I held on to her too hard. Stuff like that.”

“If it was your fault, you could fix it,” I said.

“You’ve been shrunk, too,” he said. “And there was stuff wrong with me, and I did work on it. I still work on it.”

He paused and drank.

“In fact, I see a guy that Jenn found, got me to go to, when I first got here.”

“She was here?” I said.

“She came here.”

“From Los Angeles?” I said.

Jesse nodded.

“Got a job as a weather girl,” he said. “Channel three.”

“Jenn Stone,” I said. “That’s where I’ve seen her.”

“That’s her with the low-pressure areas,” Jesse said, “and the occluded fronts waving at the weather charts just like she knew.”

“She followed you here,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“So there’s a real connection between you.”

“Especially when things are going badly for her.”

“It’s an impulse I understand,” I said.

“She’s done a lot of shrink work, too,” Jesse said.

“But not enough?”

Jesse shrugged.

“She was here last year doing a TV special on Race Week,” he said, “and she stayed with me. It went well. I thought both of us had turned a corner.”

He looked at his glass but didn’t drink. He looked at mine. I had some left.

“When the special was through shooting, she went back to her place in Boston,” Jesse said. “We agreed we could be together without living together. Our only rule was monogamy.”

He was silent. I sipped my drink and waited. He looked at his drink again, and again didn’t drink any.

“She only sleeps with people who can help her: producers, casting agents, station managers, news directors.”

I nodded. Whatever else Jenn was, she was a powerful presence. I could feel her in the room.

“This time she’s fucking the new station manager,” Jesse said.

His voice was harsh. His choice of the ugliest verb, I knew, was deliberate. I’d made the same choice several times. I wanted to ask him how he knew, or if he was sure. I didn’t. I knew how irrelevant and maybe embarrassing questions like that were.

“Last straw?” I said.

He nodded slowly.

“It’s over,” he said.

I nodded. There was nothing to say. He finished his drink in a swallow. He stared at the empty glass for a moment, then put it on the coffee table. I drank the remainder of mine.

“Make you another?” he said.

“No,” I said. “Not right now. Maybe wine with dinner.”

He nodded and smiled at me. It was a real smile, though not awfully happy.

“Okay,” he said. “I showed you mine. You want to show me yours?”

“It seems only fair,” I said.

I
TALKED ABOUT
Richie. About the marriage, and the divorce, and his remarriage.

“And now his new wife is pregnant,” I said.

Jesse nodded.

“Over?” he said.

“Over.”

We both sat for a time with our glasses empty and no sound in the room.

“So we’re both feeling pretty bad right now,” Jesse said.

“And we’re pretty desperately in need of consolation,” I said.

“And would be inclined to make a casual something into more than it was.”

“We both know that,” I said.

“On the other hand,” Jesse said. “There’s nothing wrong with consolation.”

“Or revenge,” I said.

Jesse smiled. I smiled. We sat still for a moment and looked at each other.

“Do you think we should be careful?” I said.

“I think we should have sex,” Jesse said.

“But carefully,” I said.

“Let’s agree beforehand,” he said. “Not to marry right away.”

“Okay,” I said.

He stood. I stood. We looked at each other for a moment. Then we put our arms round each other. We kissed each other. I could feel it starting.
Here we go,
I thought.

“Do you need to sit on the couch,” Jesse said, “and have kissyface foreplay first?”

“No,” I said.

“Good.”

We walked together to his bedroom.

“Do you prefer under the covers?” Jesse said.

“No,” I said, “restrictive.”

He nodded and began to unbutton his shirt. I began to undress with him. I had given it such thought when I’d dressed. Maybe I was expecting sex, maybe I wasn’t. I dropped my shirt on the floor. I didn’t want to show up in thong underpants, a frilly skirt, and fuck-me shoes, carrying a sign that said,
I’m here to bop your brains out!
On the other hand, I didn’t want to look like somebody’s maiden aunt with white cotton panties and Hush Puppies. My high boots, with no side zipper, looked great. But they were nearly impossible to get off. So were my front-button jeans. I opted for a skirt. It would be easy to remove, and, if it came to that, he could help me with the boots. It had come to that. I sat on the bed in my bra and skirt.

“Jesse,” I said. “You’ll have to help me with the boots.”

He was down to his shorts, black watch boxers. He wasn’t terribly big, but every muscle in his torso was defined. Each abdominal muscle was distinct. He smiled at me.

“Plan ahead,” he said.

“I was ambivalent,” I said.

He took hold of one boot and I leaned back on the bed and we wrestled it off. When we got the other one off, Jesse ran his hand along my calf.

“On the other hand,” he said, “you shaved your legs.”

“I said I was ambivalent.”

Jesse lined my boots up neatly in front of his bedroom chair. His back was as muscular as his front, and, thank God, not hairy.

I stood and unzipped my skirt and let it drop to the floor.

“Black undies?” he said. “How ambivalent were you?”

“Black, yes, cut high, yes,” I said. “But no ribbons, no lace, no bows, no see-through.”

“Prim,” Jesse said.

I unsnapped my bra and shrugged out of it, letting it slide down my arms.

“The dead giveaway,” I said, “was the shaved legs. I spent some time thinking about it. If I shaved them, was I committing ahead of time to sex?”

“And you shaved them.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s key,” Jesse said.

“Uh-huh.”

I slipped my thumbs inside the waistband of my middle-of-the-road black panties, and slipped them off, and stepped out of them. Jesse took off his shorts. We looked for a moment at each other, and then, in some kind of mutual moment, we both jumped on the bed together, giggling. We put our arms around each other, and, pressed tight together, we began to kiss. We kissed for a while. We explored a bit. Then Jesse paused and rolled onto his back.

“What?” I said.

“A symbolic thing,” he said.

He reached over to his night table and took the picture of Jenn and turned it facedown.

“Over,” he said.

And rolled back toward me.

“Was it the leg shave?” I murmured.

“Probably,” Jesse said.

And then neither of us said anything coherent for quite a long time.