The Hollywood Guy (15 page)

“Like our afternoon session at the Mayflower?”

“That was grief.” She drinks. So does he. “I live in one of those glass towers nearby, marvelous view.” She throws him a knowing look. It’s clear she’s offering more. “Interested?”

“Where is your husband?”

“Bernard died two years ago. Heart attack,” she sounds resentful, “he didn’t take care of himself.”

Pete is stunned. “Kids?”

Samantha shakes her head bitterly. “I couldn’t.” She stares at her trembling hands, stifles a sob. “Because of you.”

“Me?”

“The abortion, you don’t remember?”

“We were in our twenties.”

“What does that excuse? My greatest regret is not having our baby.”

“The abortion was your idea, I would have done anything you wanted.”

“Pete, you were terrified when I told you I missed my period.”

“I was selfish, yes. I wanted to establish myself as a writer first.”

“And the years after, on the pill.”

“You loved not wearing a diaphragm.”

Her voice drips with scorn. “The pill screwed me up so I couldn’t have children.”

“That was my fault?”

They finish the drinks in silence avoiding eye contact. They had been married three years when Sam got pregnant. The timing was wrong. She was starting her rise at the agency and he had a draft of his book circulating; a child wasn’t in the picture yet.

Suddenly Samantha grabs the check, throws a fifty on the table and stands. “What do you say, luv?” She uses a cockney accent. “Coming back to my place for a toss?”

How did she get so big? “You hate my guts but you want to….”

Samantha takes his hand, whispers. “I haven’t been with a man since my husband died.”

Pete checks his watch. “My bus leaves in an hour.” He stands.

“You have a bus to catch?” Samantha shakes her head incredulously. “Am I too fat?”

“My daughter is visiting, she’s making me dinner. I can’t disappoint her.”

Samantha takes his hand, whispers, “Whatever you liked before, there’s more of it. Fat women can be a great comfort.”

She’s probably right; he could take a later bus. “There may be more of you but there is less of me. The sad truth is I can’t get it up anymore.”

Samantha lets go of his hand and smiles spitefully. “The man who loves women can’t get it up? Good.”

Still willowy in his eyes, Pete watches her glide away, wondering if this time Samantha would have kissed him?

J
ackson and José are loading garbage cans filled with recycling on to Jose’s truck when Cleo steps out of her unit in faded sweat pants and a tank top, stretches for her morning run. “Mr. Pete has a senorita,” José whispers trying not to stare at her.

“Good morning, Jackson, José. Thanks for fixing my shower.”

Annabeth bounds out of the house in Lycra running gear and a Lakers headband, goes through her warm up. “Mind if I tag along?”

Cleo regards the girl skeptically. “I set a fast pace.”

“No worries, I play serious tennis. Running is part of my training.”

“Whatever.” Cleo takes off. Annabeth waves to Jackson, follows her across Sully’s Bridge and down Mill Stream Road.

“I know who you are.” Annabeth jogs easily alongside Cleo. “I saw one of your movies.”

“So? College kids don’t make sex tapes and post them on the Internet?”

“I’m no prude, I’m also not an exhibitionist.”

Cleo flashes a Desirée smile. “I am.”

Sweating now, they run in tandem as far as the rolling green fairways and white sand traps of the town golf course. Annabeth, breathing heavier, struggles to keep up. Cleo can see she’s tiring, slows the pace as they turn back to town.

“Anyway, I’m done with that kind of work.”

“Because you’re writing with my father?”

“I want to go back to school, get my degree in archeology.”

They pass locals schmoozing in the parking lot of Sunflower Natural Foods. Annabeth, used to jogging around the Santa Cruz track, strains to make it up the hill. Arriving at the piazza, Cleo surprises her by turning right on Rock City Road. Annabeth bends over wheezing. “Isn’t the Streamside the other way?”

“I make my turn at Andy Lee Field,” Cleo shouts jogging backwards. “Tennis girl going to quit?”

“Bitch!” Annabeth follows her past the Colony, the graveyard, pushing to make the final hundred yards to the field. She staggers on to the baseball diamond, dropping to her knees behind home plate as Cleo trots around the bases like she just hit one out of the park. Annabeth lunges to tag her going by. “You’re out,” she croaks.

Cleo doubles over with laughter. “You look just like your father.”

They lie on their backs starring up at a hawk circling in the sky.

“Dad really likes you.”

“I like Pete.”

“Promise not to hurt him.”

“I would never do that.” She sounds like she means it. “Have you read his book? The end made me cry.”

“Me too.”

“I would never tell your father that. He hates sentimentality.” Cleo stands, offers her hand and pulls the girl to her feet.

Annabeth has her wind back; she’s good to go. They’re off, back to the piazza, across Tinker Street and down Tannery Brook Road.

George watches them sprint past the gallery and disappear around the bend. Jamie sees them breeze into the Streamside parking area.

Annabeth walks in a circle, cooling down. “Bet you didn’t think I would make it.”

“Tennis girl has heart.”

Annabeth limps into the house, grabs a beer and goes straight up to Pete’s office: he always has a copy of his book somewhere. Having gone threw her father’s stuff for years, she finds it easily. She lies down on the chaise. A photograph on the inside jacket of the dashing author at thirty makes her tear up. She starts to read.

A strong wind whips through the canyons of Lower Manhattan. Puffs of clouds explode across a cobalt blue sky. Water tanks crown tall buildings. Two men work fearlessly atop the tallest tank.

A hard guy with jailhouse tattoos is the boss of the job. He’s an ex-con around forty, what’s left of his hair is buzzcut; his hooded eyes don’t miss a thing. Safetied to a hook at the peak of the tank roof, he’s replacing the asphalt shingles, easy work if you like it up here with the birds.

The other guy hangs in a boson’s chair, red-leading the steel rods that secure the tank’s wooden frame. He’s in his mid twenties, with an open face; the danger of working high exhilarates him. Keep an eye on this one; he’s a daredevil.

The con’s expression reveals little as he watches the younger man swing gracefully around to the far side of the tank.

“How my doin’ chief?”

“Long even strokes, we don’t want paint on the wood.”

The daredevil improves his brushwork. “Top of the world,” he shouts.

“Stop goofing. Concentrate on what you doin’.”

Would that he could, but his attention is drawn to a bathroom window across the alley where a voluptuous woman lathers up in the shower, a feast for the eye. A gust of wind catches the daredevil by surprise, blowing him off the chair. The naked woman stares in horror at the young man dangling from a safety rope above the sidewalk.

The con slides down the roof, braces his feet against the lip of the tank, grabs hold of the rope and starts to pull the daredevil up. With a combination of strength and determination the two men lock wrists. “Here we go,” the con rasps. A tattooed serpent writhes around his bicep as he pulls the daredevil to safety. The two men gasp for breath. “The fuck happened?”

“Babe taking a shower, naked. There!” He points across the alley.

The con stares, the voluptuous woman touches herself, smiles and steps away from the window. “You could be dead because of a piece of ass.”

“That piece is prime.” Daredevil rises, stretches his arms and legs. “But I get your point chief, it won’t happen again.” He pulls up the chair and checks out his gear. “Right now I want to go back to work.”

The con stands. “Take a breather, kid.”

“Doug.”

“Doug.” The two men measure one another. The older man appreciates what the younger has to do. “Try not to kill yourself this time.”

Doug holds out his hand. “You saved my life chief.”

“I’m no indian, the name is Artie.”

“Artie, I owe you.” He grins. “How ’bout I set you up with the babe in the shower? Call us even?”

Artie smiles for the first time. “Go for it.”

Doug climbs back on to the boson’s chair and lowers himself down the side of the water tank.

Sitting by the window of a Trailways bus heading up the thruway, Pete is shaken by Samantha’s charges against him: accessory to the murder of an unborn child and contributing to the failure of her reproductive system. Guilty as charged, your honor. But please note that she would have forgiven him for a charity fuck. The cell rings, David wants to discuss Bergman’s offer. “I’m on the bus, not allowed to talk on the phone.”

“You don’t want to hear the offer?”

Pete, usually seduced by money, doesn’t want to know. “David, honestly, I’m yo-yoing on this, let me breathe.”

“Breathe? This could be your last opportunity for a big payday. Second thoughts are a luxury you can not afford.”

“I know, I know, you’re absolutely right. I’ll call when I get off the bus.”

“This guy wants you bad. Here are the numbers, something to ponder.”

Pete powers off the cell before David can spit out the offer. The numbers: the front end, the back end, the points, the sequels, and most important, the credit. The numbers add up: how many wives, how many women, abortions? His allotment of potential children reduced to one, Annabeth, who is home making dinner. The thought comforts him.

In the twilight, the soft ridges of the Catskills call to him. Is there a way to do both series and novel? If Cleo agrees to a temp move to LA, he could supervise her while working for Bergman. When the show wraps, back to Woodstock where they finish the book together.

By the time Pete arrives in Kingston, he has a plan. All he has to do is convince his writing partner, and what leverage does she have, Cleo needs him. He doesn’t call David. The putz can wait ’til morning.

A high school football game is being played under the bright lights of Dietz Field where his pickup is parked. The hometown crowd roars when the Kingston quarterback scrambles and throws on the run for a touchdown. Pete watches the pom pom girls leap into the air. Maybe he can catch one before she hits the ground.

Up 28, right on 375 to Woodstock, gone all day and he feels like he’s been away forever. The first person he sees is Brother Ray carrying grocery bags up the hill. “Brother Ray, let me give you a lift.”

“Thank you, brother.”

“Been to the city.”

“Too much confusion there for me.”

“I used to feed off that energy, today I couldn’t wait to get out.”

“Hard to find clarity in such a place.”

“Brother Ray, I seek clarity but when I try to meditate, my mind always wanders.”

“Because you only listen to yourself.”

“Why can’t I shut up?”

“You must think you have something to say,”

It’s eight thirty when Pete finally pulls into the Streamside expecting to find his house lit up, music playing and the smell of cooking permeating the air, but no one is there to greet him.

Dicey is waiting of course, wagging her tail when he opens the door. “Hello, hello, remember me, I missed you, I need to go outside and do my business. How about feeding me because I am starving.”

Attending to the dog prevents Pete from sliding into self-pity. Her joy and unconditional love is infectious. The cell rings, David again. Pete ignores it. He has a dog to take care of. Dicey eats a can of expensive organic beef tidbits in the blink of an eye. He opens the fridge looking for Pollo Especial leftovers, all gone. He should call Annabeth and find out what’s happening, but if she forgot about dinner, what’s the point? Better to go for pizza or Chinese but he just came home and was looking forward to whatever Annabeth made because his daughter learned how to cook from her mother who is a master.

Pete grates a carrot, turns on the radio, Yankees baseball, 94.3, the Wolf. The Division Playoffs against the Twins begin tonight. After following his team avidly all season, his current situation is disrupting his focus. This is what you play for, post season, the League Championship, winning the World Series. He turns on and mutes the TV, listens to John and Susan on the radio. CC Sabathia leaves the mound in the top of the seventh with one out, a 6-2 lead and runners on second and third in scoring position. Pete is immediately caught up in this crucial moment, he’ll eat later. Serious rooting is called for, you don’t want to let the Twins back in the game. The Yankee bullpen does the job and gets the final two outs. No runs score. Time for the seventh inning stretch, a recording of Kate Smith stridently singing “God Bless America” booms over the stadium speakers. A Yankee tradition since 9/11, God blesses America while Muslims shout God is great, death to all infidels especially the Jews who according to the Old Testament are God’s chosen people and don’t forget, God Save the Queen. Everyone has God on his side. He flips channels.

On MSNBC Keith Olbermann is mid-rant about sending more troops to Afghanistan. Protect the homeland, a familiar song, Vietnam all over again, and we know how that turned out. There’s a knock on the door. Dicey barks. Cleo enters. The dog wags her tail furiously.

“So how was your day?”

“Intense, my past and future collided.” The cell rings again. Pete ignores it. “I’m starving. Feel like pizza?”

“How’s the Chinese?”

“Good if you know what to order.”

“Do you?”

“Another one of my skills, like using a map.” He switches back to the game.

“I missed you.” Cleo straddles him, placing herself between Pete and the TV. “Your daughter went to rehearsal.”

He sighs. “She was supposed to cook dinner for her father.”

“If you’re hungry,” Cleo whispers, “eat me.”