The Hollywood Guy (17 page)

“In bed with a porn queen. Love is a meaningless word, I get it dad.”

“We both love you.”

“I have work to do. I’m close on a deal for a studio.”

“Just remember how strapped for cash I am.”

“Why do I think you want to get out of this?”

“I don’t, just keep the cost down.”

She smiles. “You taught me how to haggle, dad.”

Annabeth vanishes into the mess of her room before Pete can comment about its transformation into a pigsty, or ask what the consequences of hooking up with Jackson might be? Barbara used to wonder how a man so quick with his mouth could not communicate with his family? Something else she was right about.

Instead of writing the opening section of Cleo’s book, he drives up the mountain to talk to Brother Ray.

The monk splits wood in a slow, steady rhythm. Pete stacks logs alongside the cabin. They work together in silence. A small woodpecker lands on a nearby tree and begins rat-a-tat-tatting for insects. Pete and the monk stop and watch the bird.

“Have you been with women Brother Ray?”

“Before Mao, my family very rich, but Revolution take everything, parents killed. I stay at monastery until Red Guards make us leave. I was very happy to be free from there. On my journey west I meet many women in need of protection. I was young and strong but could not make any of them happy.”

“Did you make love to these women?”

“Not love, we fornicated.”

“Did you like it?”

“What is not to like?”

“Why did you stop?”

“It lead nowhere.”

“All my life I sought salvation with women.”

“Did you find it?”

“I found satisfaction but it was only temporary. Three years ago I stopped and took another path, but secretly I still craved the flesh.”

“Orgasm does not confirm existence.”

“It does for me, I fuck therefore I am.”

“And when you can’t?”

“This is the era of pills.”

“Then you will never find peace.”

Pete drives back to town mulling Brother Ray’s comments. Did he actually expect to find peace with Cleo and Desirée?

George waves Pete down in front of his gallery, he needs a hand off-loading a van. “Please, two minutes.”

Pete gets out of the pickup. He hates moving stuff.

“Everyone at the poker game is relieved you got off that celibacy kick, even Edith.”

“What business is it of everybody?”

“None of their business.” He opens the van; a brushed steel bench is in the back. “An original Sol Leroy, I traded a dealer in Hudson for it.”

With much straining and grunting, they move the bench off the van and on to the sidewalk. “Inside, here we go, on three.”

“This belongs outdoors, not in a gallery.”

“On three. One, two, three.”

They lift.

“Oh!” Pete cries out in pain, drops his end of the bench on his foot. “Fuck! Oh man, shit. My toe! My back!” He holds his back as he hops on one leg, wincing in pain.

“Probably nothing.”

“I have a bulging disk.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t sue you. I’ll send Jackson to help you move the fucking bench.” Pete climbs gingerly into his pickup

“Wendy wants you guys over for dinner.”

“She hates me.”

“She’s fascinated by Cleo.”

Jackson sits under a tree eating a hero sandwich, writing in a pad. He jumps up when he sees Pete in obvious distress limping toward the house. “What happened, boss?”

“Do me a solid, go over to the gallery and help George move something.”

“Sure, no worries.” He puts the pad in his pocket. “Got a new song for the demo.”

Cleo bounds out of her unit, begins stretching, smiles at Pete. He waves to her, slowly climbs the stairs to the house. “Why are you walking funny?”

“Tweaked my back, no big deal.”

“Give you a massage.”

“I want to work.”

“At last.”

Annabeth rushes out of the house, excited. “I can get us the Dreamaway Studio if we start by Friday.”

“Friday?” Jackson sounds panicky.

“Forty percent off if we pay cash.”

Pete holds his back. “Give me a number.”

“A flat six grand buys out the studio for a week, as many hours as we want, including mix and rehearsal time.”

“The engineer?”

“Extra.”

“How much?”

“Another two.”

“Plus your trip to LA, Ten is what I figure.”

“Minus forty percent of the six thousand if we pay cash.”

Cleo does the math. “Seventy-six hundred, sounds like a bargain.”

“Put the twenty-four back in for incidentals.”

“The place is legendary, dad.”

“Can you do it kid?”

Jackson, astounded, nods.

“Book it.” He limps into the house.

“Running, tennis girl?”

“Too busy, thanks.”

Cleo takes off.

“You are amazing.” Jackson hugs Annabeth.

Much later after the usual procrastination, Pete settles in front of the computer, uses a pillow to support his back, ready to start at last. The phone rings, Van Dusan, must take it.

“Hey Kurt, how you doing?”

“Not good Pete. The roast was a disaster, the Congressman went ballistic.”

“The speech didn’t play with the crowd?”

“They loved it. Denby hated it.”

“That’s different, anyway, in a week, who will remember?”

“Denby will.”

“I will personally write him an email of contrition, take full responsibility for my authorship. It was a roast for fuck sake.”

“You’ve written enough on my behalf.”

“I’m sorry Kurt but you wanted laughs, you got laughs. I delivered as promised, how about you?”

“Me?”

“The other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“The kid’s problem.”

“It’s not going away.”

“You said the court would throw the case out.”

“I said could.”

“You said would.”

“I’ve done what I can.”

“Should I find another lawyer?”

“I was never your lawyer.”

“Mr. Van Dusan, we had an understanding, my speech for your influence.”

“Your dumb speech destroyed a relationship that I had carefully nurtured over fifteen years.” He hangs up.

Doesn’t roast mean you have carte blanch to insult the guest of honor or is that only in Los Angeles? Pete lights a joint, programs some music to set the mood, female voices, Lucinda Williams, Ricky Lee Jones, girl groups, starts writing.

“Marshalltown, a neat farming community in central Iowa, was settled by Scandinavian Lutherans in the late 19th century. These self-reliant, industrious, optimistic, hard working people thank God every day for leading them to the promised land. Camille and Amber, twin sisters, shared a Kodachrome childhood in a modest house with a wide veranda. Marshalltown was the perfect place to raise a family.

In broad strokes he outlines the story, tracking Cleo’s path from cheerleading white bread virgin to porn queen Desirée including an interlude with a decadent Venetian family and initiation as a Mayan priestess before her boyfriend, a drug lord, is gunned down by the CIA and dies in her arms.

It’s dark out when the phone rings again, Bobby. He picks up.

“Petey!”

Why does his friend persist in calling him that? “I thought you were never going to speak to me again.”

“My best friend?”

“I fought against Marcus firing you.”

“I know, I know.”

“I even passed on the series.”

“That was stupid.”

“Did you call to insult me?”

“You haven’t responded to my email.”

“My life is suddenly very complicated, I haven’t been online in days.”

“It’s an invitation to my daughter’s wedding.”

“What daughter?”

“The daughter who found me two years ago. The mother was local hair on a MOW I did, good part. She was married, her husband shot blanks and I was a sperm donor only she didn’t tell me at the time. Beautiful people, you’re going to love them.”

“Very trendy.”

“My daughter’s name is Priscilla and she’s getting married next weekend in Boca Raton, Florida. She invited me and I’m inviting you.”

“Kind of last minute.”

“We were estranged, remember? Look, Pete, I need your support on this, amigo. I can’t do it alone. You are still my best friend.”

“A week from Saturday?”

“At sunset, doesn’t that sound romantic?”

“This is crazy, you can’t imagine what’s going on here.”

“Bring ‘what’s going on’ to the wedding. Petey, this is very important to me. Twenty four hours down and back, is that asking too much?”

Pete has an inability to say no. Professionally, he said yes to everything, which led to double booking causing him to farm jobs out and that was unethical. Nor did he say no to available women and that led to lying to cover his tracks, forever disappointing his family whom he actually loved. His inclination to say yes probably came from insecurity about his own worth. Turning down Bergman’s TV series was a sign of growth, but Bobby was his best friend. “Book me a room.”

“I already did.”

Pete shuts down the computer and turns on the television, zoning out from his chaotic personal life, focusing instead on another Yankee game.

A stitched cowhide sphere hurled at an incredible velocity rockets through space on a collision course with a hardwood bat. There is a sharp crack when they meet head on. The crowd roars as the ball takes flight, sailing deep into the outer reaches of center field. Here comes Curtis Granderson the outfielder on a direct route, diving flat out, glove outstretched to make an acrobatic catch and rob the batter of an extra base hit. Yes, the Grandyman can.

Pete manages to watch the entire game because Cleo, not wanting to disturb Pete, went to the movies with Jamie. It’s a good one, extra innings. Mark Teixeira hits a walk off home run in the eleventh, and the Yanks go up two games to zero in the DCS, just like he knew they would.

T
his morning the side effects from the blue pill are replaced by low-level anxiety about Cleo’s story as told by her dual personality. First thing he should do, carefully review all the tapes and get a better perspective on the subject before he does any serious work. At the very least he needs to establish a new writing routine. It’s been more than three years since he did any serious work; it was a lifetime ago that he actually wrote a novel. Eliminating the television series from the equation was a first step, too bad about the Van Dusan speech but that’s history. All he has to do is find a new lawyer for Jackson, book a plane ticket to Miami, produce a music demo and go to a wedding. But first, he has to meet with Murray, the accountant, a diminutive fellow in his late-sixties with a trim beard, died black hair and an earring.

“Motel gross is not where we want it to be, Mr. Stevens.” He has a deep gravelly voice.

“Pete.”

“Pete, expenditures are up.” He never takes his eyes from the computer screen. “Plus your portfolio lost forty percent of its value.”

“Residuals?”

“Down considerably. I’d say what’s required is an infusion of cash.”

“I have $35 K due on a re-write job and if that’s not enough, I’ll sell some stock.”

“You’ll take a bath. I recommend a short-term loan, give your investments time to recover.”

No need to tell Murray that he turned down a big money job. “How much?”

“Twenty more would do the trick.”

“No worries,” chimes in Jamie. “I’ll make an appointment at the bank. They love you there.”

“Really?”

“You restored the Streamside.”

“We’re still in deficit.”

“Everything is going to work out,” she says with confidence. “We’re having a great fall season.”

“Why are you so optimistic?”

“I was working two shitty jobs when you came to town, now I’m managing the Streamside and Jackson is about to record for the first time. You make things happen, Pete, you get things done.”

He doesn’t get the job done at the bank where they don’t love him enough to make a loan. It wasn’t a definitive no. He should come back in November and they’ll re-evaluate his application.

George is sitting outside the gallery on the Sol Leroy bench waiting for a customer to fall from the sky. Pete pulls up in the pickup. “I’m looking for a lawyer.”

“You were right about the bench, it is an outdoor piece. Attracts people.”

“Van Dusan played me.”

“Not surprising.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“What you want is a young guy who works in the trenches. Call my nephew, Howard, he specializes in this type of felony.” He writes a number down on a business card. “No office, only way to reach him is his cell.”

Pete walks stiffly into the house; Annabeth and Jackson hang out watching
Wild Strawberries
. The kid accompanies the movie on guitar, adding another level of emotion to the story of a distinguished professor on the eve of retirement, revisiting familiar places on the way to receive a prestigious honor for his life’s work.

“I need to relax my back.”

Annabeth passes her father a joint. Pete hesitates before taking it, never having smoked with his daughter before, more evidence of his hypocrisy since she’s sitting next to a dealer he’s trying to keep out of prison. He lights up, remains standing, drawn to the black and white images on the TV screen.

An old man in a three-piece suit, stumbles along a path in a birch forest. Dappled sunlight slants dramatically through the trees. Emerging from the woods, he crosses an overgrown meadow. Breathing heavily, he climbs an outcropping of rock overlooking a mountain lake; sunlight sparkles off the rippling water. Down by the shore a handsome young couple enjoys the day. While the man fishes, his wife, shaded by a parasol, reads a book. When they notice the old man on the hill, they smile and wave as if to a child. His parents are young and beautiful. Tears glisten in the old man’s eyes.

Jackson improvises a haunting melody over this moving scene.

Pete has an epiphany. “That’s it.”

The kids stare in amazement as he bounds up the stairs exhibiting no evidence of spinal trauma or a broken toe. “Do you think my father is a head case?”