Justice at Risk (4 page)

“We discussed it last week. Frankly, he seemed relieved to have the writing responsibilities off his back.”

She stepped away to search her desktop, found what she was looking for, and handed me a heavy three-ring binder with the title “Bareback Sex” on the front. She told me it was the bible for the episode, with the proposal and general outline up front, and much of the research that was already done organized by categories in the back.

“Also, Tommy’s script, plus his notes, dated and in chronological order.”

I opened it, quickly leafing through it.

“There’s a lot here.”

“Take it home, study it, then decide if you’d like to take a shot at it. I’ll give you one or two sample scripts as well, from some of our better shows, to give you an idea of the format.”

“You haven’t even asked to see my résumé.”

“I know your work, Mr. Justice. From the
Los Angeles Times
, back in the eighties.”

“Before you went east to do your graduate work?”

“That’s correct.”

“You grew up in Los Angeles, then.”

She turned toward the credenza, where a faxed copy of Templeton’s
GQ
piece lay between the framed photo of the grinning woman and a small crystal vase holding a single white rosebud.

“I’ve also read Miss Templeton’s article in
Gentleman’s Quarterly
. In hiring you, Mr. Justice, I feel I know what I’m getting.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “Yes, I grew up in this area.”

“Family still here?”

Her smile was fleeting, bittersweet.

“I have no family to speak of, Mr. Justice.”

“I guess we share something in common, then.”

“Probably more than you realize.”

The phone rang. She picked it up, sat, and swiveled, so that her back was to me. Her voice took on a new affection. As she talked, she studied the framed photo, simultaneously leaning over to inhale the aroma from the white rosebud. After making a soft kissy-kiss, she turned to face me again, slipping the phone back into its cradle.

“Please forgive the interruption.”

“The woman in the photograph?”

“How did you know?”

“The change in your voice and manner.”

Color seeped into her face.

“You don’t miss much, do you, Mr. Justice?”

“I try not to.”

She reached back for the photo and held it in front of her, gazing at it fondly, not unlike the way a sentimental male executive might regard a photo of his cherished wife.

“Her name’s Tiger. We’ve been together four years.”

“Then you must be very happy together.”

She looked up, obviously pleased.

“Thank you. We are.”

I reached for the picture.

“May I?”

She handed it across, and I studied it more closely.

“I have the feeling I’ve seen her before.”

“Her name is Tiger Palumbo. She’s been fairly active in the movement.”

“Unless I’m mistaken, she owns the Powder Room.”

“A co-owner, actually. With three other women. How did you know?”

“I live in West Hollywood. The Powder Room is an institution—the only woman’s bar in the heart of Boy’s Town.” I handed the photo back. “As I recall, she also held some kickboxing titles back in the eighties.”

Chang laughed.

“You really don’t miss much, do you?”

“There weren’t too many women in the ring in those days. Tiger got her share of publicity on the sports page, and more than her share of victories inside the ropes.”

“She owns a kick-boxing club here in the Valley. That’s where you’ll find her most days. Nights, she keeps an eye on the Powder Room.”

“When does she find time to keep an eye on you?”

“We’re both busy people, but it’s worked out. We couldn’t be more different. Maybe that’s why it works. And you, Mr. Justice? Anyone special in your life?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Maybe that will change.”

“You never know.”

She put the photo back in place, then stood and came around the desk again.

“Let me take you down the hall and introduce you to the associate producer you’ll be working with. Peter Graff. You’ll find him a tremendous help.”

“If we both decide I’m right for the job.”

“I’m convinced, Mr. Justice. It’s really your decision at this point.”

She led me back down the hall to an office with a closed door. She knocked, opened it, and ushered me in. I was totally unprepared for what awaited me.

“Peter, I’d like you to meet Benjamin Justice.”

I’ve never been particularly attracted to blonds; more often than not, I find them rather bland and ordinary, possibly because I have to look at one in the mirror every day. But Peter Graff very nearly took my breath away, he was that stunning. In his early twenties, he was trim and tanned, with a chiseled, angular face that included a square jaw cleft neatly with a dimple only God could have given him. The centerpiece of his flawless face was a pair of blazing blue eyes, set perfectly under thick waves of golden hair that tumbled boyishly across his forehead. As he stood—in shorts, T-shirt, and sandals—I saw a body of average height that was compact but lean, with silky golden hair sprinkled generously along his firmly muscled legs and forearms. If there was anything imperfect about him, I didn’t see it.

I was gawking as he shook my hand, feeling ridiculously overwhelmed by his beauty. I heard Cecile Chang in the background, beyond the buzz in my head, explaining to Graff that I would probably be “joining the team,” and that he was to assist me in every way possible. Then she was facing me.

“I’ll leave you with Peter, Mr. Justice. We’re shooting a video for presentation to potential grant donors, and I’m afraid I’m the star. We’re using one of the upstairs editing bays for background. I’ve kept the camera crew waiting longer than I should have.”

I came out of my trance and followed her to the door.

“I’m sorry I took so much of your time, Cecile.”

“Not at all. I’ve looked forward to meeting you. You’ll want to talk to Tommy Callahan as soon as possible about his script. I’m sure you’ll have some questions for him.”

Graff spoke just as she started through the door.

“Cecile—”

She hesitated, looking a trifle impatient.

“I haven’t heard from Tommy since Wednesday night.”

She cocked her head, and her voice quickened.

“That’s five days.”

Graff nodded, and her voice rose with urgency.

“He agreed to continue as producer. He knows we’ve fallen behind.”

“I’ve tried calling him.” Graff shrugged. “No luck.”

“What about his beeper?”

“He’s not answering his pages.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“You’ve been so busy with the fund-raising video and your other shows. I figured he was sick or something. I’ve been keeping up with the video logging. We’re in pretty good shape.”

Her eyes roved our faces, while not quite looking at either of us. Then, as suddenly as she had tensed up, she relaxed.

“Of course. Why am I even worrying? I’m sure we’ll hear from him soon enough.” She glanced at her watch. “Now, I’ve really got to get back upstairs to the shoot. In this business, time is money.”

Then she was gone, and I was left alone with Peter Graff, trying to figure out where to put my eyes. He offered me a guided tour of the building. I told him it was an excellent idea.

We’d started down the hallway, toward a stairwell, when I remembered that I’d left my notebook in Cecile Chang’s office. Graff offered to get us coffee and meet me back in the same spot. He turned one way and I turned the other.

I stopped at Denise’s desk in the cubicle outside Chang’s office, and explained the situation. She told me to go on in, and turned back to her keyboard, punching keys.

My notebook was where I’d left it, in one of the chairs facing Chang’s desk. As I retrieved it, something out the window caught my eye.

I saw Chang hurrying across the parking lot to an older white BMW sedan. She was in such a rush that she fumbled with her car keys, dropping them before she unlocked the door and slid inside. Then she was looking over her shoulder, backing out, impatiently twisting the wheel, and speeding to the exit that led to Ventura Boulevard.

I watched her tires spin as she hit the accelerator too hard, before she raced away into the midafternoon traffic, like a woman on a mission.

“These are the editing bays, Mr. Justice, where the shows are technically pieced together.”

“I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Graff. If you’ll call me Ben—”

Peter Graff grinned: dazzling white teeth, healthy pink gums. “You won’t call me Mr. Graff. It’s a deal.”

We stuck our heads through the door of a room the size of a large closet, with the lone window sealed off against the sunlight. An electronic control panel stretched nearly the width of the room on the window side, with two video monitors positioned above rows of buttons and dials. Near the door was a small table with another video display monitor sitting atop a machine that resembled a VCR but was more elaborate, with big knobs and lots of calibrations.

“I don’t see any editing machines.”

The dazzling grin again. “You mean, like a Moviola?”

“Right, something to cut and splice the film with.”

“Mr. Justice—I mean, Ben—that kind of editing went out a couple of decades ago. Today, it’s all done electronically.”

I suddenly felt forty, times two. “Oh.”

“It’s not even linear any longer. It’s all digital now.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know linear from digital.”

“Let me see if I can lay it out simply for you.”

“Please, the simpler the better.”

“As a writer, working with a producer, you select the shots you want to tell your story. Film, videotape, photographs, whatever picture elements you need, within budgetary limitations and clearance constraints. Once those elements are chosen, they’re noted in your script in the order you want them, corresponding to the words you’ve written. Words, or voice-over, on one side, and visual elements on the other.”

“That part seems comprehensible.”

“The videotape of all the visual elements you think you’ll need, including sound bites from taped interviews, is then put through a digitizing process. That enables the videotape editor to assemble them on the computerized AVID composer system—the digital editing system you see here. Even basic special effects, like fades and dissolves, are done from the digital board, electronically. That’s called the off-line process. When your show is finished, and meets the requirements of the timing sheet, and Cecile’s approval, it goes to on-line, for final technical processing. What they call air quality.”

“Whew.”

I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t worry. Everyone’s very helpful here.” His eyes roved the room. “This is where Tommy Callahan taught me the basics of the AVID system. He kind of took me under his wing.”

“The guy who’s late with his script.”

“Right. He’s been an editor for almost thirty years. Wanted to get into the production end. He’s not the greatest writer, but he was coming along.” Graff chewed his lip. “I wonder what’s going on with him. There are a lot of details in putting a show together. Normally, he and I talk several times a day. Five days ago, I suddenly stopped hearing from him.”

“You sound pretty concerned.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but Tommy has a drinking problem. I’m worried that he might be off on a binge or something. He’s been really good to me. I’d hate to see him get fired.”

A young black woman with long hair braided the way Templeton used to wear hers slipped between us, into the room. Woven into the braids were colorful African-style beads. She set a stack of tapes on a side table, all bearing a set of letters and numbers.

“You need the room, ltabari?”

She glanced over at Graff.

“In a few minutes. We’re booked from four to midnight. Going on-line Friday, if I can get my ass in gear.”

“We’ll get out of your way, then.”

She smiled and started out.

“You haven’t seen Tommy Callahan, have you?”

“’Fraid I haven’t, Peter.”

She left us. Graff glanced at his watch, biting his lip again.

“He was doing so good. With his drinking, I mean. Cecile took a chance when she hired him. A lot of people around here were surprised. I hope he’s not blowing it.”

“Does he live nearby?”

“He’s been staying at a motel. Over the hill, on Sunset.”

“Maybe we should check up on him.”

“My car’s in the shop. My girlfriend’s picking me up after work. I guess we could do it then.”

My mouth spoke words it had no business saying, as if it had a mind of its own.

“I wouldn’t mind giving you a lift that way.”

“I couldn’t do that, Mr. Justice—Ben.”

“It’s practically on my way home. Your girlfriend could meet us there, if it’s not inconvenient. We could even grab a bite together. Lots of great Thai food over that way.”

“No, really, I couldn’t.”

I gazed into his eyes, drinking in their clarity and color, wondering if he had any inkling what he was doing to me.

“Why? You don’t accept rides from strangers?”

He laughed, looking embarrassed, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts.

“You’re not a stranger, Ben.”

“Then you don’t have any excuses, do you?”

His eyes met mine with surprising directness.

“I guess not.”

We left the editing bay, trotted down the stairs, and he grabbed a knapsack from the room he’d been working in. On the way out, we slipped into a restroom to pee, standing at adjacent urinals, keeping our eyes straight ahead, taking longer than usual before things started flowing. At the sink, we washed up quickly, avoiding each other’s eyes in the mirror the way men in restrooms tend to do.

I have no business doing this. Not having just turned forty. Not having just met someone like Oree Joffrien, where the connection felt so natural, so strong. Graff’s a kid, straight at that. Leave him alone, Justice.

We dried our hands on rough paper towels, and Graff asked me if I was ready to go. I told him I was, and followed him out, staring at his muscular calves. I was still staring at them as he pushed open the downstairs door to the parking lot, where we encountered Cecile Chang coming in, tossing a burning cigarette, slightly out of breath. She clutched her handbag under one arm, and when she saw us, she pulled up, startled. Graff was nearly as surprised.

“I thought you were taping upstairs, Cecile. Using one of the editing bays as background.”

She indicated the smoldering Capri on the pavement, smiling tightly.

“I needed a quick nicotine fix—stepped out for a moment.”

A few strands of dark hair had worked loose from the bun behind her head, and drifted down to the left side of her neck, pasted by a light film of perspiration. As she reached to push them back, her hand brushed her ear, causing her to momentarily pause, then turn away, showing us her other profile as she pushed the renegade hairs back into place. She spoke quickly, finding her breath where she could.

“We’re breaking to a new location. Down in the production offices through the afternoon. We’ll finish up back in research tonight.”

Graff looked confused. “I thought you completed your setups in research before lunch.”

“The morning shots, yes. I want to go back again when everyone’s gone for the day, and it’s empty and quiet. I thought that would make a nice ending to the presentation. A day in the life of New Image Productions, from beginning to end.”

She broke off, looking apologetic.

“But you two don’t need to hear all this, do you? I’m sure you both have more important things to do than listen to me natter on about our shooting schedule.”

Graff shoved his hands into his pants pockets, his worry showing again.

“Actually, we’re on our way to Tommy Callahan’s motel. To make sure he’s OK.”

Her busy hand, still fussing about the side of her face, became still.

“To Tommy’s motel? Now?”

“Ben suggested it.”

“Peter seemed concerned.”

Her glance caromed off Graff to me.

“Of course. Check in on him, by all means. Let me know if he’s having any problems.”

She turned and hurried on, and we stepped out to the parking lot as the door closed on the clicking of her high heels. By the time we reached the Mustang several blocks away, then found our way back to Ventura Boulevard, it was half past four, with traffic beginning to congeal. We headed east along the boulevard toward the Cahuenga Pass, staying off the freeway to avoid the crush. As we climbed a slight rise, parallel to the freeway, an orange sun flooded the suburban landscape behind us with sharp light, turning my rearview mirror into a flaming sphere. The fireball disappeared as we descended into the heart of Hollywood, slowing to a crawl along Highland Avenue, inching our way past the Hollywood Bowl, the Hollywood Museum, Hollywood Boulevard, the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

By the time Hollywood High School came into view, alerting me to Sunset Boulevard, I had learned a great deal about Peter Graff, who answered all my questions openly and amiably, and seemed utterly without guile or pretense. He told me he was from a midsized town in Minnesota, the son of a hardware store owner and a mother who had never held a paying job, but had raised six children along with a passel of pets and the “best summer vegetable garden in the state.” I asked him what constituted “midsized” in Minnesota, and he put the number at fifteen thousand. He and his girlfriend, Cheryl, both twenty-four, had dated since their senior year in high school, and had begun living together two years ago, after college and against their parents’ wishes. Not quite a year ago, they had moved from Minneapolis to Los Angeles, where they had taken an apartment in Venice, right off the beach, hoping to find work making documentaries about “important subjects.” Only recently had they agreed to a trial separation, at Peter’s urging, to take some time apart and “and gain some real life experience,” before making up their minds about their future together.

“I want to know everything about life,” Peter said. “The good along with the bad. All of it. So I really know who I am and what I want, before I finally settle down.”

The light turned green, and I eased the Mustang into the middle of the intersection, waiting for a break in traffic.

“Just be careful, Peter. Los Angeles has a way of giving some people more experience than they bargained for.”

“I may be from a small town in Minnesota, Ben. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a clue.” He said it matter-of-factly, without rancor, while staring out the windshield at the busy street. “It doesn’t mean I don’t know how to make conscious choices.”

I glanced over at his sharp Nordic profile. The sun had disappeared behind the Art Deco buildings of Hollywood High, leaving a glowing halo in the western sky; the gentle light washed over him, highlighting the fine blond hairs along the slope of his neck. I had the notion that he was deliberately letting me study him, though I sensed no vanity in it. I still wasn’t sure he realized just how beautiful he was, and how much power that gave him with a certain kind of man.

He turned his eyes on mine, blue on blue.

“I can take care of myself, OK?”

“OK, Peter.”

Our eyes remained fixed as the light turned yellow, then red. The driver behind me blasted her horn. To clear the intersection, I made a fast left onto Sunset Boulevard, and drove a block or two until we reached the Sunset Tiki Motel, where Tommy Callahan had told Graff he was staying. A sign in garish neon advertised single rooms at $29.95 a night, a rate for Los Angeles that put the place squarely in hookerville. As I turned in, we could see a small squadron of both genders doing the stroll along the grubby sidewalk.

I parked in front of the manager’s office, a small room that protruded from the corner of the motel’s main building in the shape of an island tiki hut, with a security window that looked out on the parking lot. Inside, a wizened, middle-aged Vietnamese man smoked a cigarette and read a newspaper. Graff approached him and spoke to him through a hole in the window, asking about Callahan. The man looked suspiciously from Graff to me, certain, I’m sure, that Graff was a hustler, attempting to turn a quick trick using Callahan’s room, without paying extra. Graff turned in my direction, raising his hands in frustration.

I climbed out of the Mustang and joined him.

“He doesn’t want to tell me what room Tommy’s in. He says he hasn’t seen him for a couple of days. Tommy’s paid up through Wednesday.”

I poked my nose into the hole and asked the manager if he understood English. He said he did.

“We have reason to believe Mr. Callahan may be having problems. We need to check on him.”

“I think you try to use his room without pay.”

“I’ll tell you what, smart guy. We’ll put in a call to 911, and get the cops down here to do our checking for us. How does that sound?”

I turned toward a pay phone. Standing next to it was a hooker of indeterminate gender in a tight red dress and matching heels, who waltzed away leering over one shoulder. Before I reached the phone, I heard the manager’s voice, calling me back.

“OK, OK! No call police! He in cottage number six. Around the back.”

We crossed the parking lot to a row of small bungalows built along the southern boundary of the property, dwarfed by enormous date palms with trunks thicker through the middle than a Russian weight lifter. Sixty or seventy years ago, when those palms were first planted, the cottages had probably been quaint, even attractive. Now, they were as tacky as a late-night conversation at a Sunset Strip go-go bar.