The Bequest (7 page)

Teri looked at
herself in the bathroom mirror. An unusually harsh
critic, she took one more stab at her hair, then double-checked that her
dress, specially created by Montavo, Hollywood’s newest one-namedesigner flavor of the month, didn’t reveal any unflattering cleavage or
cling too tightly to hips, love handles, or buttocks. Makeup effectively
covered the crow’s feet that radiated from her eyes. She had always heard
that exposure to sun would age your skin, but growing up in Texas, it was
impossible to avoid sun, especially for a ranch tomboy who spent more
time out of doors than in. Crow’s feet were badges of character where she
came from, instead of the beginning of a countdown to the ends of
careers, as they were in Hollywood. Fittingly enough, if they ran amuck,
she would soon move from leading lady to character actress.

Mike entered and stood behind her. He put his arms around her
waist, clasped his hands on her stomach, and pulled her close. “You about
ready, Babe?”

She pulled at her bangs, spreading them evenly across her forehead.
“Does my hair look stupid?”
“No.”
“Does this dress make me look fat?”
He gave her a once-over in the mirror. “Like anything could ever
make you look fat.”
She unclasped his hands from her waist, turned, and sighed. “Well, if
I don’t look fat and stupid, then I guess I’m ready to go.”
Mike
laughed, and
Teri
smiled to see
it.
Throughout their
relationship, she had always been able to make him laugh. That is, until the
“troubles,” the term he used to describe the firing/unfiring of her by her
agents, the way some older folks in the Deep South still referred to the
Civil War as the “recent unpleasantness.” Teri thought that using that
word was Mike’s way of marginalizing what had happened, and his part in
it, as if the whole sequence of events had merely been an uninsurable force
of nature or an act of God, as opposed to a calculated decision by Bob
Keene, supported—or at least acquiesced in—by Mike.
Even now, with her career apparently back on track, things were not
what they had once been. If the future of their relationship was to be
dependent on the fickleness of a Hollywood career, things most likely
would never be the same. But things were good for now, and that was as
much as Teri could hope for. She had long ago shelved the marriage hopes
she once harbored. There might still be marriage in her future, but she
knew it wouldn’t be with Mike, or anyone else in “the business,” for that
matter.
They drove to the Beverly Hilton in silence. Teri kept her face to the
window as Mike drove down Coldwater Canyon Drive, across glitzy
Sunset Boulevard where Coldwater Canyon became Beverly Drive, and on
to Wilshire Boulevard. Limos and luxury cars were already lined up in
front at the
valet stand
of the
Hilton, the
car-parkers working in
overdrive. Rope lines had been set up alongside a red carpet, from the
curb to the entrance, and crowds of fans and onlookers gathered on both
sides, cameras and cell phones in hand, ready to snap shots of celebrities.
Mike pulled in at the back of the line, waiting to edge up one car at a
time.
“You nervous?” he asked, the first word spoken since they got in the
car.
“Yes. Are you?”
“No.”
“Your reputation’s on the line, too.” She knew, though, that he’d be
ready to bail out at a moment’s notice, just as he had before. She was sure
he had already re-packed his parachute after aborting his last bailout in
mid-jump.
“We’re going to do a hundred mil opening weekend,” he said. “And
that’s if a natural disaster cuts into the box office. I’ve never seen buzz like
this on a movie before.”
They moved forward another car length. Teri let out a big sigh.
“What are you worried about?” he asked.
“What if the movie’s no good? What if I was just so desperate for a
hit that I let all the weirdness of suicides and wills and crazy mothers
influence my judgment?”
“I read the script, too, Babe. It’s good, damn good.”
“You read the scripts on the busts, too. You’re the one who told me
to do them. Do we trust your judgment?”
“Trust Doug Bozarth and his people who thought it was good enough
to sink seventy-five million dollars into. And you’ve seen the final cut of
the movie. You know it’s good, Babe. The hype may bring in the audience
the opening weekend, but word-of-mouth’s going to give it legs. We’re
going to set records with this one.”
“If you say so.” But Teri wasn’t so sure. She had seen can’t-miss turn
into what-were-you-thinking before. Sure, opening weekend should be
good, but word-of-mouth, while it could give the movie legs, could also
cut it off at the knees. Twitter and Facebook and other forms of social
media, with the instant gratification they brought, could kill it before the
first Saturday matinees were over if the Teri Squire haters started texting
in darkened theaters.
They pulled up another car length, and a young man in black pants,
white shirt with tie, and tennis shoes opened the passenger door. The
murmur from the crowd opened up to a roar. Teri could just make out
her name being spoken over and over, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a
shout, as the crowd recognized who was in the car.
Mike took her hand in his. “You ready to do this?”
Teri took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then
opened them and smiled. She nodded.
“Then let’s go greet your fans,” he said.
She gave the valet her hand and allowed him to escort her out of the
car while Mike hustled around to take the handoff and lead her to the
door. Excited fans surged forward against the rope line. Hands extended
holding paper, pictures, napkins—anything she could autograph. She took
the first one and signed her name, then took the next.
“Babe, we gotta get inside,” Mike said.
“Just a few more,” she said. “You’ll notice these folks don’t think I’m
toxic.” She reveled in the attention and adulation of the crowd. It had been
a long time since she had felt like this. And with her track record, there
was no guarantee she would ever feel it again, so she wanted to enjoy it
while she could.
Mike held her elbow and tried to hustle her along, but she insisted on
signing everything that was thrust her way. Exasperated, he grabbed her
hand as she reached for a glossy shot of her from her first Oscar-winning
film. She got only a glimpse of it, but something about the photo troubled
her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Maybe not the photo, exactly,
but the hand that held it.
“Now,” Mike said. “Inside.”
She looked at the person who held out the photo. “I’m sorry. If you’ll
still be here later, I’ll be happy to sign it.”
The man was thin-faced with longish greasy hair and a gap-toothed
smile. His appearance startled her. There was something troubling about
his face, just as something troubled her about the hand that held the photo.
She glanced down just as the man withdrew the offer. It was a fast move,
too fast for her to be able to make out any detail of the tattoo on his bare
forearm. She could see just enough to tell there was something there,
crude and simplistic. And vaguely familiar.
She looked back at the man, whose smile lingered but his eyes
showed no mirth. They were dark and flat and emotionless, almost
reptilian. A cliché villain. And yet, a fan.
“I’ll be waiting,” the man said. “I have been for two years.”
Teri allowed Mike to pull her away, her mind troubled by the
encounter. Something continued to nag at her mind. Who the hell was
that guy? Did she know him? She was pretty sure she didn’t, but there was
no denying a familiarity that was more than just a fleeting sense of déjà vu.
Something about those eyes, especially. The frozen smile beneath lifeless
eyes. She couldn’t shake it.
“What’s the matter, Babe?” Mike asked.
He
led her
inside
as
uniformed doormen opened both doors to allow them to enter.
“I just wish I could have signed some more autographs. It seems like
it’s been a long time since anybody wanted one from me.”
“They’ll be there later. But remember, sign and move on. We’ve still
got to get over to the theater.”
Teri kept thinking about the man with the tattoo as Mike escorted
her to the ballroom. As they neared, music and the dull roar of voices
from inside greeted them. The pre-premiere party was in full swing, the
room full of loud, boisterous people chatting, drinking, and some even
dancing to a live band.
Bob Keene, wearing a black tuxedo with tails, saw them as they
entered. He left the group of people he was talking to and strode toward
them, beaming. Teri didn’t know when she had ever seen such a big smile
on his face, and she wanted to slap it off. Something about him always
made her want to whip his ass—and that was before he tried to sink her
career.
“One of the best pre-premiere parties I’ve ever been to,” Bob said.
“Expectations are sky high.”
Great! Teri thought. Nowhere to go but down. She preferred lower
expectations, where it took less to be considered a success, to high
expectations, where even a success by any other standard could be deemed
a failure.
Bob shook hands with Mike, then extended his hand to Teri, who
gave it a tiny shake and let go almost instantly.
“Are the angels happy?” Mike asked.
“The angels are ecstatic. We’ll hit a hundred mil the first weekend,
maybe one and a quarter, but we’re thinking three or four or maybe even
five hundred domestic before it’s over, and who knows how much in
foreign. By the time all the income streams are tapped out, the angels’ll
probably quadruple or quintuple their money.”
“Isn’t that great?” Mike said to Teri, who stood with an almost stoic
countenance. Yeah, it was great, but she would be damned if she’d give
Bob Keene any satisfaction.
“Teri, what can I say?” Bob said, beaming at her. “You were right, I
was wrong.”
“About what, specifically?” She knew what he meant, but she wasn’t
going to make it easy for him. On the other hand, it was a legitimate
question. Bob had been wrong about a whole litany of things, so it seemed
fair to ask him to narrow it down. Maybe it should even be a multiplechoice exam.
Bob dipped his head in a sort of bow. “I apologize for doubting you.”
“I told you all I needed was the right script.”
“If you’d also told us you needed a dead screenwriter, maybe we
could have accommodated you sooner. I know a few who need killing.”
That drew a brown-noser laugh from Mike, but barely a smile from
Teri. The truth was, she was still troubled about taking advantage of
tragedy to benefit herself. That might be the way of the Hollywood world,
but it went sharply against the grain of her Texas upbringing. She had
experienced tragedy in her own life, even been responsible for some of it,
and she would be damned if she would ever sit still for someone to profit
from her and her family’s loss. Yet here she was profiting from Annemarie
and Leland Crowell’s misfortune.
“Is Annemarie Crowell here?” she asked. She had not seen Annemarie
since she had delivered the script to Teri’s house two years earlier.
“Are you kidding?” Bob said. “Why would that nutcase be here?”
“Because it’s her son’s script.”
“It’s your script,” Mike said. “Her son gave it to you, and she’s got no
interest in it.”
“Mike, we talked about this. She should be here for this. And for the
premiere.”
“We’ll send her a DVD,” Bob said.
If Bob actually did send her a DVD, it would be the only thing
Annemarie would see from her son’s work. She was a strange woman,
creepy, in fact, but Teri felt she deserved something more than a token
acknowledgement that the screenwriter had been her son. Teri had vowed
to share her profit participation with Annemarie, though she had not yet
told anyone. In fact, she would likely never tell anyone. Her plan was to
handle
the
payments
anonymously through
her
personal attorney
to
Annemarie via Spencer West, attorney-at-aw.
Bob nodded across the way at three well-dressed men huddled in a
tight group. All relatively young—early to late 30s—all slick, all polished.
One of them stood a head taller than the other two, his black hair slicked
back Mike Capalletti-style, longish in back. His jaw was square, a threedays growth of beard worn for effect. And it worked, giving him an aura
of calculated nonchalance. He was clearly the alpha dog of the pack.
Nearby stood three women, dressed to the hilt, champagne glasses in
hand, eyes glassy and star-struck as they pointed out celebrities and
whispered excitedly among themselves. Wives.
“I don’t think you ever met your angels, did you?” Bob asked. “The
tall one is Doug Bozarth. He’s the real angel. I think at least fifty of the
seventy-five is his personal money.”
“Maybe I’m his angel,” Teri said.
“She’s right, Bob,” Mike said. “When the dust settles, those three rich
dudes are going to be three filthy rich dudes.”
“They’re already filthy rich,” Bob said. “But they’ll be obscenely
rich.”
“What’s the difference?” Mike asked.
“A decimal point or two.”
“And it’ll be a good payday for you, too,” Teri said, “especially
considering it all dropped right into your lap.”
“Off a cliff and into your lap,” Mike said. He and Bob laughed, caught
up in the moment, but Teri stayed silent. Death wasn’t funny to her.
The
band
launched into a
reggae
arrangement of a
Lady
Gaga
number, the calypso sounding as if it belonged organically to the pop star’s
music. Teri grabbed Mike’s arm and dragged him toward the dance floor.
“Come on, I want to dance,” she said, as much to get away from Bob
as anything.
“And dance you shall,” Mike said. He handed his glass to Bob and
followed her onto the dance floor.
Teri glanced over her shoulder at Bob as she and Mike moved off. He
ignored her but raised his glass at the angels. Doug Bozarth raised his glass
back to Bob in a silent salute, then turned to the dance floor where he
locked gazes with Teri. After a brief moment, he smiled, but Teri thought
it stopped well short of his eyes. She had seen smiles like that before,
including one along the ropeline just moments earlier.
She looked away.