“Are you two serious about each other or is this just a weekend fling?” I asked as we stood together on the patio under the grape arbor, where a washtub had been filled with ice cubes and bottles of beer, soda and mineral water.
“I’m not following you, Hoag,” Elliot replied, wheezing.
“You left together last evening and now here you are, showing up together. Believe me, this is how gossip starts.”
“We just came from a brunch meeting with the HWA television team,” Boyd explained. “Besides, it’ll be easier to cut out early this way. We can say we have another meeting to get to.”
Elliot nodded his frizzy red head. “Bright boy’s right. I, for one, do not relish spending a minute longer with Patrick Van Pelt than I have to.” He excused himself and went inside to say hello to Monette.
Boyd stayed on the patio with me, his jaw tensing. “I don’t suppose anything came by express mail from Richard Aintree this morning, did it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Damn, this project better not go up in smoke,” he muttered fretfully. “You know what’ll happen to me if it does? I’ll end up with a job where two, three hundred times a day I say the words ‘Would you like fries with that, sir?’ Seriously, amigo, I will disappear.” Boyd peered around at the lush green hills that surrounded us. “Hey, what if Richard’s already here? What if he’s been here all along and arranged to have those express mail letters sent from New Jersey?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s nutso, that’s why. Richard Aintree is out of his mind. We know that for a fact. Hell, for all we know, he could be standing right outside the gate at this very minute masquerading as a tabloid photographer.”
“No offense, Boyd, but this town is having a bad influence on you.”
“You got that right. It’s Crazy Town out here. The only way I’ve ever been able to cope was to go with the flow. I’ve never been here straight before. The HWA gang went out club hopping last night and there were mountains of coke everywhere. It took a ton of willpower to say no. Man, I sure . . .” He broke off, breathing raggedly. “I could really go for a few lines right now.”
“Do you have somebody whom you should call?”
He shifted his pastel-covered shoulders uncomfortably. “I thought I might find a meeting to go to later.”
“Want me to come with you?”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course.”
“But you don’t like me.”
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’ve put your life back together and you want to keep it together. Which reminds me, steer clear of Patrick and Lou when they get here.”
“Why?”
“Just take my word for it.”
By now Monette and Danielle had put the cake in the oven and Maritza was dumping a load of charcoal into the outdoor grill to get the fire started. Reggie and Danielle joined us under the grape arbor. And, somehow, Monette managed to persuade a highly reluctant Joey to come downstairs from his room to open the presents that Elliot and Boyd had brought him.
First he opened Elliot’s, which was nestled inside a plush, hinged case. It was a black fountain pen with two gold bands. Mighty nice one, too.
“That there’s a Waterman, kid,” Elliot pointed out, beaming at him.
“Yes, I can see that,” Joey said as he stood there miserably in his rumpled plaid flannel shirt, Nirvana T-shirt and torn jeans.
“If you’re going to be a famous writer, then you got to write in style.”
“That’s a very thoughtful gift, Elliot,” Monette said. “Isn’t it, Joey?”
“Yes, it is.” Joey’s eyes never left the ground. “Thank you.”
Boyd’s gift also came nestled inside of a small, hinged case. It was a pair of sunglasses. Joey peered at them, somewhat mystified.
“Those, my young friend, are Ray-Ban Wayfarers,” Boyd informed him. “The one and only James Dean himself wore a pair just like those.”
“Thank you very much,” Joey said woodenly.
“What else did you get for your birthday, kid?” Elliot asked.
Danielle said, “Mom and I found him this really great fringed buckskin jacket at a clothing store in Venice. It’s totally Joey.”
The decibel level of the paparazzi outside of the gate suddenly shot way up. There was major, major yelling. And I could hear a couple of car engines revving out there. Then the front gate swung open and the no-longer man of the house, Patrick Van Pelt, came roaring up the old cobbled drive in a shiny, bright red Jeep Wrangler that had a roll bar in lieu of a top. It also had oversized tires and an even more oversized sound system that was blasting “All She Wants to Do Is Dance,” by the singularly annoying Don Henley.
Patrick pulled up beside Boyd’s Town Car and jumped out wearing a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts and leather flip-flops, looking every inch the tanned, chiseled leading man that the American viewing public knew and loved. He flashed his bright white smile at us and waved. He appeared to be incredibly happy to be back home again. He also appeared to be incredibly bombed. He swayed more than a little as he took a gulp from the fifth of Jose Cuervo Gold tequila he was toting.
Lou Riggio, the flesh-colored Incredible Hulk, roared up the driveway behind him in a gunmetal gray mid-sixties GTO, parked it behind the Jeep and got out, looming there in a tank top, gym shorts and sneakers, a Tootsie Pop stuck in his mouth.
“Here we go . . . ,” Monette murmured under her breath.
Danielle reached for her mother’s hand and gripped it. “Here we go . . .”
“Hey-hey, it’s a party!” Patrick called out as he started up the stone path toward us, staggering slightly. “I need me a wedge of lime, a shaker of salt and my birthday boy! Where’s my boy?” He peered around. “There he is! How are you, son?”
“I’m fine, Dad,” Joey answered uncomfortably.
Patrick approached Monette, who didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. Just glared at him. He grinned at her. “Hello, Queenie.”
“How dare you show up here drunk?” she demanded angrily.
“Didn’t think I could pull this off sober, did you? Hey, Princess!” he exclaimed as his gaze fell on Danielle, who seemed thoroughly mortified by her father’s state of sobriety, or total lack thereof. “I swear, you’re turning into a long drink of water just like your mom. Have you gotten taller on me?”
“I don’t know, Dad,” she said in a pained voice.
Patrick’s gaze fell upon me next. “So you’re still here.”
“I told you that I would be.”
“Big mistake, dude.”
“My whole life is one big mistake. I try to stay consistent.”
He frowned at me in bewilderment, as if I’d just spoken to him in a foreign tongue, before he said, “Oh, hey, you all remember Lou, don’t you?”
Lou stood there in silence like a granite boulder, sucking on his grape Tootsie Pop, his shaved head gleaming in the sunlight. In his left hand he clutched that same little blue nylon zippered bag he’d had with him in Patrick’s trailer.
Patrick grinned at Joey and said, “Hey, birthday boy, you see that red Wrangler in the driveway? It’s all yours!” He tossed Joey the keys. Joey made no effort to catch them. They landed on the bluestone three feet away from him with a clatter. “Lou helped me pick it out, and Lou knows his wheels. It’s a total rocket. Got the six-cylinder, 180-horsepower engine. Right, Lou?”
“Right, Pats,” Lou confirmed in his sandpapery voice.
Joey let out a pained sigh. “I don’t drive, Dad.”
“Well, now you have a good reason to learn how to.”
“No, you don’t understand. I don’t believe in cars.”
“What’s not to believe in? They’re real. Go over and touch it if you don’t believe me. And let me tell you something else. That Wrangler right there? That is a solid, proven chick magnet. Trust me, when you show up at school behind the wheel of that thang, you’ll have to fight o
ff the girls with a Louisville Slugger. Why, they’ll be all . . .” Patrick broke off suddenly, tilting his head at me with a perplexed look on his face. “Didn’t you have a kind of short, four-legged sidekick yesterday?”
“Still do.”
“Where is she?”
“Guarding the keys to the Jeep.”
He spotted her now, crouched on the pavement next to the keys. “Why’s she doing that?”
“Force of habit. I used to lose mine a lot. Lulu was my spotter.”
“Awful handy to have around,” he said approvingly as he took a swig of his tequila, noticing Reggie for the first time. Couldn’t help it. She was standing right in front of him, the better to peer at him. He peered back at her. “So you’re the twisted sister.”
She nodded. “I’m the twisted sister.”
“I didn’t realize you were so short.”
“And I didn’t realize you were a shit-faced drunk,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You smell like you started two days ago and never stopped.”
He let out a laugh. “I’ll tell you something, twisted sis. I don’t usually go for mouthy little spinners, but in your case I’m prepared to make an exception.”
“Wow, I am so flattered right now,” Reggie responded sweetly.
Patrick took another swig of tequila, paying no attention to Elliot or Boyd. He had zero interest in either of them. “Where’s my lime?” he demanded. “Where’s my salt? Where’s Maritza, damn it?”
Maritza came out the French doors from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Yes, Senor Patrick?” she said in a quiet voice, her face drawn tight.
He smiled at her hugely. “How are you, hon?”
“I am fine, Senor Patrick.”
“Yes, you are. Plenty fine. Get me a setup for my tequila, will you? One of those double shot glasses from my bar. A wedge of lime, shaker of salt and an ice-cold Corona. Comprende?”
“Yes, Senor Patrick.”
“And a Corona for my man Lou,” he added, eyeballing Maritza’s butt as she went inside to fetch what he’d asked for. Like son, like father. Although Patrick didn’t sneak furtive glances the way Joey did. He just flat out stared.
And Monette watched him stare, glowering.
“I need to make a phone call,” Elliot said abruptly.
“So do I,” said Boyd.
The two of them retreated to opposite ends of the swimming pool and were soon busy barking into their mobile phones.
Reggie watched them, greatly amused. “Aren’t they cute, Stewie?”
“As buttons.”
“You don’t suppose they’re talking to each other, do you?”
“I like to think they are.”
Maritza returned with Patrick’s double shot glass and set it on the wrought iron table for him along with a saltshaker and a bowl of lime wedges. She pulled two long-neck bottles of Corona from one of the tubs of ice, opened them and set them on the table.
Patrick didn’t bother to thank her. Just splashed some Cuervo from the bottle into the glass, shook some salt onto the back of his left hand, licked it off and downed the Cuervo in one gulp. Then he squeezed the juice from a lime wedge into his mouth and took a long gulp of Corona, groaning contentedly.
Lou did thank her as he reached for his beer and took a long, thirsty drink, not bothering to remove the grape Tootsie Pop from the side of his mouth while he drank. The big man had style, I had to give him that.
“Oh, hey,” Patrick said to Maritza. “Is Hector around today?”
“It is Saturday, Senor Patrick.”
“He doesn’t work on Saturdays?”
“Not usually. Maybe sometimes.”
“Well, if he shows up, tell him I want to see him, okay?”
“Yes, Senor Patrick.”
There was another commotion outside the front gate. Shouting. A huge roar of voices. Then someone out there buzzed the house.
Maritza went inside to answer it, returning to the patio to announce, “Senorita Kat has arrived.”
“Now we can have us a real party!” Patrick whooped. “You’re going to love her, Queenie. And she’s been dying to see the house.”
“I’ll just bet she has,” Monette said between gritted teeth.
A black BMW convertible with its top down came zipping up the driveway with Public Enemy’s “Shut ’Em Down” blaring from its sound system, because absolutely nothing says young, privileged white TV starlet like gangsta rap. Kat Zachry’s half-brother, Kyle, was behind the wheel. Kat rode shotgun. A third person was sprawled across the back seat. Kyle parked behind Lou’s GTO. The three of them got out and started up the path toward us.
Kat wore an oversized number-thirty-two Magic Johnson Lakers jersey over a baggy pair of gym shorts. She looked incredibly childlike to me. She was only two years older than Joey, after all. She gave Patrick a naughty grin and a hug before she extended her hand to Joey and said, “Hey, I’m Kat. Happy birthday.”
“I don’t believe in shaking hands,” he informed her coldly.
Patrick glared at him. “Hey, what have I told you about that goddamned mouth of yours?”
“No prob, I’ll just give it a smooch.” Kat kissed Joey smack on his mouth.
He immediately turned bright red.
“Queenie, allow me to introduce Miss Kat Zachry,” Patrick said with exaggerated formality as he stood there, swaying more than slightly.
“Very nice to meet you, Kat,” Monette said with chilly politeness.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Kat said to Monette with that same naughty grin on her face. She was genuinely enjoying this incredibly awkward social encounter. “Oh, hey, everybody, this is my big brother, Kyle.”
Kat’s pudgy loser of a half-brother nodded to everyone but didn’t bother to say anything or shake hands with anyone. Didn’t budge from Kat’s side at all. Just stood there, looking like a nervous weasel.
“And we brought our cousin Trish,” Kat added. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Monette said with still more chilly politeness.
Cousin Trish was in her early twenties and wore a cropped, sleeveless gray sweatshirt over a white bikini. She was tall and slender with long blond hair, long legs and a tight little bottom. But she shared none of her famous cousin’s fine-featured beauty. Her eyes were set too close together. Her nose was too broad. She had a thin-lipped mouth and not enough chin. Trish wasn’t unattractive. She was simply ordinary-looking. Every woman on the planet seemed ordinary-looking if she happened to be standing next to Kat Zachry.
Patrick peered at her with keen interest. “Have we met before, cousin Trish? You look awful damned familiar.”
“Trish had a bit in the beach party scene last week, babe,” Kat reminded him. “She rode around on Kirk’s shoulders until he threw her in the water.”
“I came up sputtering and called him a meathead,” Trish said.
Patrick nodded his shaggy blond head. “Sure, that’s it.”
Elliot and Boyd rejoined us, both of them acting extremely guarded now that the Pat ’n’ Kat tabloid freak show was unfolding right before their eyes.
“Did you get some bitchen birthday presents?” Kat asked Joey.
“Elliot gave him a very fine Waterman fountain pen,” Monette informed her. “Boyd got him a lovely pair of sunglasses. And Danielle and I found him a truly special buckskin jacket.”
“That reminds me . . .” Kat turned her bedroom eyes on me. “I still want that leather jacket of yours.”
“Dream on.”
“And don’t forget the world-class wheels his old man got him,” Patrick said, splashing some more Cuervo into his bar glass.
“You are one lucky dude, Joey,” Kat said as she stood there gazing up at the weathered brick enormity of Aintree Manor, tilting her pretty head this way and that, inspecting it as if she intended to move in there very soon. Possibly she did. Possibly Patrick had made her a boatload of promises. Nothing would surprise me. “I love your house,
” she said to Monette. “It’s really classical.”
“Thank you,” Monette said curtly.
“Kind of old-timey for my taste,” Kyle said. “Me, I like new stuff.”
“Kyle, sweetie, your taste isn’t something you should talk about out loud,” Kat said to him. “You haven’t got any.”
“I know what I like,” he said defensively.
“Would you care to take a tour of the downstairs?” Monette asked her.
Kat’s eyes widened eagerly. “You kidding me? Come on, Trish, we’re getting a tour of the mansion.”
She and her leggy blonde cousin followed Monette inside through the French doors. Kyle stayed put, helping himself to a bottle of Corona.
Danielle and Joey stayed put, too. Joey had developed a healthy interest in the guacamole that Maritza had set out on the table.
And Danielle wanted a word with Reggie. “Why do we have to be nice to her?” she asked in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.
“You don’t,” Reggie answered. “Your mom’s just trying to get through the next few minutes without going completely insane. Want to swim?”
Danielle nodded her head. The two of them started for the pool, Danielle shrugging out of the boyfriend shirt she wore over her white bikini. Reggie peeled off her T-shirt and shorts. She had on the yellow bikini that she’d borrowed from Danielle yesterday. They dove right in but didn’t swim. Just hung out in the shallow end talking. Lulu stayed by my side, keeping a watchful eye on them.
“So, listen up, Trish isn’t really our cousin,” Kyle told Joey as he helped himself to some of the guacamole. “She’s your birthday present, bro. From me and Kat to you. Knock yourself out.”
Joey frowned at him. “I don’t think I understand.”
The Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes Page 14