Fridays at Enrico's

by Don Carpenter

  “You can’t promote your book from prison,” Fishkin explained. “And the book, the paperback, foreign sales, and the movie are all tied in together.” Sensible enough, but Stan wasn’t far removed from the many hours he’d spent lying on his bunk at night, musing on the collapse of his life and the loss of his new friends.

  He tried explaining all this to Charlie, as they sat in the bar at the Troubadour, drinking beer. “I like Bud Fishkin,” he said. “But after I got violated he just vanished. The picture we were working on, from my first book, got turned around, the director went off to do something else, and I guess Fishkin went with him. When I got out and he came back around, I guess I was a little bit cynical.” Charlie stared down into his glass of beer. “You all right?” Stan asked.

  Charlie didn’t even look at him. “Yeah,” he said.

  Surely it was Jaime. Charlie wouldn’t admit that there was trouble in paradise. With the so-called perfect marriage, Charlie was ashamed. Oddly, sitting there while loud rock boomed out of the showroom on the other side of the wall, Stan wondered if they’d married the wrong women. Stan had always loved Jaime, in a worshipful way. Now she was a successful novelist, and would make a perfect mate for Stan if he made it in Hollywood. He was right on the edge, if he said so himself. They’d make a great pair. Which would leave Charlie with Carrie. They got along well, cracked wise back and forth, and Carrie was the kind of pioneer woman Charlie needed to support either his desire to write great literature or to loaf around all the time. It was clear enough that Charlie wouldn’t be happy with the movie, if they actually made a movie. Carrie could support him. Stan didn’t need a supporting woman. Not anymore.

  Was it possible Stan didn’t know how to love? He’d been reading up on the subject. He’d be willing to accept the verdict: no love had been put into him, and so none was going to come out. A simple psychological fact. But he didn’t really believe it. He’d loved Linda McNeill, maybe just puppy love, but it felt real enough. He’d known plenty of psychopaths, and no matter what the books told him, he wasn’t one. It wasn’t that he couldn’t love, but that he didn’t. And so long as he was married to Carrie, he was in no position to go looking. He was incapable of being disloyal to Carrie.

  “I’m worried about Carrie,” he said to Charlie, who only snorted and drank off half his beer. Stan doggedly went on. “She’s great, but at night we just sit there. We don’t have a hell of a lot to say to each other, you know? If she’s working over the accounts and I’m reading a book, we’re comfortable. Across dinner, we’ve got nothing to say. It’s sort of ugly.”

  With all that priming, Stan kept it in. Maybe he was only brooding over his script. The first draft had been awful, Stan had read it because Fishkin was concerned. “Can this guy write?” he’d asked Stan. Looking over the draft, the thick blocks of exposition and five-page dialogues, Stan would have said no. But he knew Charlie, hell, he’d studied creative writing under him. Charlie could do better than this.

  “Well?” Fishkin asked.

  “You want my opinion?” Stan grinned at Fishkin. “Hire me and find out. I’d be glad to help.” Still, he relented for Charlie’s sake and sat in on some of their meetings for free, just so Charlie would have an advocate. The five of them, sitting around Fishkin’s office, which was barely larger than Ratto’s, Bud’s secretary Jane taking notes and the rest just throwing ideas into the middle of the room. Stan found it bizarre that so much time and effort were spent this way, but he couldn’t complain. As for Charlie’s movie, Stan held out little hope. Fishkin-Ratto and Charlie were on a collision course. Charlie obviously wanted to make the movie about his own experiences. Fishkin-Ratto wanted something more universal, with more jeopardy.

  “I want this movie to be about all wars, especially Vietnam,” Fishkin said, his eyes lighting up. “We’ve gotta make an anti-war movie!”

  “Sure,” Charlie said. He sat low in Fishkin’s red leather chair, his long legs under the coffee table. “But we can’t make Korea Vietnam. They just ain’t the same.”

  “But the principle—” Fishkin insisted.

  “Not the same,” Charlie said stubbornly.

  “Look,” Stan said to him, when they were alone in Charlie’s cubicle. “You don’t have to fight these guys. Just listen to what they have to say and then come back here and write what you please.” Charlie couldn’t grasp that the story conferences had nothing to do with the script. “They’re just talking ideas,” Stan said. “You take what you take, you leave what you leave.”

  “Well, they’ve got your ass tied to a tree,” Charlie said meanly. He was frightened, Stan understood. Hollywood can be frightening. At last one night as they were out getting drunk again, Charlie broke down and admitted that Jaime had thrown him out.

  “Oh Jesus,” Stan said. As they got drunker and drunker, Charlie fell apart, pouring out his loud testimony that he was untalented, unlovable, and miserable. Stan confessed the same. A horrible evening. Stan had to drive Charlie to his hotel, and it felt good, the little driving the big guy home, but he was so drunk himself that he had to stay the night.

  78.

  Carrie Winger was glad Stan had a real friend. Her husband was a complex man and it had broken her heart that she couldn’t love him. She’d tried, but you can’t get blood from a turnip. Dazzled by the glamor of the man, when they finally got married she’d expected to find herself deeper in love, but no. This wasn’t the man she wanted to have children with. Their marriage settled into politeness and lust. There were no fights, no arguments, Stan trusting her absolutely and letting her run the money end of things. Apart from the Hollywood money. She’d tried to get along with Evarts Ziegler and the others, but it made her angry just to talk to them. They were all Jews, of course, or if not actually Jews, just like them. Carrie had nothing against Jews, in spite of her father’s dinner table rantings about Jews and communists and fairies, which just made her laugh. But something about these Hollywood people made her extremely nervous, and she was always glad to hang up the phone, feeling the sweat under her arms.

  More and more the candy store occupied her mind and heart. She’d dreamed it up, she’d done all the work and all the sleepless worrying, and the thing was hers. Stan hardly ever came into the place. “I’m not much of a candy man,” he told her with a little smile. “Aren’t you glad?”

  She was. She’d half-expected that when he got out he’d automatically try to take over the store, being a man. Her old boss had foolishly laughed at her when she told him she was opening a business of her own. But the joke was on him, and for months after she left him he’d called day and night trying to keep from going under. “I can’t get good help,” he’d complain desperately over the phone.

  “Tough shit,” she didn’t say. She was properly sympathetic and advised him as much as she could, but eventually she’d had to make it clear that she was gone and he’d have to get along without her.

  Eventually, so would Stan. Once she found a way for them to separate without hurting him too much. Stan was quite sensitive, though he tried not to let it show. He harbored grave doubts, as to whether he was a good person, a good writer, a good lover, a good husband. He was all those things, and she told him so. Yet she didn’t love him.

  Charlie was a great help. A wonderful man, big but graceful, handsome and at the same time common-looking, with a big wide grin and warm brown eyes. According to Stan, Charlie was really just a big baby in Hollywood matters, one needing all the help Stan could give him. The two spent a lot of time together, Stan often spending the night at Charlie’s place, some hotel. Carrie never worried about Stan stepping out. If he did, she was certain she’d be able to tell right away. Stan was enigmatic to others, but not to her.

  The money kept them together. Stan made criminal sums working for the movies. If she was going to open a new store she’d need plenty of money. The new store ought to be in Hollywood or Westwood, she wasn’t sure yet, but knew she needed to hunt out the best location. Location was e
verything. She had to laugh at her dumb luck locating Malibu Candy where she had, between the wealthy customers from Venice and Washington Boulevard. She hadn’t known about the junkies when she moved into the area, but they were her first customers, and over time her best, lining up for box after box of exotic chocolates. She’d worked hard and enjoyed dumb luck, and hoped for both again when she opened the second store. If it was a hit, she’d franchise, sell the rights to open Malibu Candy stores anywhere, using her recipes and methods of operation. She couldn’t do this without Stan, and she couldn’t keep Stan without a little hypocrisy.

  On this particular Sunday morning Stan was in town, doing she did not know what. She’d imagined he was with Charlie, but Charlie came trudging up the outside stairs and knocked on the back door.

  “Hello, Charlie,” she said, opening the door.

  “Is Stan home?” He wore a white tee shirt and jeans, his hands jammed into the back pockets.

  “No, but come on in.” Alarm bells went off in her head. Was Charlie here to make a pass at her? She offered him a cup of coffee and the two sat at the breakfast table, sunshine pouring in through the windows. Charlie looked hurt. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Oh, sure,” he said, and grinned painfully. “I thought Stan would be here.”

  “I think he’s in town.”

  “Gee,” Charlie said.

  She wanted to make Charlie smile. “Maybe he’s got a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, no,” Charlie said. Looking alarmed, he stood. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

  “Oh, sit down. I was just joking.” That got a half-smile, but Charlie’s face relapsed into pain. “Let me fix you some bacon and eggs,” she said.

  He said nothing, just sat with his hands folded, staring at his coffee. She got up, cooked some lengths of bacon and scrambled a few eggs. When she put the plates on the table Charlie looked at his and said, “I can’t eat.”

  Carrie put ketchup on her eggs. “Love trouble,” she said.

  Charlie laughed and sighed and then it all poured out. His wife had left him. He was in terrible pain. He’d had no idea how much he loved her until now. He’d neglected her. Taken her for granted. Let love die. And now he was dying of pain. He couldn’t believe the pain.

  “I understand,” she said, and touched his hand. He had known Stan wouldn’t be here. He needed the sympathy of a woman. He probably didn’t even realize it. He’d just gotten into his car and driven blindly, ending up here.

  “Sit here a minute,” she said. “Try to eat your breakfast. I’ll be right back.” She went down to the candy store. Maria was behind the counter. Since it was Sunday nobody was in the back rolling chocolates. There were a couple of customers chewing free samples and looking over the display. She could count on Maria to keep things clean, no chocolate bits on the counter, the floor swept. All looked fine. She went back upstairs. Charlie sat with the breakfast a cold ruin in front of him. He needed to lose a little weight. She pictured taking him for a run on the beach. She liked to run in the early morning. If Charlie moved to the beach, he could run with her. It would ease his pain.

  “Charlie,” she heard herself saying. He turned to look at her, his big sad eyes tugging at her heart. She held out her hand and he took it. “Come on,” she said softly, and led him into the bedroom.

  PART SIX

  The Literary Life

  79.

  Consider the unborn Buddha spirit. Unborn, because when your Buddha spirit is born, you become enlightened. Jaime was at the moment unmistakably pre-enlightened, a perfect open loving creature, sensitive to everything and naïve about everything, the dupe of the senses. Right now Jaime was so sensitive she couldn’t open her eyes, for fear of what she’d see. Easier to lie there with her eyes shut, the unfamiliar pillow under her head, the unfamiliar covers over her body. A hotel room? She hoped she was alone. Her unborn Buddha spirit always did better alone. Jaime had become a Buddhist in self-defense. Nothing else seemed to work, and if Buddhism itself seemed to have no working parts, that was fine with her. After life, nothing. Fine. Maybe by telling herself she was a Buddhist she was really saying, I am not a Christian, I am not a Jew, I am certainly not a Muslim, yet I believe in something. The universe? No. Bigger. More loving. Something. The Buddha looks like a nice guy. Blame it on him.

  She stirred. There was too much light in the room, wherever it was. She tightened her lids and tried to reconstruct the night before. It wasn’t a shock anymore to awaken to a blank memory, but it did stir up old sensations of dread, the Monday morning school feeling. Let’s see. Go back as far as lunch yesterday. Lunch at Enrico’s. Was that yesterday, or the day before? She had lunch at Enrico’s every Friday, or nearly every Friday. So, today would be Saturday. Kira wouldn’t be in school. And then, remembering, her skin went cold. She felt sweat prickling on her body. Kira was missing. Jaime opened her eyes. Big windows behind dark green silk-looking drapes. A man’s bedroom, and from the look of things, the man had money. She turned and saw Brighton Forester smiling at her from the doorway, his white hair tousled, his handsome red face tilted in sympathy.

  “You’re awake,” he said. My God, she must have slept with him. Brighton Forester, someone she’d known or known about for years. Not one of her heroes. A member of the San Francisco establishment, a rich man, a novelist with one good book out. And, as she well knew, a married person.

  “Where’s your wife?” Jaime asked. Humorously, she hoped. That son of a bitch. He’d been after her for years, and now she was in his bed. They probably fucked in the night, and she couldn’t even remember. She blinked painfully, her fingers clutching the edge of the quilt.

  “She’s in the mountains,” Brighton said. He wore a terrycloth bathrobe. “Why do you ask?” Apparently these society people went around fucking whomever they pleased. Of course they’d be hypocrites about it. Mum’s the word and all that. Jaime’s eyes hurt. She remembered Kira. Kira was missing.

  “What happened last night?” she asked. Brighton came into the room, his eyes warm and sympathetic, and sat on the edge of the bed. Jaime sat up and pinched her nose to make the pain stop. It didn’t.

  He explained that they’d run into each other at a party, gone off with a handful of people, and ended up here in bed. He smiled fondly. He obviously liked her, aside from anything else. She liked him, for what it was worth. A nice man, tall, well-built, civilized, Princeton educated, and so on. But she needed to think about Kira. She needed to remember yesterday, in detail. How did Jaime know Kira was missing? Had the school called?

  “I have to get up,” she said to Brighton. “My daughter is missing.”

  Downstairs in the breakfast room Brighton told Jaime over coffee that she’d already solved the problem. “That’s all you would talk about last night,” he said. “How your daughter had run off to Los Angeles.”

  “Los Angeles?” She wanted to bite her tongue. She was horribly ashamed of her loss of memory. But Brighton was calm, encouraging. Kira had taken a bus to Los Angeles, he explained. To be with her father. The bus was likely pulling in about now.

  Jaime sipped her coffee, trying to absorb the information. Reassuring, at first, to know Kira had made good on her threats. Then the dreadful feeling came back. “How do you know this?” she asked Brighton.

  He smiled. “You told me. Remember? You stopped on Van Ness to telephone.”

  “Who did I telephone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He was no fucking help at all. Jaime got out of there as quickly as she could, turning down Brighton’s offer to drive her home. “I can take the bus,” she said, gave him a kiss meant to indicate only friendship, and went out his big front door to find herself on Cherry Street, in Pacific Heights. She walked down to California Street. It was a sweet blue morning, but she couldn’t enjoy it. She took the bus out to Eighteenth Avenue and walked north to Lake Street. Her flat was Seventeenth at Lake, one door in from the dead end. The Chronicle lay on the reddish brown doormat, just as if
everything were normal. She picked up the paper, keyed open the front door and went up the short flight of stairs to her flat. “Kira,” she said without hope. No one answered. Tuffy the cat was curled up on Jaime’s bed. He looked up at her, then went back to sleep. Jaime undressed and took a shower, still waiting for her mind to clear. It didn’t, not much. She checked her answering machine. Several messages, but none from Kira or Charlie. She wondered if they were together, and if so, how Charlie was dealing with it. Being responsible for a fifteen-year-old girl in Hollywood. Kira in particular, with a mind of her own, to put it mildly, and taller than her mother by six inches already, and still growing. The body of a woman, also mildly put, thank you, and the mind to match. Jaime had initiated a talk about sex once, but all Kira said was, “Oh, shit, Mother,” and walked out. To big, too smart, too pretty. Now, well, Jaime didn’t want to use the word runaway, but she couldn’t think of another. Like half the children in America, Jaime thought, then felt contempt for herself. Sure, that’s the excuse. Everybody’s doing it. Jaime didn’t want her daughter to be the last hippie runaway.

  She dialed Charlie’s hotel. Charlie wasn’t in or wasn’t answering. When the desk clerk came back on the line, Jaime asked, “Have you seen my daughter? His daughter? Is she registered?”

  “No, she’s not,” the clerk answered in a distant polite voice, and she hung up, her face flushing with guilt. Where the fuck is Kira? She thought to call the school, but it was Saturday. Wasn’t it? She looked at the newspaper. Yes, Saturday, April 12, 1975. Then she remembered. Friday, yesterday, she’d finished writing, had showered and was headed down to Enrico’s for lunch with friends, her regular lunch crowd. The school called. Kira had left at midday without permission. Would she look into it? They loved Jaime at Drew, and would do anything for one of their most famous graduates. But they couldn’t help with this. Now she remembered vowing, in a heat of anger at Kira, not to wait for her daughter to come home. She’d instead gone ahead to Enrico’s. Later she could bawl Kira out for cutting school. But Jaime had never gone home. Instead she and Kenny Goss and Richard Brautigan sat around getting drunk, Jaime jumping up every few drinks to call home. Kira never answered. Jaime must have decided, in some cleverly drunken way, that Kira had run off to Los Angeles. When in fact she could be anywhere, including some pretty bad places. Jaime blocked herself from further speculations.