The Cutting Room (9 page)

“I’m an educated girl,” Erendira told him proudly. “And not exotic. Just normal.”

It just kept getting better. She ate pasta from the table, and told him why it wasn’t well done, and what they could do to improve it. Erendira was educated, not serious about show business—she’d asked nothing from him, despite the fact that he’d offered, in his own way—and she could cook! Plus, that shape—she curled around like a canyon road at night—she was dark skinned, that was why he made the connection. How could he resist?

Ben knew that he’d promised Rosie—and himself. After the last one, he’d said it was out of his system. He had to be more careful—that Annie Chin had turned out to be such a betrayer, bringing that musclebound freak so close to his house. (And those rumors weren’t true—Rosie was all-gal! The affairs were
his
fault, not hers!)

Actually, now that he thought about it, it would have been
Annie’s
fault; she probably would have done it whether she was sleeping with him or not. And “sleeping with him”—once!

(He had to make a note to himself: His relationship with Annie Chin was like Welles’s with Rita Hayworth. Hadn’t she been crazy, too? Or did she just end up with Alzheimer’s? He would get that new girl, that Beth Brenner, to look it up. Actually, that Beth was cute and
didn’t
seem crazy, but it was too risky for that, forget it.)

So he had no intention of cheating again, and so soon. But when Erendira—to prove her point about the pasta—said, “See?” and placed a fork of it into his mouth, waited until he’d swallowed, and then said, “Mine tastes so much better,” he knew he had to have her, right then and there.

“I think we’re through for the day,” he told the director, who thought that was a good idea.

He didn’t want to rush her. Erendira was a bright girl, a good girl—and that Latina thing, the church and all, who knew how fast she would go? The last thing he wanted, he thought with a laugh, was a family of big brothers coming after him with machetes. It was scary enough dealing with that kid who had brought Roy there, from the gangs or whatnot! It was scary that night he had a bunch of those kids up to his house for a little private fun.

Anyway, he drove her home, to—get this—an Evangeline Home for Girls in South Central. Very protective, for girls from out of town, no boys allowed in the room. This only served to get Ben more charged.

It tickled the two of them to be sitting outside that run-down place, in Ben’s black Porsche! They laughed so hard about it that Ben had to cap it with a kiss.

What a kiss it was. Like slipping hot liquor into his mouth! Sitting outside in his car, she used her tongue like an artist—like a pro, Ben actually thought, and this made him even crazier.

Where had she learned it? Not from the nuns, that was for sure!

“Where I come from,” she told him, “everything about love is perfectly natural.”

Kindness and cooking, innocence and experience. Plus, a foreign accent. Plus, she wasn’t ambitious. Erendira made Ben forget every disastrous affair he had had, made him forget he was even married to Rosie. For a minute, anyway.

“I have a little place up in the Malibu hills,” he said. “I’d like you to see it sometime.”

I’d like you to see it tonight, he thought. I’d like you to see it right now.

“I’d like to see it right now,” she said.

Ben had to admit it, he had not been suspicious. Sure, she was going pretty fast, seeming to do—and be—everything he had ever wanted. But who could blame him for going along?

With her that night, right on the couch where Roy was sitting now, he felt like some fabulous peasant to whom, yes, “everything is perfectly natural.” This was no neurotic assistant. This was no climbing costar. Or former agent. Or bulimic wife of a friend. This was, well, it sounds corny, but this was a connection to a past in which he had been a simpler, purer man. And maybe a link to the same kind of future.

Ben proudly showed her his autographed picture from Webby Slicone, the singer-turned-conservative congressman to whom he had contributed money. (“Back at you, Ben!—Webby”) But Erendira had only been in the country a brief time, and could not place him.

“So, I want to tell you about my secret project,” he said. “Well, what secret, right? It’s already been leaked by that goddamn geek on PRINTIT!.com!”

“What is that?” she said.

And why should she know? This was no bimbo, peering through the trades every morning. So, patiently, he explained about his Orson Welles idea, about the history of the Internet and what it was used for, about Abner Cooley, that powerful loser whom he hated, and about
The Magnificent Ambersons
, though he left out the part about Annie Chin, Gus, and “Her-Man,” because it might reflect badly on him. Finally, he spoke at length about his identification with Orson Welles, a genius who had been no hero in his own land.

Ben did not know for how long he spoke, but Erendira’s attention never seemed to lag. This proved what a real and wonderful woman she was.

“See, my first idea,” he said finally, “was to remake
Citizen Kane
—and that secret, as I already said, got out. But what nobody knows is that I actually have
The Magnificent Ambersons
, the entire thing—”

“What’s that? Another movie?”

Ben smiled. Where she came from, they probably didn’t even have TVs that worked! So Ben explained about that, too, as much as he knew, anyway, since he was still having Beth do coverage on Welles.

“So, what I’m going to do is remake
that
one, the whole thing, the parts that nobody’s ever seen. Then I can say I went Orson Welles one better. Somewhere, I think that he’s smiling down on me.”

She thought a minute, then asked, “And what is it like? The whole film?”

“I haven’t watched it yet. I’ve never gotten through the earlier cut version, to be honest. But I will. I’m going to rise to the occasion.”

Kissing him, Erendira seemed sure of it. He did not tell her of his plan to destroy the longer Welles version, have it lost once and for all. He wanted the long
Magnificent Ambersons
to be
his
idea,
his
brainstorm. But he was sure she would have understood, had he told her.

“Let’s watch it now,” she said.

“What?”

“Let’s see it now, I’m very curious.”

“But—aren’t you tired? And aren’t there . . . ‘other things’ . . . we could be doing instead?”

Ben felt sleazy at that moment, not “natural,” but he couldn’t help himself. He told her that he didn’t feel like watching the movie now, he’d see it later, or maybe have that Beth transcribe it for him.

But Erendira was insistent.

“If it means that much to you,” she said, “I want to see it.”

How could he say no to that? She was saying “Put up or shut up, be the better man, the artist you know you are and that I know you are.”

So Ben set up the projector and screen he had stashed there, the ones on which he sometimes ran vintage stag films that were not on video. Then he broke out the incredible new pot that Stu Drayton had delivered to him. Stu was his dealer and the one who hired the kids from the barrio to make deliveries for him, who gave them “opportunities.” That boy tonight had been one of Stu’s.

He wasn’t sure how Erendira would deal with the drugs, but he was relieved by what he heard.

“Where I come from,” she said, “there is no sin in this.”

Yes, what a woman she was.

They set up the film and were about to turn it on. But the pot was so strong that, within ten minutes, Ben was laughing uncontrollably, and within fifteen minutes, he was asleep.

When he awoke in the morning, the film was gone. And so was Erendira.

Nothing else was taken. Ben went through his drawers, his safe, all his private places. Even the last taste of pot was left. It was only Erendira and
The Magnificent Ambersons
.

Ben was not angry, he was beside himself. He was sure that someone had kidnapped Erendira while he was asleep. He had many enemies, maybe even some on his own staff. Otherwise, Erendira hadn’t been sincere with him, and that didn’t make sense, did it? The woman of his dreams? That would mean Ben Williams was a schmuck, and he wasn’t, he was a major movie star.

Ben wasn’t concerned about
Ambersons
, to be frank. He had several other projects lined up; the Welles thing was just in development. That was why he was asking for Roy’s help.

Ben wanted to find the woman; Roy, for whatever reason, and Ben never asked, wanted to find the film. Roy didn’t work for Ben, so he was above suspicion. And he didn’t know Rosie. (Ben also secretly thought that this would give him some time to stay faithful and work on his marriage. You had to be realistic and keep your options open.)

Ben would provide the backing, first-class all the way, within reason. All Roy had to do was keep his mouth shut and, of course, be successful.

Couldn’t Roy use the money? And who was he, anyway, to say no?

Well, that was the story. What did Roy think? About going to Barcelona, he meant?

PART 3

BARCELONA

I was finally a real detective.

What I mean is: In old books and movies, a detective always works
for
someone. He gets paid, instead of just nosing around on his own. This shift into gainful employment gave me greater mobility, of course. But it also meant that I was less free, and beholden to someone else. And that someone was Ben Williams.

“Quit complaining,” Jeanine said. “What’s the alternative? Back to New York, bitter, with no
Magnificent Ambersons
.”

“You’re right,” I said reluctantly. “I guess this is what they call ‘moving up.’ ”

Like Abner Cooley before me, I had entered into the world of those I judged. But was it really possible to enter? Didn’t trivial people’s skills at unearthing and exposing make us valuable—and dangerous? Wasn’t Abner Cooley really hated by executives? And wasn’t Ben Williams just using me? Trivia was turning out to be not so trivial, after all.

“Alan Gilbert thought the
Ambersons
would move him into the mainstream,” I said. “And look what happened to him.”

“You’re not Alan Gilbert,” Jeanine said. “You’re coming back.”

She said this as if she would wait, patiently. All the while, she was adjusting my collar with her usual mix of the maternal and the romantic. It was a full hour before my plane went to Barcelona, but Jeanine had only minutes to catch hers. She was accompanying cargo back to New York.

“I wish you were coming with me,” I said.

“I did what I could,” she said. “I can drive, but I can’t speak Spanish.”

They were calling Jeanine’s plane now. She kissed me, grazing my mouth with a conflicted kiss, half-aunt, half-amorous. I inhaled her perfume deeply and touched, tentatively, the top of her coiled-up hair.

“Be careful,” she said.

Then she was gone.

I had been surprised by the speed with which Ben had ordered up everything I needed. And I had been surprised at who had brought it to cousin Larry’s apartment in L.A.

Beth Brenner had been shocked to see me, too.

“Oh, my gawd,” she said. “It’s the crazy guy!”

“Keep your voice down,” I said. “My friend’s napping in the other room. Besides, before you cast aspersions, may I look in your bag?”

As usual, Beth immediately began to crumble. But then she pulled herself up, with new self-control. I guessed that Beth was growing into her job.

“I just hope Ben knows what he’s doing,” she said.

The other night at his house, Ben had snapped a quick picture of me with a camera he kept by his bed for private purposes. Now, with the picture inside, Beth threw a passport at me. Next came a roll of money, an itinerary, and a laptop. Finally—and I backed off as it came my way—she laid before me a small handgun and a permit.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “What’s that for?”

“To shoot people with,” she said. “Duh!”

I was shocked that Ben thought this job would be so dangerous. I had never even touched a gun, and now I kept this one at a distance.

“So, that’s it, okay?” she said. “Oh, there’s one more thing.”

Beth handed me a manila envelope, which I shook out on the bed. It contained a headshot—that is, a picture and résumé of an actress.

Erendira used one name, like Cher or Madonna or Terry-Thomas. She was sultry, with a huge head of black hair and piercing dark eyes. I could understand Ben’s infatuation. I didn’t see the look of innocence he had gone on about. But maybe you had to be there.

When I flipped it over, I saw an L.A. address and phone number. Ben had scrawled on it:
Disconected.
He used just the one
n
, not me.

“I don’t see what’s the big deal,” Beth said. “I mean, there already is Jennifer Lopez. How many more of them do you need?”

There was a tone of petulant jealousy in Beth’s voice. I looked up at her, suddenly surprised she would be privy to so many of Ben’s secrets. But then I knew that Beth was privy to many things about Ben now. No matter how much he regretted Annie Chin—or desired Erendira—Ben had once again been randy and reckless. I wondered how long it would be before Beth became an Abner Cooley contact, too.

“Well,” she said, “good luck. Annoy people in Europe now.”

On her long, bare legs, Beth breezed from the room. Despite her new confidence, she was still insecure; she took my pen with her.

For the first time in my life, I left the country and flew first class. It was a cushy way to experience a storm in the sky, which seemed to want to scuttle the plane. I was provided with free videos for my own little TV set, two out of three of which starred Ben. Had he arranged for that, too?

In Barcelona, Ben made sure I was picked up by a limo driver and taken to the Carabas, a four-star hotel. Though I had a working knowledge of the language, I didn’t have to speak a word of Spanish; I didn’t have to make a sound. I had full use of a bedroom, a sitting room, and a giant bathroom with its own Jacuzzi.

I laid Erendira’s picture on my enormous bed. Then I unplugged the room phone and plugged in my modem before calling up Web sites from across the sea. I wanted both to be informed and to feel less homesick.

PRINT IT!

Since we reported—without naming names, of course—that a famous star planned to remake
Citizen Kane
, I can now confirm that his plans are off. It seems that after the item made headlines worldwide—okay, it was Ben Williams, baby—the red-faced star is planning a yearlong sabbatical to “spend more time with my family.” Since that family includes Rosie Bryant, expect him to be before the cameras in about six months.

From there, I called up the
New York Times
online, and its Metro section, in particular.

MURDER SUSPECT UNDER SUICIDE WATCH

When Lorelei Reed was arraigned last month in a downtown courtroom on charges that she killed local TV performer Alan Gilbert, she looked dazed and disoriented. Now she is under a suicide watch.

Gilbert was found stabbed to death in his ransacked East Village apartment. There was no sign of forced entry, but police said money was taken. They had no comment on reports that drugs were also stolen from Gilbert, the host of the
My Movies
trivia program on local late-night cable-access television.

Reed, in her thirties and an admitted crack cocaine addict, is being held on one hundred thousand dollars bail. The suicide watch was imposed after she reportedly tried to stab herself with a pin she had ripped from the hair of a female guard.

As I looked around my gigantic, cream-colored suite, I thought I had come a long way from Alan Gilbert. Finding Erendira might lead me to
The Magnificent Ambersons
, but it would probably not clear Lorelei Reed. Or would it? These days, I was never sure what dead end might open up another avenue.

Before I went to sleep, I buzzed my home phone, billing Ben’s phone card. I heard Jody, asking who the woman playing the nun on Landers Classic Movies was. And I heard a few angry subscribers wondering where their
Trivial Man
was.

I wondered the same thing.

Over the next days, I showed Erendira’s picture to bartenders, newsstand vendors, theater owners. Despite my fancy new haircut and clothes—courtesy, of course, of Ben—I was treated with contempt. Americans were not their favorite foreigners down Barcelona way.

The only reactions I got were leering approval of Erendira’s picture, or annoyed incredulity, as in “Get out of here, quit kidding around.” They obviously doubted that I could ever know such a woman.

Otherwise, during the day, I wandered the Ramblas, the broad boulevard that catered to—or tried to trap—tourists with street performers, caged birds for sale, and postcards of handsome soccer heroes. Street children pursued me, aggressively asking for money. A man dressed as Ben Franklin targeted me for attention—sensing my Americanness, I supposed—and tried to block my way, with weird belligerence.

At night, I ordered in room service and flickered through the few TV channels. I watched a popular talent show, in which Spanish residents did impressions of celebrities—some as old as Louis Armstrong, others as new as Madonna—and of handsome soccer heroes. The winner this week, as she had been for many weeks, apparently, was a pudgy, middle-aged woman who “did” Ben Williams.

“Don even breath, bebe!”

She reminded me of my duties. Turning down the set, I logged on for my daily progress report:

Dear Ben,

Trying hard. No sign of her yet.

Roy Milano

An hour or so later, I received this reply:

Dear Mr. Milano,

Ben is not paying you to fool around. Get on the stick.

Cordially,
Elizabeth Brenner

I figured that I had now been “given” to Beth, as a symbol of her new power within the Williams camp. I wondered if Ben was losing interest in my assignment.

But the checks that kept coming were for larger and larger amounts. Ben was more desperate than ever to find Erendira, trapped in his usual pattern of family duty and affairs with the unstable. The simple and sensual goddess must be dancing in his dreams, I thought, as the names of supporting acting winners danced in mine.

I figured I had to bite the bullet and call on my own contacts. The trivial community may have spanned the globe, but I knew of only one member in Spain: Ron Gaylord.

Ron was a former film professor and current expatriate, who had followed a woman overseas, where they married and had two children. Soon the woman ran off with their kids, and Ron was left, managing a movie revival house and a serious drinking problem.

I had delayed consulting Ron because he was a nightmare figure of the trivial man: down and out, far from home, with just his film cans to keep him warm. I also feared that he would have an attitude about my new employment, which he promptly did.

“Nice duds,” he sneered.

“There’s a reason for this, Ron,” I said defensively.

“Isn’t there always? What is it, you decided to ‘grow up,’ or something?”

I thought that Ron was in no position to judge, sitting pale, unshaven, and slightly shaky in the cramped office above his run-down theater, which had been carved from a medieval building in the Gothic Quarter. Still, co-option by the workaday world was a sore subject among the trivial, and I felt it.

I wished I could tell Ron what I was really seeking. But his bitterness made him a hard man to trust.

“I’m looking for an actress,” I said. “So sue me if I’m being bankrolled.”

“By whom?”

I paused, under the withering gaze of withered Ron. To him, there could be nobody worse to work for than—

“Ben Williams.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You’re just jealous,” I said, knowing it wasn’t true.

“Yeah, tell me another.” Ron drank from a cup that might have contained coffee, but I doubted it.

“Look, I didn’t come here for a lecture. And it’s nice to see you, too, by the way.”

“You’re as bad as the rest of them,” he muttered. “You symbolize everything that sucks.”

“Thanks.”

“They’re closing me down, you know,” he said. “They’re building a twin theater, or a plex, or whatever the hell they call it.”

I nodded, a bit shaken. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You think this conglomerate crap is only happening in America. But we’re not free of it in Europe, either.”

Ron sucked deep from his cup of whatever. I felt sorry for him—and even sorrier for world culture—so I hid behind the job I had to do.

I laid the picture of Erendira out before him. He glanced at it for a second, then looked away.

“Nice,” he just said.

“She doesn’t look familiar.”

“Of course she does. A dime a dozen.”

I sighed, putting the picture away.

“The best of luck to you,” Ron said sourly. Then he turned to tinker with something, obviously to get me to go. Obediently, I packed up.

“Well,” I said weakly, “it was good to see you again.”

Ron just addressed the air around him.

“When they’ve got
you
,” he said, “they’ve got everyone.”

In its own way, the remark was a compliment. It almost made me blurt out about
Ambersons
. But there are some people whose self-esteem is so dismal, it’s dangerous. Ron was one of those people.

“Good luck,” I said lamely, and he snorted back, with derision.

That night, both to occupy myself and, in a small way, to support Ron, I attended his theater.

He was running a revival of
Singin’ in the Rain
. I was assured by the sign outside that it was V.O., or version originale, that is to say, subtitled. But when I sank into my seat, I was in for a surprise. Gene Kelly, Donald O’Connor, and Debbie Reynolds clowned and sang in Spanish. Only the taps of their dancing feet were V.O.

Still, I stayed, the film so familiar that I would know it in any language. I remembered that Gene and Debbie’s “You Were Meant for Me” number was cut from certain prints and, indeed, it had been here. The few minutes of film were as lost as Ron Gaylord was in Spain.