The Hollywood Guy

by Jack Baran

  In slow motion, a masked devil in red Angels’ trim jumps out of the crowd with a pistol in hand. Bang, bang, bang, he shoots Pete down. Desirée cradles her lover as he bleeds to death in her arms.

  “Rise and shine, amigo.” Bobby shakes his friend gently awake. “12 o’clock.”

  Pete has been warned: today he will be tested; beware the assassin.

  Bobby hands him a bottle. “Brazilian Yohimbe, dependable wood, no side effects.”

  Pete shakes his head. “Pasadena, amigo.” He showers and shaves, dresses meticulously in black, combs and ties his hair straight back, checks himself out in a mirror - ninja warrior or Chelsea art maven?

  Soong Lee has prepared rice porridge for breakfast. “You sleep good?”

  “Like a baby,” he lies. “Coffee?”

  “Porridge. Porridge gives strength.”

  Bobby sits down opposite Pete. “Keeps you regular.”

  “Any raisins or bananas?”

  “Eat hot, no sugar.”

  Bobby does as told; Pete is slow on the uptake. When Soong Lee leaves the room, he dumps his porridge in the disposal. “I need my morning Joe.”

  A light swell rolls toward the Santa Monica Pier. Bobby’s convertible glides down the California Incline and up the Coast Highway. Pete in the passenger seat devours a powdered sugar doughnut, washes it down with Starbucks. “I can’t believe how pussywhipped you are.”

  “Not eating the porridge was your loss but I will try a doughnut.” Bobby takes one from the bag.

  “You actually prefer tea over coffee?”

  “Herb tea.” Bobby picks up speed, weaves aggressively through traffic.

  Pete smiles. “You haven’t lost your driving chops. How about some music?” He takes the demo out of his pocket. “I want you to hear something.”

  “I only listen to classical now. Check out the Vivaldi.” A swirl of Baroque violins fills the car.

  “What happened to your Latin thing?”

  “Over.”

  “Can you dance to this?”

  “You’d be surprised how well it sets a mood in the bedroom.”

  “I remember Killer Bob winning a mambo contest at the Corso, now he’s drinking herbal tea, eating rice porridge and listening to Vivaldi?”

  “Soong Lee saved my life.”

  Pete’s eyes scan the rising swell off Paradise Cove where a gang of surfers astride their boards, wait for a ride. He ejects the disk and loads the demo. “Please, I want to know what you think?” The Sidewinders explode out of the gate, interlocking banjo and fiddle driven by a hard pounding bass and drum line. Jackson’s Stratocaster rings out as he sings, Dylan’s “Leopard Skin Pillbox Hat.”

  The waves are breaking perfectly. The first surfer is up on his board, riding down the face of a six footer, rocketing toward shore in time to the music. When Pete moved west, his dream was to surf these beaches. He had body-boarded on the Atlantic Coast from Far Rockaway to Montauk Point figured it would be easy. Unfortunately, getting up didn’t mean staying on, and good timing couldn’t compensate for bad balance. He wiped out early on, broke his collarbone and almost drowned. Never went back out. It was one of the major disappointments of his life.

  “Rockin’ roots music,” Pete shouts as they approach Point Dume, a flat bluff overlooking the Pacific said to be a landing pad for UFO’s and where the writer of “Pill Box Hat,” lives. “Is this a cosmic convergence or what?”

  Bobby smiles, tapping his fingers and nodding his head. “Fuck Baroque. I can still rock out to the primitive.”

  Pete takes another bite of doughnut, more powdered sugar blowing in the wind.

  Bobby drinks coffee. “Feels great being in character again.”

  The sun blazes down on two meshuganas driving across a landscape of strawberries listening to the Sidewinders blasting.

  “I didn’t mean to put Soong Lee down before. I really like her.”

  “I know what sex addiction is, Soong Lee helped me turn a corner on mine. Our relationship is an interesting combination of the mental and physical. Intellectually, she’s a very complicated woman, physically Soong is restrained, but she has moments of explosive passion.”

  “According to Cleo, sex is simply animal behavior, providing no more than temporary satisfaction. She believes our creative connection will last forever.”

  Passing through historic, downtown Oxnard, Pete points out Tito’s Tacos. “Barbara and Bethy loved that place, amazing carne asada and home made guacamole. Let’s stop.”

  Bobby has his game face on. “After the job.” He turns onto a side road leading to a remote stretch of beach, kills the music as they pass an offshore oil derrick. “Getting close,” he whispers, “stay focused and follow my lead.”

  What will Pete do if they actually find her? What will he say? Maybe he isn’t ready? The car approaches a modern, bleached wood beach house on a rise overlooking the ocean.

  “The location.”

  A motor home is backed up in the driveway. Two security guards lounge under an umbrella by the front gate. As the convertible rolls by, a beautiful blond in a terry cloth robe steps out of the motor home followed by Dicey.

  Bobby recognizes the blond immediately. “Desirée.”

  “Dicey,” croaks Pete as they sail by. “Stop!”

  Bobby keeps going. “Walking in the front door is not an option, amigo. The beach is public access, easy route to a definite ID.”

  “That was Cleo.”

  “You told me she had short dark hair, I saw a blond.” The convertible rounds the point and parks on a shoulder. Bobby hops out of the car, fresh as when he started.

  Pete has powdered sugar on his black silk shirt; his hair is wild from the ride. “A wig is what she had on. It’s her professional look, but the dog belongs to Cleo and me. She found Dicey in Woodstock.”

  A steep gravel path leads down to a narrow spit of sand. Bobby, wearing sneakers, has no problem negotiating the terrain. Pete’s shoes go out from under him and he slides on his ass the last hundred feet to the bottom. Bobby helps him up, doesn’t mention that his pants are torn. Why make him self-conscious?

  The tide is in. To get around the point to the film location they need to time the waves. Bobby manages easily, stays dry. Pete gets wet.

  “Remember what I said?”

  “Follow your lead, got it.” He tries to wipe the powdered sugar off his shirt, makes it worse.

  The house is only a short distance away; the oil derrick floats on the horizon. Where the beach widens out, a small film crew works at the water’s edge. The blonde, now naked, vamps in the shallows for the cameraman. The dog is off to the side, digging a hole in the sand.

  “Recognize the blonde.”

  “Closer.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Public beach you said, she’s breaking the law taking off her clothes.” Pete moves forward, spots Roy directing the scene; he’s also naked. “Svengali,” he hisses.

  Dicey stops digging, her ears go up.

  Foam washes between the blonde’s’ legs.

  “Desirée is magnificent,” exclaims Bobby.

  Closer now, a couple of things catch Pete’s attention right away: the blonde’s pubic hair has been shaved, her vulva waxed and her labia pierced. “Cleo?” he gasps.

  Desirée sees Pete for the first time; he looks like a crazy man. She stops gyrating for the camera. “Who let the geezer in?”

  Roy yells, “Cut!” Regards the intruders menacingly. “This is a closed set.”

  Pete moves closer. “The beach is public domain.”

  “I won’t tell you a second time.” Roy’s abs quiver.

  Pete keeps coming on. “Cleo, is he making you do this?”

  Desirée faces him in all her naked glory. “My sister told me what a needy person you are. She couldn’t wait to get away.”

  “Bullshit, Cleo and I are working together and you’re involved.”

  “Roy baby, say hello to the asshole writer I told you
about.”

  “What kind of mind control are you using on her?”

  Sneering, Roy displays his impressive cock. “Here’s all the control I need. You want to watch us fuck, you can have a front row seat.”

  Pete doesn’t need a blue pill to throw a hard right at a big man who isn’t taking him seriously. He smashes Roy flush on the nose. A fountain of blood erupts. The hulk goes down. Pete grabs his hand in pain. Desirée cradles her lover in her arms. He bleeds all over her. “Roll!” Roy yells as Desirée’s lips close over his. The light is perfect; the shot must be spectacular.

  Bobby pulls Pete away from the carnage. Dicey bounds over with a stick and drops it at her master’s feet. He stares at the dog. “You remember me?” Dicey wags her tail. “Sure you do.”

  Roy and Desirée grapple in the sand; she rolls on top fucking in overdrive. Bobby stops to watch.

  Pete pets the dog. “Dicey want to fetch?” She wags her tail, grabs the stick between her teeth and takes it to Pete’s hand. He throws it toward the point. Dicey bounds after it; Pete follows the dog. Bobby takes a last look.

  Desirée screams, “TOP OF THE WORLD!” Pete flinches but doesn’t turn around.

  In silence, they drive back along the beach road. Pete’s hand is throbbing; Dicey chews up her stick in the back seat. “At least Cleo and Desirée weren’t murdered.”

  “Are you too fucked up to go to a ballgame? I might still be able to get us tickets.”

  “Better go to the ER in Oxnard – my hand is starting to swell.”

  “Anyway, case closed.”

  “Cleo loved me, I know she did.”

  “If she’s anything like Desirée I see why you were overmatched.”

  “Cleo said we were together in another life, that I used her and she killed herself.”

  “Payback time, amigo.”

  “I’m not taking that route.”

  “Never thought you would, not your style. You in too much pain to stop at Tito’s before the ER?”

  Pete smiles. “Down with that, amigo.”

  EPILOGUE

  Some memories are best left undisturbed. Pete never should have gone to Tito’s for carne asada; he got sick and was throwing up when the Yankees, down 4-0, rallied for six runs in the top of the seventh of Game 5. He recovered as the Angels came back in their half of the inning scoring three and regaining the lead, 7-6. The Yankees mounted another rally in the ninth, loading the bases but Nick Swisher popped out ending the game. With the Angels down three games to two, the ALCS moved to the Bronx for the final two games in the best of seven series. Pete flew back to Albany with his dog and drove home to Woodstock.

  After a rainout on Saturday, he watched Andy pitch a strong Game Six, winning the big one like he always did. The Yanks were American League champions.

  As he predicted, the World Series was an anti-climax, victory was never in doubt as the Philadelphia Phillies fell in six. The Bronx Bombers won their 27th World Baseball Championship. Pete revelled in every game, hung on every pitch, rejoiced in the outcome.

  Friends find Pete’s mania for the game absurd. Baseball is boring; nothing happens they say. They want the hard hits of football or the speed and grace of basketball. Fans of the National Pastime appreciate a slow build to an often unpredictable finish. For instance: it’s the bottom of the ninth in a scoreless game, check out the mind games that ensue. A batter steps into the box. Pitcher steps off the rubber, then back on to the rubber. The batter steps out of the box again. The catcher goes out to the mound to confab with the pitcher. Who knows what they are talking about, maybe dinner reservations. The catcher goes back behind the plate; maybe he farts to disturb the batter. Is this boring or interesting? The pitcher stares at the batter who stares back at him. They are finally set. The wind-up, the pitch - batter hits a nubber, legs it out for an infield single. The first baseman is irate, disagrees vehemently with the call; here comes his manager to protest. A thoughtful strategist in the dugout, he blows his stack on the field, kicking dirt on the umpire’s shoes. Sacrilege, he’s banished, thrown out of the game. Is this interesting or boring? The action resumes. The next batter works the count, fouls off ten pitches. Some people would rather watch paint dry but to the cognoscenti this is a great at-bat, a battle. The runner goes, the batter swings, loops one over the second baseman’s head, the runner on his way to third, slides, beating the tag. Wow! Next batter hits a short fly ball to center. The runner, who is fast, tags as the centerfielder, who has a great arm, throws. The catcher, protected by his tools of ignorance, blocks the plate. This is what the game comes down to. The ball beats the runner who crashes into the catcher. You can hear the sound of the collision, see the ball jolt free as the runner caroms across home plate to score the game winner. Exciting, you bet. The scenarios are endless, but one thing is always certain: there’s another game tomorrow with a chance to make amends for the mistakes you made today. Baseball is a game of second chances; redemption is always one pitch or one hit or one catch away. Maybe next time you’ll even be a hero.

  Pete started work on the novel the day after the Series ended, no procrastination. He figured that when Desirée screamed, Top Of The World, Cleo was giving him the green light on their project. The title page attributes the book, Sex Act, to Petur Stefansson and Cleo Johnson. He writes mostly in Cleo and Desirée’s voices, as he remembers them. All he has are memories. He doesn’t try to differentiate between truth and fiction; why mess up a good story? It begins in Marshalltown, Iowa, and ends with the CIA hit in Mexico - Carlos dying in the arms of the blond who betrayed him. Pete is the sexually obsessed narrator.

  There are many unanswered questions. Did Cleo read his book, and then come to Woodstock to seek him out, or did she run away from Roy and serendipitously end up at the Streamside? And what about Roy, did he drag her back to LA or did she call him to come and get her? And of course there’s the ultimate final question: past lives?

  The novel begins with the fragment he wrote while she masturbated. “The house we lived in, my room on the second floor, a tree outside the window. I remember a baby falling in the lake, I remember gazing at the sky. I remember my mother’s voice. I remember my father’s hands.” When he has a first draft he plans to fly to LA and show it to Seberg who lives at the Hayworth Apartments. Get her input.

  He had an interesting conversation with Marcus Bergman last Thanksgiving; the producer still hadn’t paid him the Strawberries fee. Marcus finally admitted that he didn’t actually own the rights to the Ingmar Bergman classic and couldn’t in all good conscience pay Pete to adapt it. On the other hand, if he wanted to give Strawberries a Hollywood haircut, Bergman might be interested in doing business with him after the script was finished. Strawberries the musical is on the back burner while he punches up dialogue on the new series. It pays well and since the economy is still heading south, he needs the cash flow.

  Soong Lee broke her engagement with Bobby after she found the photo album of nude photographs of ex-girlfriends with her split beaver on the last page. She took no pride in her inclusion. He’s determined to win her back.

  The charge against Jackson for ‘Possession with Intent’ was dropped because of illegal search and seizure. One of the cops warned the kid afterward that they would be on the lookout for him. Pete never told Jackson the complete story about his daughter’s trip to LA.

  The Sidewinders are steadily building a regional reputation. Local radio stations KZE and DST play the demo, now for sale online. Jackson has a bunch of new songs and Pete is going to book time at the Dreamaway for another recording session. He’s officially managing the band, but Jamie does most of the work.

  He never made it to Iceland with Ingrid for Christmas but firmly committed to going with her for Summer Solstice in June. He’s hoping to take Annabeth to meet her mishpucha. His daughter returned from Europe and is attending spring semester across the river at Bard College. Things are still awkward between them and she hasn’t spoken to Jackson yet.

  Pet
e’s spiritual dialogue with Brother Ray continues, but his meditative breakthrough was short-lived. His thoughts are still invaded by phantoms from his past. One thing he did stop was playing poker; he realized he didn’t care about winning or losing any more.

  The Annual Spring Exhibition opens tonight at the Woodstock Artists Association and Pete invited Annabeth to accompany him. She surprised her father by saying yes and now he’s waiting in the dark living room, watching the news on television. Dicey lies with her chin on his foot. He’s feeling guilty because he told Jackson about his daughter’s visit. The story Pete is following on TV is the Health Care debate consuming the administration. He’s pissed to see a watered down version of the bill coming up for a vote in Congress. Must progress always be compromised?

  A car pulls up outside; it’s Annabeth. She never makes it to the front door because Jackson ambushes her on the porch. Pete watches them through the window. It’s going to be a long conversation but somehow it’s starting with a hug. Dicey trails Pete out the back door into town.

  It was a cold winter but it’s finally warming up. Sunbursts of forsythia herald the coming of spring. Pete has the dog on a leash, taking no chances.

  He makes his way to the handsome meetinghouse adjacent to the village piazza. Locals schmoose outside on the bluestone steps drinking white wine in plastic cups like the city sophisticates they don’t want to emulate. Pete nods to George and Wendy who keep threatening to invite him to dinner, stops to talk to Jamie and Brother Ray. As usual her pierced labia comes to mind. She shakes her head, pushes him inside. Dicey follows.

  A juried show is up in the main gallery. Pete admires a metal sax player fashioned out of scrap by his friend Ivan. The realtor, Edith Evans, is working the room, on the make, refusing to believe Pete is celibate again. He shrugs. Life is simple and he wants to keep it that way. He wanders into the rear gallery.

  To his surprise, the permanent collection is featuring the work of Al Bellows. Landscapes of the Downing farm hang on the walls along with a sketch of Little Petey and Mary Ann playing with Boomer. Pete’s face lights up. On the far wall is a painting of two nude women wearing hats, sitting on stools. A stranger stops to look at the canvas with him.