Plan B (19 page)

Brokaw then returned. “Although the police department says they are looking into the movie star’s disappearance, a police officer who spoke on the condition of anonymity said that the police are more inclined to believe that Shaw’s disappearance is drug-related. Over the last few months, Shaw’s alleged drug addiction has made headlines across the country. Most recently, he was arrested and charged with driving under the influence and possession of a controlled substance, to which he pleaded no contest.

“As Hollywood wonders about the fate of its newest leading man, one famous director has been left holding the bag, as it were. Luther Cain spoke to us from the set of
Blue Angel II
, where Shaw’s disappearance has halted the start of production.”

Cut to a close up of Luther Cain on a soundstage. A tall, angular man whose complete baldness was accentuated by his comically bushy eyebrows. There was an artist-at-work intensity to his gaze, but his voice was soft and even. “We don’t know where Jack is, and right now we’re just worried about him. I hope he’s all right, and that we hear some good news before tomorrow.”

Back to Brokaw. “Cain, the Academy Award—winning director whose film
Blue Angel
launched Jack Shaw to stardom, would not comment on the financial implications of Shaw’s disappearance, saying that it’s only money and right now their only concern is to hear that Jack Shaw is safe. We’ll have more on this for you as it develops.”

We turned off the television and just looked at each other. Even though we’d known the story would eventually break, we’d all been secretly hoping that it somehow wouldn’t. Now that Jack was officially missing, now that Tom Brokaw, for chrissakes, had
seen fit to comment on it, we were somewhat overwhelmed by the enormity of what we had done. The trouble we might be in.

“Holy shit,” Chuck whispered.

“That was pretty intense,” Lindsey said.

“Maybe we should call Seward,” I said. “Get him to call off the hunt.”

“You can’t be serious,” Chuck said. “Seward needs someone to blame for this. If we tell him, we’re his scapegoats to the media, to the police, to everyone. He’ll want to do everything he can to show that this was anyone’s fault other than Jack’s.”

“He’s right,” Alison said wearily. She’d spent most of the day with Ruthie Miller and seemed exhausted from sharing the woman’s grief. “As it is, Jack was having trouble getting insured, but this is the first time he didn’t show up for work. It will be virtually impossible to get insurance for Jack unless it was someone else’s fault.”

“So let me see if I understand this,” I said. “We spend another week or so up here and Jack kicks the habit, right? Great. Now we have two choices. Jack can go back to Seward, and to the police, leave our names out of it, and he basically will never work again. Or, we step forward and admit our guilt, in which case maybe Jack gets to work, and we go to jail. Is that how this is going to play out? We choose between Jack’s career and our lives?”

“Not exactly,” Lindsey said.

“How’s that?”

“I don’t think the choice is ours. It’s Jack’s.”

“Can I ask a simple question?” Chuck said.

“Why not.”

“What the fuck were we thinking?”

We sat through the rest of the news in a somber silence that was periodically broken by Chuck, who muttered, “Tom-fucking-Brokaw,”
to himself every few minutes, in a somewhat awestruck voice. I was so preoccupied that I forgot to keep track of the body count.

After the news we turned off the television and Alison opened up the mahogany bar in the corner of the living room and said, “Drinks anyone?”

“If you’re pouring, I’m drinking.” Chuck said. We went through the cocktails pretty quickly, and Alison got tired of getting up to freshen everyone’s drinks, so she just mixed up a huge pitcher of vodka and cranberry juice and placed it on the coffee table. Lindsey fiddled with the stereo until she got the CD player working and put on an old Joe Jackson album.

“There’s probably going to be a funeral tomorrow,” Alison said. “They’re pulling Peter Miller off life-support tonight. Ruthie told me the doctors don’t expect him to live through the night.”

“I’ll go with you,” I offered, thinking of Jeremy.

“Okay,” Alison said appreciatively.

Chuck’s beeper went off. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. “Who the hell is that?” he muttered to himself. I grabbed the cordless phone that was lying under the couch and tossed it to Chuck, who had dropped off the couch and was sitting cross-legged on the floor. He dialed the number and, after a few seconds said, “Yes, this is Dr. Nyman.” We all smiled since it still sounded odd to hear him refer to himself as a doctor. Chuck’s eyes suddenly flew open and he quickly covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “It’s Seward!” he hissed.

The rest of us ran into the kitchen to put on the speaker phone, while Chuck remained on the cordless in the living room. “. . . on vacation,” Seward was saying when Alison pressed the button. The phone was mounted on the wall beside the fridge, and the three
of us stood there staring at it as if we could somehow see Seward through it.

“Yeah,” Chuck said. “I’m just taking off a couple of days. How’d you get my beeper number?”

Seward ignored the question. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of Jack’s other New York friends, and you all seem to be on vacation. I find that somewhat funny.”

“You’re easily amused,” Chuck said.

“Come on, Chuck,” Seward said. “Jack needs help. Help me get him that help.”

“Oh, this is about the whole disappearance thing,” Chuck said. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me you don’t know where he is?”

“That’s right,” Seward said.

“Jesus. I just kind of figured you’d checked him into Betty Ford or Promises or something, and that you were trying to keep the media out of it,” Chuck said, rather believably, I thought.

“Where are you right now, Chuck?” Seward asked.

“I just told you, I’m on vacation.”

“I know, but I’m in New York now and I’d like to get together with you on this. You know, talk it over. See what we can do about helping Jack.”

“Well, I’d love to do that,” Chuck said. “But I’m actually down here in Florida, so I don’t see that happening for another two weeks or so.”

“You don’t consider your friend’s disappearance important enough to come back from Florida?” Seward asked in exaggerated disbelief.

“I’m as worried about Jack as you are,” Chuck said, pretending to be insulted by Seward’s remark. “But I don’t see how meeting with you will help us find him. When Jack wants to be found, he’ll turn up.”

“Chuck, I’m going to cut to the chase here.”

“I wish you would already.”

“You’re not in Florida.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not in Florida. You’re calling me from the nine-one-four area code. I have Caller ID on my phone.”

“Well aren’t you just Sherlock-fucking-Holmes,” Chuck said.

“Why don’t you put Jack on the phone,” Seward said.

“I would except that, in case you’ve forgotten, Jack’s disappeared.”

“Would you like my opinion?” Seward said. “I think you’ve got Jack up there, all of you. You tricked him with some bullshit message about Alison Scholling’s health, and you have him somewhere where you think you’re helping him out, while in reality you’re actually causing irrevocable damage to his career and reputation.” I grimaced, realizing that we had forgotten about the hotel message.

“Well, Paul,” Chuck said. “You know what they say. Opinions are like assholes. Everyone’s got one, and everyone thinks his own doesn’t stink.”

“Quit fucking around with me, Chuck,” Seward was close to shouting now. “You’re out of your league.”

“Says you.”

“Where’s Jack?”

“I should be asking you that,” Chuck said. “You’re supposed to be his fucking agent.”

“You have no idea what you’re doing!” Seward screamed.

“That sounded like another opinion,” Chuck said. “And you know what they say: Opinions are like assholes—”

“You fucking idiot,” Seward screamed. “I’ll have your balls on a spit when I—”

“—You can hang up on both of them,” Chuck finished, clicking the cordless to terminate the call. I quickly leaned forward to disconnect the speaker phone. As I hit the button, I was dismayed to discover that my hands were shaking.

“Shit!” Chuck said, storming into the room. “He caught me off guard. I had no idea what to say!”

“It wasn’t your fault, Chuck,” I said. “You had to answer your page.”

“He nailed me with that Caller ID thing,” Chuck muttered.

“What do we do now?” Lindsey asked.

“We’re screwed,” Chuck said. “They know where we are now.”

“No,” Alison said. “Seward has a strong suspicion that we’ve done something, and now he knows what area code we’re in. That’s it.”

“The police can track us with a phone number,” I said.

“But I don’t think Seward will go to the police,” Alison said. “At least not right away.”

“How’s that?” Chuck asked.

“He wouldn’t want it out of his control,” Alison said. “He’s still thinking he can salvage this situation and put his own spin on it. Once he turns this over to the police, he loses control and he loses the spin. In his line of work, that’s the worst thing that can happen.”

“So what will he do?” I asked.

“He’ll try to find us himself,” Alison said.

Thirty . . . shit
.

Crows feet, jowls, love handles. I’ve started to see myself through the eyes of the teenagers I pass on the street, repeatedly shocked by the realization that they see me as older. So many of the things I’ve eaten with impunity for years suddenly give me indigestion. Nothing feels new anymore. Everything I see just reminds me of something else. I know now that there are certain things I’ll never do in my life. A shirt I still think of as new turns out to actually be seven or eight years old. Seasons are quicker, holidays vaguely disturbing. Statistically speaking, I’ve used up more than one third of my life span, the healthiest third. And where are the tradeoffs? Where’s the authority? The wisdom? The confidence that was supposed to have come with adulthood? I’m only experienced enough to know that I’m as clueless as I ever was.

We were all a little hyped up for the rest of the night, between Seward’s call and making the evening news, and we didn’t know
what to do with ourselves. Sure it was scary, but there was also something undeniably exciting about being part of such a big story, about having the inside track. Forget Seward, we knew more than Tom Brokaw, for chrissakes! We
were
the news.

After a quick, late dinner of frozen pizza bagels and french fries, we retired to our separate bedrooms. Everyone seemed to need a little down time to reconsider what we were doing here. I took a fast shower and changed into boxers and a Ben Folds Five T-shirt and got into bed. Using the phone on my night table, I called my answering machine, more out of habit than because I was expecting any messages. There was a quick one from Ethan, sounding rushed and uncomfortable, telling me he’d heard about the divorce and was just checking in to see what was up. No return call necessary. After that was one from my mother, just letting me know that she’d told my brother about the divorce because she thought he should know, and really I should have told him but who knew when I’d get around to doing that, and besides he could tell something was wrong from her voice and he shouldn’t accidentally hear it from someone else. The third beep raised my eyebrows, because I couldn’t think of anyone else who would have called. A low, hoarse voice rambled on in Spanish for about sixty seconds before hanging up, and while my Spanish was usually limited to intuiting the meaning of the warning decals on subway doors, I was fairly confident in my conclusion that it was a wrong number, confirming my earlier suspicion that there was no one else who would have missed me.

The Spanish message was followed by three long beeps, which meant the machine had nothing left to say to me, so I hung up, remembering to hit the number seven first, which would erase those messages and leave a full tape for the next exciting batch. I could never understand the irrational hope that reflexively bloomed in me like a desert flower every time I checked my answering
machine, as if I had all these friends I’d completely forgotten about who would eventually check in and refresh my memory.

I tried to read some Raymond Carver to clear my mind, but I still fell asleep thinking about Lindsey, and woke up with a start, my forehead stuck to the waxy laminate of the paperback cover, feeling the odd sense of bewilderment that comes from awakening in a lit room. I checked the clock on the night table, which read 2:12
A.M
., and tried to recall what it was that had shaken me from my sleep. I rolled onto my back and lay still, listening, but the house was completely silent. Somewhere outside, someone was burning leaves, and the faintly acrid smell of smoke came wafting through my bedroom window. It actually took another minute or two of lying there, sniffing thoughtfully before it dawned on me that my window was closed. The smell wasn’t coming in from the outside, it was already inside, and whatever was burning it wasn’t leaves.