by Davis Bunn
Estelle wiped her eyes. “You really are a good man.”
“No, I’m not.” He folded up his half-finished pages. “But I’d like to be.”
CHAPTER 42
When Connor entered the police station, a couple was shouting somewhere in the distance. The uniformed woman at the front desk smiled a pinched welcome and said that Porter was busy with a complaint. The woman introduced herself as Maud. She was in her late forties or early fifties, and had the strong, well-worn look of a woman very comfortable in her own skin. She told Connor, “You can go on back or you can sit here and have me pepper you with questions.”
Connor was still getting used to the small-town attitude of familiarity. “How about I sit here and quietly work on something?”
“Oh, I seriously doubt that will happen. Celia and my daughter are besties. At breakfast, I heard all about your evening. There is nothing in the world that would please my daughter more than to know you and I had ourselves a real heart-to-heart.”
“Do I have any say about my life becoming an open book around here?”
“Not in Miramar. How about I ask one question, then I leave you alone?”
“Doesn’t sound like I have much choice.” Then two voices, one male, the other female, rose to a near bellow. “What’s going on back there?”
“Domestic,” Maud replied. “The next-to-worst part of our job.”
Connor had no interest in knowing what was worse than enduring that level of rage. “So ask.”
“Are you going to buy the Kaufmans’ place, and if you do, will you leave LA totally behind?”
“That’s two questions, but I’ll answer, anyway.” As if he had any choice. “I loved the house, but I am up to my eyeballs in debt already. And the house looks extremely expensive. So I have to think very carefully about my next step. Which will probably include going to my bank manager on my hands and knees. As for LA, I want to keep acting. What that means about where I live, I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“You like Miramar.” She held up one hand. “That’s a statement, not a question.”
“I like it very much. Everything except the speed with which gossip spreads around here.”
“Haven’t you heard? Gossip is a small town’s version of reality TV.”
A beefy woman and a stumpy, red-faced man came storming down the corridor and across the front office and out the main doors. Porter followed them, his expression weary. “Remind me why I didn’t just shoot them both.”
“Lompoc State Prison is nasty. Plus, we’d miss you when they locked you up.” Maud winked at Connor. “And Celia would go off to LA on the back of Connor’s bike.”
“All good reasons.” He asked Connor, “You waiting for me?”
“I’d appreciate five minutes.”
“Are you here to register a domestic complaint?”
“Not today.”
“Then come on back.”
Porter’s office was fairly nondescript, highly functional, and uncluttered. The photographs lining one wall were all of his daughter and wife. Connor slowed enough to view Celia as she grew from a smiling toddler to a lovely young woman. When he turned around, Porter waved him into a seat and said, “Those two ladies make even the worst hour manageable.”
“They are two great women.”
“Yeah, Celia’s lucky she took after her mom.”
“You must have a lot of bad hours in this job.”
“Some days. But I can’t imagine acting is all bluebirds and buttercups.” He shifted his weight, causing the chair to squeak. “What’s on your mind?”
“Phil Hammond,” Connor replied.
“Old Phil.”
“What’s his story?”
“Not much I can tell you beyond Miramar’s city limits. You know the story about him and Sylvie?”
“Marcela told me a little. He owns a minority share of Castaways, right?”
“And two of the beachfront hotels. He’s a developer from Santa Cruz. That’s pretty much it.” Porter picked up a pen and spun it between his fingers. “I don’t deal in rumors, you understand.”
“Sure.”
“I don’t know anybody who’s willing to offer a good word about the man.”
“Is he a criminal?”
“When he offered to come in beside Sylvie, I checked because she asked me. The answer is, he’s never been arrested. More than that, I can’t say.”
“Has he ever tried to buy Castaways outright?”
Porter spun the pen between his fingers. “Where are you going with this?”
“Just wondering.”
“Well, the answer is, old Phil doesn’t ask. He tells. And, yes, about four months back he told Sylvie he wants to take over Castaways. He’s offered to make her vice president of his hotel and residential group, or some such. Major pay raise. Lots of perks. Sylvie needed about twelve seconds to turn him down. She tried to be polite about it. Phil didn’t take it well.”
Connor sat there a minute, trying to fit the puzzle together. He liked how Porter clearly felt no need to push or pry or run on to the next thing. It was oddly comforting, even seated in a chair that was still warmed by the warring couple. “Miramar is nothing like what I expected.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought I’d come here, have a quiet few days, get my head sorted out, go back, rejoin my old life, like that.”
“And that hasn’t happened.”
“There is not one single item that’s worked out like I expected,” Connor replied. “Starting with the idea that Miramar is calm.”
“But you like it here.”
“I do. A lot.”
“Mind if I ask why?”
“I’ve found exactly what I needed,” Connor replied, rising to his feet. “Thanks for your time.”
“Don’t mention it. You just be sure and let me know if you ever move past wondering about old Phil.”
“You bet.”
Porter waited until Connor was almost to the door before adding, “I thought we were going to be talking about the Kaufmans’ place.”
“We will. Soon. I hope.”
“You’re wondering about that, too, huh?”
“Oh, no,” Connor replied. “I’m way past that.”
CHAPTER 43
Estelle left the diner and drove her rental car down to the southern seaside cliffs. She would have preferred to walk, but she could almost hear the ticking clock. Water beaded on her windscreen as she pulled into the parking area. She left the car and walked out to the point. A lazy mist drifted over the water, like clouds too heavy to rise to their proper station. Pillars of sunlight fell here and there, their reflection off the water almost blinding. After a time, she walked back to the open-fronted chapel. A middle-aged couple were seated on the back row. Their eyes were closed and they gave her approach no notice. Estelle settled on a bench where the roof sheltered her somewhat. Her thoughts drifted with the mist.
She had no need of Connor’s written list, though she admired him for making the effort. She had carried her own dilemmas for so long they felt imprinted in her DNA. This cliffside refuge seemed an ideal place to prepare herself for what she intended to do next.
Estelle knew she was about to step over an invisible line. This was no longer about helping her daughter from a safe distance. She proposed to take an active role in Sylvie’s world. Estelle had no idea how her daughter would react, or whether she was doing the right thing at all. There was every chance she was making a terrible mistake.
When she felt as prepared as she might manage on this tumultuous day, she rose from her place and stepped out to where she would not bother the other penitents. Her whispered words were a simple repetition of the same fractured plea. “I need help.”
As she returned to the car, she was certain she had been right to come.
* * *
Estelle phoned Marcela from the cliffside parking area. When the waitress came on the line, Estelle asked, “Could you please spare me te
n minutes of your time?”
“What’s this about?”
“I have an idea about how we might help Sylvie.”
“She sure needs it. Look, I told Rick I’d help them prep today. Let me go check in, then we can meet.”
“Could you please not mention this to Sylvie?”
“Oh, sure.” The woman’s good humor shone over the phone. “There’s no one who likes being helped less than your daughter. Tell you what, why don’t you go up to the café by your motel and I’ll meet you there. Less chance of being caught out by the house detective.”
Estelle drove back up the hill, parked by her studio, then walked to the café. By the time Marcela arrived, Estelle’s nerves had almost taken control. She confessed, “This is probably a bad idea.”
“Why don’t you buy me a latte and let me decide.”
When Estelle brought back the drinks, she took a hard breath and launched straight in, but Marcela did not allow her to get past the first few sentences. “Hold it right there.”
Estelle nodded miserably. “I told you it was silly.”
“You want to hold a silent auction and ask the town to chip in with prizes and then come and bid? And all the money goes to covering Sylvie’s legal fees, so she doesn’t have to sell out to old Phil?”
“Something like that. I suppose I—”
“Girl, this is brilliant.”
“Really?”
“Of course, really. The whole town is already talking. There are a lot of people who would love nothing more than a way to do something. How much does Sylvie need?”
“Fifty thousand dollars. On top of the twenty I already paid.”
“Wow.” Marcela sobered. “That’s a lot.”
“Tell me.”
“You’ll need some major prizes. Something big enough to pull in the valleyites.”
“Sorry, who?”
“That’s what we call the rich people who have the estates back behind the ridgeline. They’re a big part of why Castaways is a success. You’ll need a real whopper to get their attention.”
“Connor has offered to play.”
“Play?”
“As a prize. A private concert with Connor Larkin, star of the next James Bond film.”
“Wait . . . Our Connor?”
“He’s headed down to LA this afternoon for the screen test. A reporter from San Luis Obispo will be meeting with him on set. Connor offered them a scoop in return for promoting the silent auction.”
Marcela surprised her then. She turned her face to the late-afternoon sunlight and sat there in silence for a time. Estelle thought the woman defined Latina beauty, the honeyed skin, the full lips, the soft curls, the dark and soulful eyes. Finally Marcela said, “It’s such a shame.”
Estelle nodded, but did not speak.
“Sylvie won’t even talk about him anymore.”
“Which is why we need to keep this quiet until . . .”
“Until it’s too late for Sylvie to call it off,” Marcela finished. “When were you thinking about holding the event?”
“This coming Monday. I’ve spoken with the police chief.”
“Porter. He’s great.”
“Right. He’s arranging for us to use the town hall. It doesn’t give us much time to put together the prizes and get word out.”
Marcela bundled her things together and rose from the table. “Leave it with me.”
But midway across the café, Marcela came to an abrupt halt. Estelle asked, “Something wrong?”
Marcela turned. “I’ve just had the most delicious thought.”
“‘Delicious,’ as in, ‘bad’?”
“Oh, no. It’s a lot worse than that. This is just terrible.”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“Best you don’t know. It’ll give you, what’s the word?”
“‘Deniability.’”
“Right.” Marcela shivered. “This is going to be fun.”
CHAPTER 44
For once, Connor remained the model driver his entire journey south. Twice he was passed by other bikers, who slowed to observe him and then fly on, clearly thinking unkind thoughts about a rider who could afford a Ducati and apparently didn’t know what to do with it. But Connor liked having the time to put everything away, except for the road and the daylight and the ride. The drive forced him to focus down on the moment. He had the sense of developing a clarity that he could then apply to other things.
Twice he pulled off the highway and leaned against his saddle and watched the ocean. Both times he drew out his list and worked through a couple more points. When he arrived home, Connor parked the bike in his garage and sat there, waiting until the next item crystalized in the sunset. He went inside and showered and changed, then rode down to his favorite deli. He did not so much work through the meal as reflect on what he had written, and what it all meant. Then he returned home and went to bed. Twice in the night, he rose and studied the list and thought about his next moves. There was no sense of pressure, or really even of a possible next move. Just the same, the fact that he was thinking about these things left him at ease in his own skin. Given his state just a week or so earlier, Connor considered it a remarkable achievement.
The next morning, he pulled into the MGM studio gates at seven-thirty. Connor gave his name to the guard and was directed to a nondescript office building about halfway down the central lane. When he entered, his coach was nowhere to be found. Instead, Gerald said, “Don’t you dare give me that look.”
“Where’s Mavis?” Mavis was his acting coach and a dear friend.
“Sick. Chest. No voice. I’ve heard cement mixers that sounded better.”
“Gerald, what are you doing here?”
“I’m trying to rescue the moment, is what. Although Ami couldn’t possibly survive a day without me, she’s agreed this is important enough to try. And you are thrilled that I’m here. Go on. Say it.”
Connor knew complaining would get him nowhere. “Thank you, and thank Ami. It’s good to have a friendly face in my corner.”
“On the next take, you can try and put a little more feeling into your gratitude.” Gerald pointed Connor toward the aide waiting with visitor badges. “Go. Scoot. We have to hurry and get started before the suits upstairs change their minds.”
* * *
The studio would only release the full script after Connor signed a confidentiality form and agreed to work alongside Christopher, one of the film’s assistant directors. Christopher dressed like most film school snobs—stovepipe pants and black shoes with absurdly long toes, like they were about to curl up and turn purple and fit the clownish gestures that Christopher made constantly. His dress shirt had French cuffs, which flopped like starched wings around his fingers because Christopher wore no cuff links. His hair was waxed into a precise bird’s nest. Christopher greeted every comment Connor made with an eye roll and a dismissive smirk. Normally, working alongside a film school snob made Connor’s days crawl as slowly as a receding glacier. Today, however, Gerald handled Christopher with astonishing ease. Gerald made little insider jokes that left Connor completely baffled. If they had been speaking Farsi, he would have found more reason to laugh. Gerald asked Christopher for his opinion at every step. Gerald treated the AD’s responses as solid gold. Christopher gradually left his arrogant attitude behind and worked with them.
When they had completed three read-throughs, Connor declared himself satisfied. Christopher left to phone the director and make arrangements for the set and crew. Connor and Gerald remained seated at the back of an unused soundstage, surrounded by the normal assortment of crates and cables and light stands and mic booms.
Gerald said, “You were almost human there at the end.”
“I am in the presence of a master,” Connor said.
“I hope you were watching,” Gerald replied. “You can’t expect me to show up every time they throw an AD at you. And the higher you go in this business, the more often they’ll assign you a Christopher
.”
Gerald was a study in physical contrasts. He was aged in his late forties and wore his graying hair cropped military short. He was not unattractive as much as simply unremarkable. Connor had never seen Gerald wear anything other than conservative three-piece suits. He had once told Connor that nothing hid a multitude of sins so well as a tailored waistcoat. Today’s outfit was gray herringbone, offset by a starched shirt so glaringly pink the shade could almost be called violent. His wingtips were polished to a mirror shine and his fingernails were always buffed. Gerald could easily have passed as a midlevel accountant, fussy and precise and short-tempered.
“You are as good a coach as I’ve ever worked with,” Connor replied. “And I’m not just talking about the script.”
Gerald was still forming his response when the makeup artist came for Connor. The role called for him to have been disfigured by a previous assault, one where acid had scarred the left side of his face. The film’s producers wanted to view Connor in full character, and Connor had overridden Gerald’s objections and readily agreed. This level of cosmetic makeover was new to him. Connor wanted to see how it affected his speech and his facial expressions. He suspected it would result in a more stifled emotive response, a sort of uniform deadpanned expression. A good deal of their work that morning had centered upon fashioning a character that suited the scar.
Christopher returned, accompanied by a reporter and photographer from the San Luis Obispo Tribune. After the introductions were made, the AD announced that the director had become tied up in a meeting with studio executives and could not make the shoot. Christopher fumbled the news so badly, Connor was certain he had known about this all along.
Most actors loathed working with an AD in control of a scene. With many high-powered directors, the AD was little more than a glorified gofer. Shooting a screen test was the director’s way of offering the AD a bone. The problem was, doing a scene with Christopher risked having the director insist upon a redo. Connor could see that Gerald was preparing to baste the AD and serve him up well done, but Connor cut him off. “Actually, I’d prefer to work with you.”