The Hollywood Guy (25 page)

He suddenly starts to cry. “I’m sorry mommy, I should have been here for you.” Pete sobs. He doesn’t need to be strong for Samantha who was so emotional or Heidi who could turn it on. He doesn’t have to be there for Barbara, who was so tough but easily went to pieces or even Annabeth, his baby. This is how he feels, right now and all he wants to do is cry, like a million and one maudlin songs, cry, cry, cry - cry, cry, cry. How good it feels, cleansing, to cry, cry, cry – cry, cry, cry. Pete could cry forever but is stopped short because the fucking cell rings, Annabeth. Must he take her call? “Hello.”

She’s hysterical. “Annie’s dad is a crazy man.” She’s sobbing uncontrollably.

Pete pulls himself together. “Slow down Bethy, slow down and take a deep breath.” He breathes with her, in and out, helping her help himself.

“All right, ok.” She breathes in and out.

“That’s it. Tell me what happened?”

“First, he’s like all ranting and raving. ‘I don’t know anything anymore, the music biz has changed.’ Then he started screaming. ‘I’m done! I’m obsolete!’ All the time he’s drinking wine from a bottle, totally out of control. I didn’t know what to do, so I played the demo, loud like you told me.”

“Where was your friend?”

“Annie bailed and went surfing. Anyway, he was way too hyper to listen to any song for more than thirty seconds, and all the time he’s yelling at me, ‘What is this retro shit? There’s no market for this. Why are you wasting my time?’”

Pete explodes. “Fuck him and his time.”

“Dad, please don’t yell.”

“One no means nothing.”

“That’s not all. He put his hand on my knee and said if I gave him a blow job he would make something happen.”

“What!”

“My friend’s father is a perv.”

“Did you tell Annie what he did?”

“I ran away.”

“I’m going to break that asshole’s kneecaps.” There’s fury in Pete’s voice.

Suddenly Annabeth is the calm one. “Dad, he didn’t actually do anything, I got out of there, nothing happened.”

“He….”

“End of story. I left.”

“Bethy, I’m so sorry, what do you want me to do?”

“Mom’s coming home today, I’ll be all right. You take care of yourself. Bye dad.”

When Annabeth was a baby, any peep or squeak would bring mother and father running: they never let her cry. Why had he sheltered his little girl and never taught her how to defend herself against a pervert who asked her to blow him? Annabeth played tough but fell apart in a blink. Pete kisses his mother’s headstone. “Goodbye mom.”

He drives to the airport making plans – fly to LA, ambush Annie’s father on the way to his car and break his kneecaps. How to do that exactly - use a baseball bat, a golf club? Should he wear gloves, a mask?

The juice bars at Miami International offer café con leche and Cuban shakes. Pete, contemplating his options, stops for a mango batido. He scrutinizes his dead cell phone with a smile - off the 21
st
century grid, free at last. Can’t call ahead to Cleo, or back to Annabeth, can’t be called by Barbara who will tell him what a shit father he is. Her desire to fuck him on the beach was a territorial act. She needed to prove that he belonged to her in perpetuity, not to some porn queen writing her memoirs.

Pete relaxes and savors his shake, running out of rage. It would be insane to fly to Los Angeles to commit assault and battery; he’s going home to Woodstock.

Not tonight, because the batido break causes Pete to miss his flight to Albany and the next one is tomorrow. Stranded in an anonymous hotel room, Pete conveniently can’t find his cell phone charger.

Limbo can be relaxing even without a baseball game because as luck would have it, another Roy Musclehead production featuring Desirée in a three-way with two Mexican studs on top of a Mayan pyramid is available on demand. Pete plays with himself but can’t get aroused. That’s the way it goes in limbo.

T
he next day, Pete catches a 2 PM flight from Miami, endures a three-hour layover in Atlanta and a baggage problem when he lands. It’s dark by the time he pulls out of the Albany Airport parking lot. Game Three of the ALCS in Anaheim is under way. He’s been out of touch for almost twenty four hours, shame on him. He plugs his cell phone into the cigarette lighter. Sure enough, a message from Barbara.

“Peter, I have just spent the last three hours calming our traumatized daughter. What were you thinking when you delivered her into the arms of that monster? Are you so desperate, so out of touch with reality? Your behavior at the wedding confirmed my suspicions that you are in crisis. Please, get some help. I’ll be happy to make a few recommendations. There are some excellent therapists in your area. Really Peter, for the sake of Annabeth, it’s time to get your act together. I’ll email some names and numbers. Also, I want you to know that our unfortunate encounter on the beach was totally my fault. I take full responsibility. What did the poet say, ‘This is the way it ends, not with a bang but a whimper,’ I guess that sums up our last encounter as well as our marriage.”

“Not with a bang but a whimper,” he repeats out loud, turning on to the thruway. The cell rings, Annabeth. He puts on a casual air. “Hey Bethy, how ya doing?”

“I’m good actually.” Her voice is surprisingly bright and un-traumatized. “Where have you been, everyone is looking for you?”

“Long story, but I’ll be home in an hour or so. What about you?”

“Flying to Paris tomorrow, mom was able to work an adjustment on my ticket using her frequent flyer miles.”

Pete can’t disguise his surprise and disappointment. “Not coming back to Woodstock? We need to remix the demo, your input is important.”

“I was on my way to Europe when I detoured to see you.”

“What about Jackson?”

“Can’t you tell him what happened?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Dad, I didn’t even sleep with the boy.”

“You told me you loved him.”

Suddenly Annabeth is very emotional. “I lied, l don’t really love him, but I did sleep with him. Why should that matter to you of all people? Mom is right. You’re obsessed with sex. She said you couldn’t cope with mortality, that you suffer from Fear of Death Syndrome.”

“Send me a postcard from Paris.” For the first time, Pete hangs up on his daughter, powers off the phone. Fear of death, is that a syndrome requiring analysis? On with the radio for the ride home - 94.3, the Wolf. The comforting voices of John Sterling and Susan Waldman recap the game so far, talking about Pettitte’s gutty pitching and the solo home runs by Jeter, Damon and A-Rod. It’s the top of the eighth inning; Yanks are down 4-3. Posada is at the plate in another close game.

“Here comes the pitch.” At the crack of the bat, John knows it’s gone. “Jorge hits it high, he hits it far, he hits it out of the park. Georgy juices one to tie the game at 4-4.”

“Georgy juices one,” Pete echoes cruising down the thruway at 75 mph. The Angles go down in the bottom of the eighth; Yankee bats are silent in the top of the ninth; the bullpen holds in the bottom. Tie game, extra innings. Exit 21A and B go by as the Yanks don’t make any noise in the top of the tenth. Pete pulls in to a rest stop to empty his bursting bladder. On the way back to the car he grabs a cup of frozen custard drizzled with hot fudge. The Angels are threatening in the bottom of the tenth. He won’t resume driving until Mariano Rivera, the great Yankees closer, pitches out of a bases loaded jam – unbelievable.

Back on the thruway, the Yanks fail to score in the top of the eleventh. Pete slows taking the off ramp at Exit 20, Saugerties, turns right on 212. The windows slide down; he drinks the crisp fall air. David Robertson, the new pitcher, retires the first Angel batter in the bottom of the inning. Pete picks sand out of his ear, smiles.

Entering Woodstock, the reliever gets his second man. “Yeah that’s two baby!” It’s permissible to talk to yourself during games, players do. Pete turns down Tannery Brook Road, driving slowly round the familiar bends in the road, feeling tremendous joy as he turns into the Streamside Motel. It’s not the house in the Palisades, or his apartment in the Village, nor is it the old neighborhood in the Bronx; this is his home now.

Pete can’t get out of the pickup until Robertson gets the final out of the inning. Unaccountably Joe Girardi, the Yankee manager, suddenly replaces the young pitcher with Alfredo Aceves. If you trust your instincts, you stay with the arm that got two quick outs, but the computer statistically prefers another matchup. Bad call. Aceves gives up a single to Eddie Kendrick on a 3-1 count bringing Jeff Mathis, an unheralded backup catcher, to the plate. Not to worry, he can’t hit his weight. Wrong again, he doubles in Kendrick. Angels win 5-4. Pete feels like he was kicked in the stomach.

He turns off the radio and slowly climbs down from the pickup, second-guessing Girardi on the pitching change, agonizing over the loss. Pete quickly switches gears, rationalizing that the Yanks are up two games to one. Still, he worries how quickly momentum can change. Tomorrow will be a crucial game but isn’t every game crucial in the playoffs?

Mill Stream ripples under Sully’s Bridge. Cleo’s car is parked outside unit 15; his house is dark, all is quiet at the motel. Pete lets himself in the front door and turns on the living room light. The Sunday
New York Times
waits for him on the dining room table. Everything is neat and tidy except Bethy’s room, a total mess.

Pete climbs the stairs hoping to surprise Cleo in the arms of Morpheus, but the bedroom is cold and empty. The dog, where’s Dicey? Pete smiles: they must be sleeping in unit 15.

He takes his passkey and quietly unlocks the door trying not to set off the dog. Unnecessary, Pete turns on the light. All things Cleo are gone; the room has reverted to vacant anonymity. Two days ago a hand colored Calla Lilly photograph was propped up on the dresser and a silk scarf draped over the lamp; there was a dog asleep at the foot of the bed and a woman lost in the sheets.

Jamie steps into the room. “Pete.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know, she split.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“With Dicey?”

“I wasn’t here. This is how I found the room when I came to work this morning. I haven’t touched a thing. She left this.” Jamie hands him a lavender colored envelope bearing Pete’s name.

He unfolds the scented stationary; three words are beautifully printed. Pete reads out loud. “Desirée needs me.”

Jamie repeats the phrase. “Desirée needs me.”

“She said she loved me.”

“Me too.”

Pete is incredulous. “You and Cleo?”

“Isn’t that stupid?” She tears up.

“All the time we were?”

Jaime starts to sob, so does Pete, holding her, crying again. If he doesn’t man up soon, this might become a habit.

When Pete opens his eyes the next morning, the first thing he sees is Jamie’s pierced labia. It jolts him awake, startling her.

She leaps out of bed. “Why are we naked?”

“We stayed here, you took a shower. We smoked some hash I had.”

“Did you take advantage of my sadness?”

“Absolutely not.”

Jamie dresses. “All I wanted was to sleep in her bed.”

“We comforted one another.”

“Nothing else?”

“That’s all. I promise.”

“She loved us both.” Jamie sounds so forlorn.

“Who?”

“Cleo.”

“You can’t have her without Desirée.”

Jaime refuses to acknowledge the unhappy truth. “I’ll strip the bed and clean up the room.”

“No, leave it the way it is.”

Pete goes back to his house, grinds his beans, brews the coffee and climbs the stairs wondering how she could leave without her car? Where did they go? He steps into the organized chaos of his office, freezes. The digi-recorder and his legal pad filled with notes are gone. Stupid Pete, it’s obvious what happened. Cleo didn’t skip, her past caught up with her. The phone rings, it’s an irate Bobby.

“One minute you make a toast and bring down the house, then you sneak out with your ex, then she reappears a mess, then David passes out, then you disappear.”

“I had to leave.”

“I’m worried about you, amigo.”

“Bobby, I need help.” He sounds desperate.

“How much this time?”

“This isn’t about money, someone I know has gone missing.”

“Meaning you don’t know where that person is?”

“Meaning I think that person was kidnapped.”

Is he riffing, Bobby wonders, switching to detective mode. “Signs of a struggle?”

“None.”

“A ransom note?”

“Not exactly.”

“Kidnapping is usually about money.”

“Or silence.”

“What does the note say?”

“‘Desirée needs me.’ Cleo left it.”

“Remind me who Cleo is?”

“Bobby, I want you to help me find her.”

“Not me, my television character had those skills.” In fact, he prided himself on the authenticity of his performance. Whenever he could, Bobby rode with cops or reviewed cases with detectives. He knew his stuff.

“You’re a method actor, I trust you.”

“Soong Lee told me she felt tremendous stress when she took your pulse.”

“I have never felt more alive.”

“Tell me again, what is Cleo’s connection to Desirée?”

“They’re sisters, they grew up in Marshalltown, Iowa.”

“Marshalltown as in Jean Seberg?”

“I was working with her.”

“Pete, Jean Seberg is dead.”

“I’m talking about Cleo.”

Bobby switches to his smooth detective’s voice. “Who was registered at your motel?”

“Cleo Johnson. You know the Hayworth Apartments in Hollywood?”

“Heidi lived there.”

“I think Cleo has an apartment in that building.”

“Easy to check out and I can talk to a couple of people I know who do business in the Adult Film Industry, get a handle on Desirée.”

“Do it.”

“You know my fee?”

“What fee?”

“I get paid for what I do.”

Pete’s turn to play along. “How much?”

“A thou a day plus expenses.”

“Are you crazy?”

“My SAG rate is way higher.”