The Right Thing to Do (4 page)

Willy said, “Rest up. I’ve got a fancy phonograph to work on, can’t afford to make a mistake.”

The Eldorado rolled into L.A. half an hour after midnight. The Sunset Strip was empty of pedestrians, auto traffic sparse, shops and restaurants, dark. Even Ciro’s and the other clubs were dormant. For all its reputation as a swinging place, Malcolm had decided L.A. was basically a small town.

The drive up to Steve’s ten-year-old ranch house on Blue Jay Way was a dark, winding curl of tape. Despite the hour, Ramona was at the door to greet them, the dining room table set for three, the open kitchen rich with the aroma of broiled meat and fried potatoes.

She stood on her tiptoes and pecked Malcolm’s cheek, gave Steve a full-on mouth-mash. A few years older than Steve—Malcolm guessed forty—Ramona wasn’t the type he’d imagined his brother would go for.

All those movies Steve had done, his looks and charm, surrounded by actresses, Malcolm would’ve predicted the one-carat diamond ring from Tiffany would’ve ended up on the finger of a voluptuous, artfully cosmeticized, seductively garbed, somewhat flighty blond bombshell. The type unfolded in the stack of girlie mags Steve kept in the guest bathroom. The type that still caught Steve’s eye when he and Malcolm were out in the Caddy.

Ramona had a homespun accent and wore her long dark hair in a plait that hung down the center of her back. She didn’t bother to touch up the few strands of gray at her temples, did use a bit of eye shadow but no lipstick, and dressed in button-up blouses, tailored slacks, and flat shoes.

Maybe she thought well of herself, confident without embellishment. She
was
a goodlooking woman, in the right light, beautiful, with a perfectly oval face, high cheekbones that Steve attributed to “some Indian background, a little Navajo, she’s from Arizona.”

Her features were fine and symmetrical, her profile as crisp as that of relief on a cameo. Wide brown eyes radiated curiosity and intelligence. She kept her nails short, eschewed polish because “with fabric you never know.”

She’d trained as a seamstress, worked as a wardrobe mistress at Paramount Studios, was often called for “emergencies,” meaning an actress had gained weight. Perhaps living with fashion and camouflage all day made self-adornment a busman’s holiday for her. Whatever the reason, Malcolm admired her low-key, pleasant nature and her intelligence. Was fascinated to see the change in Steve when he was with her.

Quieter, deferential, listening more than talking. Able to sit still.

More
adult.

Maybe
that
was the point: True love was when you found someone who brought out new virtues in you.

It was an interesting theory—the kind of supposition Malcolm had learned to engage in as a psych major. When it came to women, theory was all he could rely on; his personal experiences were pitifully thin: No dates until his junior year when he’d hazarded a few platonic attempts with Radcliffe students and girls who arrived on the Wellesley bus. Every one of them losing interest when they began their little pop quizzes and he kind of turned off and informed them he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with his life. He continued that withdrawal even after the law school acceptance; female hunger put him off, the obvious play for financial security.

Not that he could blame the girls, everyone needed to take care of themselves. And why else would a female want him other than for earning potential?

The only female he’d come across who intrigued him was a Cliffie junior named Sophia Muller, ash blond, six feet tall, cool in demeanor, bespectacled without inhibition.

Muller.
The pale hair and blue eyes and upturned Nordic nose: fun explaining
that
to his parents. She wore cashmere as a matter of course, sported diamonds in her ears. Park Avenue or the like. Way out of his league.

If he thought a bit, he was sure to come up with other obstacles.

A sociology major, the elite Miss M. had taken a few psych classes at Harvard, always sat in the back row, as did Malcolm. A pair of giants careful not to obstruct.

She and Malcolm had exchanged smiles and a few pithy comments about lecture topics as they left classrooms and went their separate ways. One day before class, she dropped some papers and Malcolm picked them up for her.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Bitte.”

She peered at him through her glasses. “You speak German?”

“My family used to live there. Before they were declared persona non grata.”

She nodded. “My father said if Hitler hadn’t kicked out the Jews, he’d have won the war.”

Dinner finished at one fifteen a.m., Steve unfazed by the bizarre timing, Ramona not eating, Malcolm’s gut churning from too much, too late.

“Okay,” said Steve, rising to his feet. “We need to get up early, let’s hit the hay.”

Ramona said, “Baby,
you
need to get up. Malcolm could sleep in.”

“That what you want, little brother?”

Malcolm said, “Up to you.”

“See.” Steve kissed the top of his head. “He’s just like I told you, agreeable.”

“Lovely trait.” Ramona smiled. “Or maybe he just knows you.”

“Hey—what does that mean?”

“You like to draw out the map and plan the route.”

“Not with you, Mona, that’s for sure.”

“Sometimes with me, baby.” She laughed. “When I let you.” To Malcolm: “You’re sure you’re still interested in what passes for interesting in this crazy town?”

“I’m having fun,” he said.

She gave him a doubtful look. “Okay, then, I’ll clean up this mess and you boys get out of here.”

“Hey,” said Steve. “You’re making it sound like we’re bunking down together.”

“Hay’s for horses,” said Ramona. “Behave yourself or that’s exactly how it’s going to be.”

As the brothers walked together toward the rear of the house, Steve disrobed in motion, exposing his broad, tan, perfectly hairy chest and crumpling his cowboy shirt into a black, pearl-buttoned wad. “Man, I’m bushed—you sure you’re up for it tomorrow, Mal? I’m talking early—six thirty.”

“Sure.”

“Great! Okay, here’s where you get off the bus.” Pausing by the door to the spare bedroom. “I’d read you a bedtime story but I never even did that when we were kids.”

Malcolm smiled. “That guy, Eddowe.”

“What about him?”

“He seems to be keeping his distance. Like he’s not part of it.”

“That’s ’cause he’s a drunk, a washout, a nobody putz who’s working for peanuts.” Steve grinned and beat his own chest. “Unlike other people, who’re working for peanuts plus Cracker Jacks
plus
Baby Ruths.” The handsome face grew grave. “Wish I coulda showed you better times, kiddo. When I had a real dressing room. All the so-called accoutrements—there’s a Harvard word for you.”

“Everything seems great to me,” said Malcolm.

“Hey—uh-oh, Mona hears she’ll clap a feed bag on me and put me out to pasture.” Steve neighed like a horse. “That’s why I dig you, baby bro. You always say the right thing.”

The following morning, they set out at six fifty a.m., Malcolm ready but Steve a bit hazy until he had his three cups of black coffee while driving. She’d seen them off, wearing a Japanese kimono and looking fresh and pretty.

Steve took the same route to the Antelope Valley but even Malcolm knew enough to realize when his brother had veered well before the road to Deuces Wild.

“Something I want to show you,” he said, speeding straight at what appeared to be a clump of Joshua trees. “That’s why we had to start before usual. Okay?”

“Okay.”

The clump cleared, revealing a split in the middle that parted to more desert, a random stand of palm trees, banks of fat-leafed succulents, a few spiny cacti. Then a forest of Joshuas, followed by another open space prickled with smaller palms as the road smoothed and straightened.

Up ahead was a padlocked gate connected to what looked like a metal corral. Steve put the Caddy in Park, got out and popped the lock, tossed it in the dirt and swung the gate open and got back in the car.

They drove past a new-looking wooden plaque on a post with burned-in lettering.

F
IRST-
T
AKE
F
ILM
R
ANCH

But no sign of trailers or outbuildings, electrical cable, or anything else Malcolm had come to recognize as movie-related. Just dry dirt that continued for another thousand yards, the straight road kinking again, finally unraveling to reveal a white clapboard house larger than the most generous Victorians Malcolm had seen in Cambridge. A white board porch ran across the front. Three steps led up to a porch big enough to accommodate the Caddy.

Steve whistled through his teeth and chain-lit a Camel. “Home sweet home, bro. What do you think?”

“Nice.”

“No, it isn’t. Not yet, but it will be.” Wide white endorsement of Dr. Weldon Markowitz’s handicraft. “I bought it. Escrow just closed.”

“Wow. Congratulations.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know it seems crazy.” Steve cut the engine, pushed the seat back, stretched his legs. Malcolm, always a cramped passenger, appreciated the extra room. “Here’s the story—just between us and these walls, okay? I love Ramona, she loves me, we’re getting hitched, can’t say when but we are. Definitely. But there’s a problem.”

Steve turned and gazed out the driver’s window. “She can’t have kids. Some kind of scarring, there’s no chance in hell.”

Malcolm thought:
I exist. There’s always a chance.
He said, “Sorry.”

“Bad scarring,” said Steve. “But no problem, she’s okay with it and I am, too. So here’s what we’re gonna do: I’ll make a few more shit-flicks, pile up the dough, invest, whatever it takes to keep the dough handy. At some point, we’ll sell Blue Jay, get what we put in. Then
adios
to the city and we move out here. This place’ll be grand after I get it fixed up. C’mon, lemme show you.”

Inside, the house was dusty, drafty, musty, plaster walls pocked like Swiss cheese, scarred so deeply in some spots that the underlying lath was exposed. No fixtures, no light switches or plates, but remnants of a kinder time suggested themselves: burnished, knotty-pine walls, oak flooring that had miraculously remained intact and felt rock-hard under Malcolm’s feet, crown and shoe moldings, rosettes around ragged ovals that had once housed electrical fixtures.

The ground floor was huge, the former kitchen stripped of appliances but larger than the apartment Malcolm had grown up in and accompanied by a butler’s pantry and an eat-in breakfast room with a domed ceiling. The dining room could accommodate two dozen. Several equally commodious spaces were designated by Steve as “living room, parlor, study, sewing room, view room,” as he clomped around in his crocodile Lucchese boots.

Upstairs were six bedrooms, the largest (“obviously the master suite, kid”) with its own white-tile bathroom, still set up with a huge clawfoot tub. The five others shared a second, even larger lav. At the far end was a double-door closet able to house a Murphy bed but containing only a few shelves—remnants of what had once been built-in cabinetry.

“For linens,” said Steve. “We’re gonna need room for lots of linens and supplies because of the plan. Go ahead, ask.”

Malcolm laughed. “Pray tell.”

Steve clapped his brother’s back, hard enough to rattle Malcolm’s ribs. “This,
Señor
Brother, is going to be the ultimate, cool, state-of-the-art movie ranch, forget dumps like Deuces Wild, we’re gonna have real dressing rooms, places you can stay overnight, I’m talking actual structures on solid foundations, not goddamn trailers. Not just for westerns, we’ll be set up for anything—irrigated with water from our own wells, a geologist told me there are plenty of potentials, you just need to tap them. Someone wants a certain ambience, we’ll provide it. Got land for all sorts of different and cool landscaping setups, Ramona knows the guy who takes care of the Forest Lawn cemetery. We’ll have horses, sheep, goats, hell, we’ll have ostriches you want it. One-stop shopping,
comprende
?”

“Sounds amazing, Steve.”

“Does it? I’ll bet it sounds loco-crazy to you, but that’s okay, I’m used to that. When I dropped out of high school and left damn Brooklyn to come out here and make my name, that was crazy. And now here we are and I’m gonna be a
land baron
!”

Back in the car, heading for the shoot, Steve said, “How old do you think the house is?”

Malcolm said, “Seventy years?”

“Eighty-two. Got a so-called colorful history. People trying to ranch cattle, then sheep, then—believe it or not—ostriches, that’s what made me think of it. Copper was mined a few miles north, so they tried it here, no dice. Even some gold mining.” He winked. “Place spent some time as a bordello, but too far to drive. The last owners were the spoiled-brat heirs of a railroad man whose timing stank, he thought he’d lay track, meanwhile the automakers and the tire manufacturers are bribing everyone to rip up track. Construction begins soon as I’m finished with Carciofi and his piece of garbage, Diablo my ass.”

For the rest of the drive, he smiled and sang along with the radio, laughed as the Deuces Wild sign with its trespassing warnings came into view.

“Screw you, we’re authorized!” Entering the lot, he sped around the left side of the saloon set, reached the rear end of the cordoned area, screeched to a halt at his Airstream.

Turning off the engine, he sat there. “One more thing, genius bro: What I just told you isn’t the end-all. After Mona and I make enough dough with the ranch, we’re retiring totally and opening up a place for kids. Fosters, orphans, you name it.”

Amazed, Malcolm said, “You’re kidding.”

“Never thought I had it in me, right? Without Mona, I probably wouldn’t. But look at it this way: It’s a woman’s nature to give love to tykes. Can’t have your own, time to improvise. Mona informs me there’s tons of sad stories out there, kids can’t find a home, talk about getting the short end. So why the hell not? You saw the space. We’ll keep the cool parts from the ranch—the animals, the riding area. We’ll put in a pool, poor little things will think they got to heaven. Which they will have, because let me tell you, Mona’s the perfect mom, she’s got that thing inside her. Heart as big as this damn desert. So what do you think? Of both ideas?”