Private affairs : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  Elizabeth: Why isn't it a good idea to have a lake in that valley? We can always use more places for recreation, can't we?

  Olson: Depends on the place. I don't like the way they're doing this one, is all. Look, I've worked on a lot of these fancy resorts and nobody builds them out of the goodness of their heart—they build them to make big bucks. Which is okay—everybody likes to make money—but you shouldn't do it by hurting decent people like Cesar and the rest.

  Elizabeth: You mean they should be able to stay?

  Olson: Sure. Why not?

  Elizabeth: But their town will be gone.

  Olson: Build a new one. There's lots of room—we're not doing any work at all in one whole section of the valley. It'll just sit there, empty.

  Elizabeth: Build a new town?

  Olson: It's not such a big deal; people do it all the time. Tornadoes, hurricanes, earthquakes—people rebuild. They could take some of that land—nobody'd miss it—and then everybody'd be happy. I'd

  even work for nothing, after hours, to help them. And build myself a place, too, a real home, for between jobs. This is a damn nice valley we're talking about; and nobody should be kicked out of iti Listen, this is a terrific idea! Everybody can be there because damn it, there is room in that valley for everybody!

  At the last word, Boyle turned and slipped out of the room. His office was a few steps away; once at his desk he punched the numbers on his telephone and drummed his fingers while waiting. "Boyle," he told Rourke's secretary and waited again until Rourke was on the line. "It may not be anything, but I thought you'd want to know about it. LoveLPs just taped an interview with a guy named Olson, construction chief on a dam in that place in New Mexico, and he came up with the idea that the townspeople ought to be given land high up to build a new town. Did you say something?"

  l *No, w Rourke replied. "Go on."

  "That's about it. You told me to watch for stories on mining and re-sons, so I thought you'd want to know about this one."

  "Did she prime him to say what he did?" Rourke asked.

  "Not clear. But she always does preliminary' interviews, so it's likely she knew what he'd say."

  "Kill it." Rourke said.

  "No problem. Do you want a copy of the tape?"

  "I want the original. No copies. Is that clear 0 "

  "Sure thing."

  "And let me know what she does next."

  "About what""

  "About anything. Is she there now

  "Yen. Editing her tape."

  ".And staying the night at Tony's?"

  "I presume. She doesn't inform me, but she hasn't stayed in the Beverly Hills cottage smce they got back from Europe."

  ".All right. How is Tony's mail?"

  "Fair. Up and down. He's slow, though; he just doesn't knife people the way he used to."

  "What were last week's ratings?"

  "Twenty. Not as low as before we had her, but not where we'd like them. We lost the greetmg card company; I've lined up a couple of possible new ones to fill m."

  "All right. Keep m touch. And kill that interview."

  Boyle started back to the editing room, then slowed. Why do it now,

  when he'd have to give reasons and see those gray eyes change from friendliness to anger? There was a better way to handle it.

  Isabel, Cesar, and Luz brought Maya with them to Elizabeth's house to watch the February 6 edition of "Anthony." Holly rescheduled her voice lesson to be with them and they all ate dinner together, then moved to the den and sat in a semicircle in front of the television set, waiting for Elizabeth to introduce Jock Olson.

  "This is Elizabeth Lovell and 'Private Affairs,' " said Elizabeth on the screen, after Tony had finished his opening interview. "Introducing you tonight to an apprentice chef, Terry Pelz of Butte, Montana, whose private dream was to study in Paris with the great—"

  "Chef?" asked Maya in bewilderment.

  "Mother, what happened?" Holly demanded.

  Elizabeth stared at the screen where she sat in an empty restaurant in the sixteenth arrondissement of Paris with a gangly boy who talked fervently of food as art and love. "Someone made a mistake," she said angrily. "I scheduled Terry for next week. I left five notes on five different desks; I told Bo, I told Tony. And I put the tape in the box for tonight."

  She switched off the television set. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to make a telephone call."

  She went to her bedroom and closed the door. "Al," she said when the engineer answered, "who mixed up my tapes?"

  "Mixed up? Nobody. There were only four tapes in tonight's box— three of Tony's and yours on this guy Pelz. Is something wrong?"

  "Yes, but it's not your fault. I'll see you tomorrow."

  She stood in the doorway of the den. "Holly, do you mind if I go to Los Angeles tonight? Somebody deliberately switched those tapes and I can't wait to find out who did it. And why."

  "There's no plane tonight," Isabel said. Her mouth drooped with disappointment. She and Elizabeth had planned to pressure key legislators with the mail they expected to come in after Olson's interview. Maya had written a pamphlet telling how a new town would have historical value, since the oldest buildings, including the church, would be moved to the new site; how it would create goodwill by showing that progress didn't have to steamroll people; how it would provide jobs for New Mexicans.

  Now they couldn't use any of it. They'd have to wait—and the legislature would be in session only through March. Seven more weeks.

  "The network plane is at the airport," Elizabeth said. "I was going to fly in early tomorrow. What do you think, Holly?"

  "I think you should go. And take me. Will you? I'd only miss one day of school."

  "This isn't the best time. It may be a battle royal. I will next week, if you can miss rehearsal."

  "I can miss anything just to go somewhere else for a while."

  "Tell me about it," Luz muttered. She turned to Isabel. "Can we go with Elizabeth to the airport?"

  "We'll all go. Padre? Wake up."

  Thinking of them, Elizabeth smiled to herself as the plane climbed above Santa Fe's small splash of bright lights on the dark plateau. Then the smile faded. It was bad enough that someone had switched her tapes without consulting her, but then no one had bothered to tell her about it. What was going on?

  "Who was it?" she demanded of Tony. He had been out to dinner when she arrived at his house, and when he came home to find her in the living room it had taken her ten minutes to convince him that neither love nor desire had brought her to Malibu twelve hours early: she wanted to talk.

  "I don't know," he said. "Word of honor, my sweet, I have no idea. I didn't even know your sensitive macho was dropped; you know I never see the show until the next day when you and I can watch it together. Somebody probably mixed up the tapes after a night of too much booze or coke or both; we'll run it next week and all will be well." He put his arms around her. "But it's a blessing in disguise; it brought you to me tonight. Oh, don't frown, dearest Elizabeth; it hurts me to see you frown."

  "Why didn't anyone call me to tell me a mistake had been made?"

  "How do I know? They knew you'd be here tomorrow and they could tell you then."

  "I should have been consulted before air time. 'They' didn't want me to know in advance. Who are 'they'?"

  "I don't know! Do you doubt my absolute innocence in this? It was somebody's simple mistake—"

  Elizabeth slipped out of his arms and picked up her suede jacket. "It was not simple and I doubt very much it was a mistake. I'm going to talk to Bo."

  "Bo! Elizabeth, Bo lives in Laurel Canyon. It's an hour's drive, at least. He is no doubt happily in bed with his young man, just as you could be much more happily in bed with me. This can wait until morning!"

  "No it can't. I've got to talk to him, Tony. 'Private Affairs' is mine; it's my part of the show. That was our agreement. And as long as I'm in charge of it, no one is going to do anything to it behind my back."

&n
bsp; "You're right. No question about it. But you can make that clear in the

  morning when we're all more alert. Sleepy people are not good in discussions, Elizabeth; they misunderstand each other and get angry and I've had a good deal to drink and I can't handle this. It's not the right time for you to have a face-off—"

  "May I use your car?"

  He sighed deeply and loudly. "I'll drive you. Eleven o'clock; we'll be there at midnight. The witching hour. How pleased Bo will be to see us on his doorstep. God, you're lovely when you're fierce. Like a goddess who's been betrayed by a mortal. All right, let's go; at least there's a moon; Laurel Canyon will be pleasant to behold."

  Elizabeth did not notice the moon or Laurel Canyon; she was brooding. And by the time she faced Bo, scowling darkly in his satin and velvet dressing gown, filling their glasses with Scotch though he knew she disliked it, she was angrier than ever. "Just tell me how it happened," she said coldly. "And that it won't happen when I schedule Olson next week. Not much gets past you in that place; you can make sure it doesn't happen again."

  "If I so desired." Boyle downed his Scotch and poured another. "Which I don't. That interview with Olson was inflammatory: a political polemic that has no place on 4 Anthony' or any other entertainment show. I wouldn't allow it and neither would our legal department."

  "Legal—?" Elizabeth's voice wavered. "They said we were vulnerable because of what Jock Olson said?"

  "Inflammatory," repeated Boyle, and poured a third drink.

  Tony was looking at him curiously. "Bo, dear Bo," he said amiably. "I've known you a long time; I always know when your imagination is percolating. You did not go to our legal beagles."

  "Bullshit."

  "And that is very odd," Tony continued. "Because if you didn't go to legal, why did you switch the tapes?"

  Elizabeth swung her glance to Tony. "Bo switched them?"

  "Oh, I'm sure he did. Nobody else has the authority."

  "You've known that since I first told you about it."

  "Dearest Elizabeth, of course. But I detest quarrels and I wanted to be in bed with you instead of standing in the middle of Bo's dreary living room in the wee hours wondering why he's lying about the legal department. But since we're here . . . why are you lying, little Bo Peep?"

  "Tony, don't be a bore," Boyle said. "You're horny and you've had too much to drink. Crawl into bed with your inflammatory lady; take two fucks, and call me in the morning."

  Tony's face darkened. "You son of a bitch, you can't talk to me like

  that! And you won't talk about Elizabeth at all! Just tell us you won't fool around with her tapes again without her permission, and we'll go home and forget that anything happened."

  "I'd like to know why it happened," Elizabeth put in quietly.

  Looking at Tony, Boyle said, "Keep out of it, Lizzie; the great lover wants this between us."

  "Bo, what the hell's gotten into you!" Tony exclaimed. "You've never talked like—"

  "You've never gotten me up at midnight to tell me how to do my job. I've got pressures from all directions; I don't need any from you or your little lady." He splashed more Scotch into Tony's glass.

  "Stop; I don't want your goddam liquor—" Glancing at Elizabeth, Tony drew himself up and became suave. "You've disappointed me, Bo. We came here with a simple question and I never doubted we could discuss it like gentlemen, but you talk like somebody from the gutter. I don't drink with gutter rats." Absently he drained his glass and automatically held it out to be refilled. His words rolled out. "You work for me, Bo; don't forget that! And don't forget what I've done for you. You should be on your knees in gratitude; you haven't got the talent"—the dignified facade began to crack—"to make it to Laurel Canyon or anywhere else—television, radio, walkie-talkies—without riding on my coat-tails; you've been hanging onto them for years!"

  "Your coattails! Fuck it, you pathetic bastard, you don't know your ass from a hole in the ground. You'd be a deejay on a thirty-watt station without me. Even with everything I do, we can't jack up your ratings; we have to scrounge for sponsors and then pay them —"

  "ENOUGH! THAT'S ENOUGH! YOU'RE FIRED! I don't listen to vermin puking out lies—"

  "You'll listen to me, you stupid bastard! You can't fire me—you can't tell me what to do—because I don't work for you; I work for someone else. And I don't lie about sponsors!"

  Confused, Tony paused, looking at the dark, heavy furniture crammed into the square room. His glance passed over Elizabeth as if he did not recognize her. She was standing in a corner, leaning against a long library table and watching the two men who were barely recognizable in their anger. She'd started something that had grown into a monster; she didn't understand it, but its ugliness appalled her and she wanted to run from it, but she couldn't move: she had to stay and hear the rest of it because somehow she was part of it.

  ' 'Work for someone else,' " Tony repeated finally. His voice deepened in scorn. 'Scrounge for sponsors . . . pay them.' You'd love to believe

  lies like that; you've always been jealous of my popularity. But everyone knows sponsors line up to get on my show."

  "Everyone knows you're going downhill. You're talking ancient history, fella; there's nothing for me to be jealous of. We would have lost the show five years ago if . . . somebody hadn't reimbursed—that means paid — Gardner Insurance to sponsor three fifteen-minute segments. That only left us the fourth to sell; a cinch, we thought, but we're having trouble keeping it sold."

  Tony's lips stretched; he was trying to grin. "Good old Bo; always joking. But it's not a joke; it's pure shit. So what the hell is going on? You're trying out for Johnny Carson or Polly Perritt? Or you've flipped and you're a dangerous maniac. YOU SON OF A BITCH, YOU'RE THROUGH!" His voice came in breathless spurts, as if he had been running. "You've practically ruined my show—goddam it, you drove down the ratings! I've never liked you—I would have fired you years ago, but I felt sorry for you, poor bastard, I kept you in clothes and shelter and pocket money to hire little boys because they're the only ones in town willing to get on all fours for you—"

  Boyle flung the empty bottle of Scotch at him; it struck him in the chest and he doubled over with a grunt of pain and surprised rage. Elizabeth ran to him. "Tony, let's go; let's get out of here—"

  "Not yet, God damn it; I'm going to teach this"—he started for Bo, but Elizabeth was clinging to his arm and he turned a contorted face to her— "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

  "No! Tony, listen to me, don V listen to Bo, listen to me! Don't say any more, don't listen to any more . . . Tony, let's go home!"

  "Fucking bastard!" he said to Boyle, jerking his arm out of Elizabeth's grasp and starting again for the other side of the room. "So fucking jealous you try to ruin my show—tell lies about—"

  "Listen you little shit, your show would be dead and buried if it wasn't for me and your Daddy."

  Tony stopped. "That's a lie. He doesn't have anything to do with my show. He never did. You fucking liar!"

  "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," Boyle chanted. He was holding another bottle, and he took a swig from it, watching Tony. "Daddy pays Gardner to sponsor your show; Daddy's kept you alive for five years; Daddy pays me to watch over you and edit your interviews so they're good enough to—"

  With a roar, Tony threw himself at Boyle, knocking him to the floor, his fists slamming Boyle's face. "Bastard! Lying, fucking bastard!" He was stronger than Boyle and pinned him down, half-lying on him, trying to get his hands around Boyle's neck, but Boyle fended him off, twisting

  under him, his arms straining as he kept Tony's hands from his neck. "Working for . . . DADDY," he gasped and tried to laugh, but it came out a wheezing grunt. "All these . . . years . . . shit, Tony ... get the hell off! . . . even Lizzie knows . . . you need help . . . too weak—" Tony's fist slammed into his mouth; blood covered Boyle's teeth and Tony's knuckles, and as Boyle gagged Tony got his hands around his throat. Eyes bulging, Boyle scratched at Tony's hands and pried one finger up and jerk
ed it back. Through their gasps and strangled curses came a sharp crack; Tony screamed and sat up, holding his hand, his face black with rage and pain. He stood and kicked Boyle in the ribs, then aimed again, but Boyle had rolled away and was on all fours, wiping the blood from his mouth. He stood and pulled his robe tight around him and tied it. "You dumb ass, you stupid fart." Head down, holding his ribs with his folded arms, he glowered at Tony. "Where the fuck do you think you'd go on your own?"

  Breathing raggedly, his broken finger held inside his jacket, Tony looked in his direction, his eyes unfocused. The color had drained from his face, leaving it pasty and old. "Shut up," he said, but the words had no force.

  Carefully stretching out one hand, Boyle grasped a bottle on the table and drank from it. "Get out." He spat and blood spattered on the front of his robe. "Out"

  "Tony, we're going." Elizabeth had her arm around his waist. "We can find out if it's true about your father in the—"

  "It's true," Tony said dully. "Bo wouldn't make it up. It's true, isn't it, Bo?"

  "Yes."

  Elizabeth tightened her arm, to turn Tony in the direction of the front door. She had watched the fight without moving, rigid with fear at the violence they had unleashed, afraid Tony would succeed in strangling Boyle, caught between pity for Tony and astonishment at his contorted face and the venom spewing from his mouth. And through it all, like a dark thread, ran the thought, It can't be true, I haven't been working for Keegan; I haven't; I haven't been working for Tony's father! "Come on," she urged Tony, trying to get him moving, trying to get him out of the house.

  "I want to know about it," he said hoarsely. "Why do you keep interfering?" He pulled away from Elizabeth's embrace; his shoulders slumped and his arm twitched, as if he were a puppet that someone had tossed aside, its strings broken, its stuffing gone. "/ want to know about my show!"

  "Your Daddy's show," Boyle said. He leaned against the table, breathing hard. "He subsidizes it; it's his."