Action!

by Robert Cort

  “You wouldn’t say that if you felt him kick. What do you think of the name Blake?”

  “ ‘Tyger! Tyger! burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?’ ” He stroked her hair. “He’ll have a poet’s soul.”

  “Suppose you hate him?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Suppose he’s a wicked child?”

  “That can’t be. We made him.”

  “Suppose he’s like your father? Think how much you’ll hate him.”

  He wanted her to shut up, to quit tempting fate. These provocations, these jabs—what proof of love did Megan require, what sacrifice?

  “Do you think AJ understands what happened?” she asked.

  “No.” Compromising his father had been her idea, and though he recognized its genius, the knowledge that she’d screwed his despised enemy made that night the darkest of his life. “My father’s ego couldn’t accept that I succeeded where he failed.”

  “Too true.” She rolled on top, pinning his arms to his side. “Fuck me.”

  The way she said it . . . he was the only one who could please her. After they climaxed, he whispered, “I’ve asked Amber for a divorce.”

  “What?”

  He saw slate gray cloud the blue in her eyes. Megan was capable of savage storms, but he sailed on. “I want to marry you.”

  She withdrew from his arms. “How many times have we discussed this? I won’t marry you or any man. After AJ and I got engaged, I suffocated. I refuse to belong to anyone.”

  She wasn’t going to intimidate him. “I’m not anyone, and you’d never be my possession.”

  “Tell your wife you’ve changed your mind.”

  “Listen to me—”

  “If you stop this, Richard, we can still be lovers. But another piteous plea will destroy everything we’ve built.”

  She was gone again—this time in body and spirit. Megan slammed out of the room. From the balcony he watched her wander down to the lake, wrapped in his overcoat. She stared at patches of floating ice seeking to link up with one another and freeze the surface. By the time he composed himself and came downstairs, Megan was the homemaker, scooping potato salad onto plates with ham sandwiches.

  A migraine menaced AJ all morning, clamping down while he counted down to the appointed time. In a too breezy voice he announced that he was off to Riviera, but when an unexpected hand tapped his back at the elevator, he whipped around and nearly clubbed his secretary. Keeping her distance, she reminded him of his five o’clock meeting with Bob Rehme. The producer of Clear and Present Danger was wasting his time, because even if he wanted to deliver the next Tom Clancy movie to J2, AJ had no intentions of leaving the future proprietors any asset beyond the keys to his office.

  He couldn’t make it to the Beverly Hills Hotel without a pit stop. In the putrid, airless men’s room of a gas station, AJ dry-heaved until his diaphragm ached. After washing up with rusty tap water, he banged the towel dispenser so violently it broke apart, scattering the few remaining towels over the filthy floor. Hold it together, man. Minutes later, he handed his keys to the valet. A jet-black Ferrari with the initials RJ sat under the protection of a palm tree. At least his son was prompt. The bungalow reserved for the meeting stood in the far corner of the property. Halfway to it AJ’s legs foundered. How had Robert E. Lee managed to mount the steps of Appomattox Court House the day he’d surrendered? Throwing back his shoulders, leveling his head, AJ carried on.

  The door was ajar. AJ pushed it open, then took a beat to adjust to the dim light. Ricky was shadowboxing in the parlor of the suite, listening to his Walkman. He removed the headphones, allowing the nastiness of Nine Inch Nails’ “Piggy” to bleed through. Cigarette smoke hung in the air. All that was lacking from the scene was cocaine and cash. AJ had asked to capitulate through intermediaries, but his son had insisted on exchanging papers in person. It was appropriate humiliation for the wanton stupidity that had cost AJ his life’s work. He removed a file from his briefcase and addressed a silhouette: “Here’s what you asked for.”

  “Sit down.”

  “I have other plans.”

  “Eighteen holes? Forget it.” Ricky seized the documents as he had the moment.

  “I’ve scheduled a meeting of my board of directors for ten A.M. tomorrow.” AJ’s voice was hollow. “I’ll tell them that since I can’t raise J-Squared’s stock price in the foreseeable future, it’s only fair to accept your offer.”

  His son checked for signatures. “I didn’t think it would be this easy.”

  “Your mother deserves better than public humiliation. Frankly, she deserves better than you or me.”

  “I refuse to pity someone who’s chosen to be a victim all her life.”

  He wanted to slap his son—no, beat him. And though he fantasized he still could, he recognized the ugliness of his decline. “The agreements are the ones drawn by your lawyers. I relinquish J-Squared, and as the quid pro quo you assign me ownership of the article and agree that neither you nor Megan will ever discuss or write about the incident described therein. I assume you have the side letter signed by her.”

  Ricky indicated a sealed envelope. “She told me how hot you were that night in the hotel—like some horny teenager—how you almost came before you even got inside her.”

  AJ suffered a paper cut opening Megan’s document. “Don’t expect to shock me. I had a private investigator talk to people in her hometown. They reported you two were an item.”

  His son stiffened. “We’re hardly an ‘item.’ We love each other in a way you’ve never known. It’s a shame you couldn’t satisfy her.”

  “I managed pretty well in the end.” AJ kicked himself for taking the bait.

  “Yeah, stud.” Ricky’s laugh was a rusty saw. “Do you actually believe you impregnated Megan? Poor bastard—she’s carrying my baby.”

  How could this be news—but it was. “You’re lying.”

  “And you’re pathetic. They should put you down like an old dog.” Ricky circled him, a big cat savoring his kill. “I wasted decades feeling like garbage because that’s how you saw me. But now I know—now the world knows—you’re the garbage. How does it feel? Get used to it. You’ll never get the taste out of your mouth. Look at you: the great mogul, AJ Jastrow. I hope that every second you’ve got left is filled with agony. I’ll laugh over your grave.”

  AJ caught snatches of his son’s screed. Black noise. He longed to apologize, but not to Ricky. How could he have failed so miserably in the one role he should have mastered? Could he have had a finer model? His father had understood the difference between right and wrong and had lived his life always placing equity and integrity above self-interest. The grandson he’d never met didn’t even think in those terms. Ricky relished amorality. The responsibility for this familial descent lay squarely at AJ’s feet—and he would suffer for his crime for the rest of his life. It mattered not what he produced for the screen, given what he had brought into the world.

  Ricky churned forth hate. Get out, AJ told himself, or you’ll drown like Dad. “We’re finished, Ricky.”

  “We’re not finished until I say we are.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Fuck you!”

  AJ never saw Ricky lunge, but he felt a fist crunch his jaw, knocking him backward. His skull clipped a sharp object. He rolled over, spitting blood. He saw his son’s leg poised to stomp, but it wavered, then fell from sight. AJ struggled to raise his head. A shocked expression was frozen on his attacker’s face. Was it a last-second recognition of his madness? No, AJ realized, the expression was mortal fear. Ricky grasped at his chest, warding off an unseen attacker. But no one else had entered the room. His son’s foe was his own heart.

  He collapsed on the sofa, his pupils dilated. Still groggy, AJ forced himself to his feet. It was simple. All he had to do was retire from the room, return to his car, and drive off. Ricky would die by the time AJ reached his office. And it
would remain his office. With him gone, no one at Powerline would pursue J2. And since Megan already had her boyfriend’s money, AJ had only to stuff her contractual promise of silence into his pocket for his secret also to remain his.

  Murder or self-defense?

  When he bent down to check if his son was still breathing, Ricky lashed out a final, furious “Fuck you!”

  At least the two Jastrows had no quit in common. AJ searched for his soul with the anguish and desperation of a man who has misplaced his most valued possession. A gasp or two before it was too late he grabbed the phone and screamed for the operator to summon an ambulance. Then, laying his son upon the floor, AJ commenced the CPR he’d required all J2 employees to learn. He pressed Ricky’s heart, willing it to pump blood. Then he breathed air into his mouth, filling his boy’s lungs with oxygen.

  When Steph and Jess arrived in the waiting room at Cedars-Sinai, AJ lied that he had been meeting with Ricky in a last-ditch attempt to find a compromise. They were too overwrought to question him. For three hours AJ listened to conflicting rumors on his son’s condition before a woman emerged from the ICU and introduced herself as Amber Jastrow. “The doctors think Richard’s going to make it,” she reported in the hushed tone of a person who feared even talking to them.

  Steph wiped away a tear. “Thank God.”

  “His arteries were a mess. He was a heart attack waiting to happen.”

  “Is he alert?” AJ pressed. “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Yes, but you can’t see him—no visitors except immediate family.”

  “I understand.”

  Amber offered an ironic half smile. “I wish I did. Mr. Jastrow, the paramedics explained how you helped save my husband’s life. I’ll always be grateful. And maybe Richard will be too . . . in time. But right now the only thing he said to tell you was ‘a deal’s a deal,’ whatever that means.”

  “Let him know I’ll honor his wishes. He needs to use his energy to get well.”

  When they emerged, it was raining and the wind was gusting through the tunnel created by the hospital towers. AJ closed his eyes and let it wash over him.

  “Leave your car here,” Steph shouted. “I’ll drive us home.”

  “Home”—the word sounded joyous. He was surprised when Jess climbed into the backseat. “Didn’t you drive?”

  She nodded. “But Mom and I . . . well, we’ve got something we need to talk to you about.”

  “Now?”

  “We don’t want you to find out in the papers.” His daughter took a breath. “You were supposed to meet Bob Rehme this afternoon.”

  “That’s right, we had an appointment. I don’t know what he wanted.”

  “I do.” She and Steph looked sheepish. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

  “Hey, go for it. I’ve been to the mountain. Nothing you or anyone can say will shock me.”

  Wrong again.

  CHAPTER 54

  Jess had only seconds to seek shelter before a tropical cloud-burst dive-bombed down the slope of Gunung Buda, the three-thousand-foot “White Mountain” of Borneo. Raindrops stitched the jungle floor as she dived into the hollow of the strangler fig tree. The space reeked of death. After the strangler’s airborne seeds settled on the limbs of a banyan tree, the fig’s roots began a slow descent, wrapping themselves around the trunk of the host until they “strangled” it. The corpse disintegrated in the fetid humidity, leaving behind the eerie hole in which she stood. Stranglers were indigenous to rain forests, but Jessica guessed they had a future in her hometown.

  Destiny must have been at work in the weird events that had propelled her halfway around the world. First, there was her brother’s heart attack just before Christmas, then his stunning recovery and her father’s surrender. She’d vacated her office the day before the Powerline people occupied it. At the same time National Geographic approached her boyfriend with the plum assignment of photographing the massive and mysterious caves of the Buda. Patrick got his editors to provide a ticket and per diem for a special camera assistant, then called to pitch her the job. Jess was unemployed and didn’t have to be back until the Academy Awards—so why not?

  In forty-eight hours on the island she’d lost her identity. The local men had never seen a movie, much less a movie executive, so her day job meant nothing. They couldn’t understand why Patrick kept her, since she couldn’t cook, sew, or haul wood. The place was ripe—just short of rotting. Every tropical fruit she bit into exploded with juice, dripping and sticking to her till she became a magnet for insects. And the flowers, trees, and birds were too vivid, like an old Technicolor movie.

  To clear her head Jessica spent hours wandering in solitude through the stark cave formations, which were beyond the imagination of a production designer or the skills of a construction crew. Deep pools of fresh water dotted the cave floor. She stared into them, as if they held the answer to the question of what she should do with the rest of her life. The image that stared back was no longer a girl but a woman who had to decide for herself.

  The delight of the trip was daily life with Patrick. After her mea culpa to him last fall, they’d squeezed brief visits between his final revisions on Markets and her daily crises. But here in Borneo, watching her lover at work—he made it play—provided insights she couldn’t have scored on a dozen dates. He had an empathy with people that crossed cultures and an unquenchable fascination with nature. Patrick embraced adventure in a way she did only in her fantasies and films. And making love in a tent—once she got the hang of avoiding roots—was delicious. But now her respite was ending. Involuntarily, Jess glanced at her watch.

  “It’s four P.M. in L.A.,” Patrick said softly.

  She jumped, still unnerved by his ability to sneak up on his subjects. The rain cascaded around them like a waterfall. Jess ran her hands through a mop of frizz. “When I get off that jet tomorrow at LAX, you can’t imagine what I’ll be walking into.”

  “What we’ll be walking into.”

  She had four firm offers for production deals. Patrick kidded that studio chiefs would be waiting for her in baggage claim like limo drivers, carrying signs with her name. But the more promising her prospects, the more anxious she grew. If her father didn’t decide his future soon, she would have to go it on her own. But what if she couldn’t make it without him?

  Now a new fear was plaguing her. “Standing here, I couldn’t care less which movie did business last weekend or who got cast in what. But once I’m home, I’ll always need a fix. Give me the grosses. Give me Variety. Give me the gossip.”

  “I know you’re a slave to what you do, but you’re not the only one. We can be slaves together. And maybe break a little free.”

  She sensed where he was heading. “Come on, let’s make a run for it.”

  “No.” Patrick pulled her back, then caressed her face. “No more running. Will you marry me?”

  Humiliation was the gravest side effect of Richard’s heart attack. Not only had he failed to rub his father’s face in failure, he’d also given the bastard the satisfaction of saving his life. According to the stories AJ had leaked to the tabloids, he deserved a medal. Then there were the “pity the invalid” glances from Richard’s business associates. They marked him as roadkill. Richard had to prove that angioplasty had made him healthier than ever and mentally tougher for having faced down death. So a month after being carted out of the Beverly Hills Hotel flopping like a fish, he was back at his desk twelve hours a day.

  He reestablished his turf by negotiating a deal for Motorola to acquire Powerline’s cellular-phone business, which no longer fit his vision of a “new media” company. The cash from the sale paid down Powerline’s debt, leaving them lean and mean. The vultures backed off. Although Powerline’s Internet business hadn’t earned a dime, no one cared because the portal’s subscriber base was expanding exponentially and everyone agreed that grand profits would follow. To speed up that time frame he raided the chief operating officer from America Online. T
hat left Richard free—and ravenous—to realize the potential of his latest acquisition.

  Powerline’s valuation skyrocketed in anticipation of his bold foray into the movie business. On the first day he ordered a crew to sandblast the J2 symbol from the front of their headquarters, chiseling in its place the new Powerline Pictures logo. After several weeks exploring the nooks and crannies of his father’s company, Richard understood the old man’s virtue—and fatal flaw. J2 spoke quality, from the luxurious theaters to the knowledgeable personnel to the classy movies in development. His father and sister never stinted—but like hopeless suckers, they overpaid. Did every employee need to stay at the Four Seasons? Did the company have to grant motor homes to supporting actors? Why on earth did theater managers receive stock options? According to Pete Leventhal, who knew where the bodies were buried, AJ had granted these bequests like a king.

  At Richard’s urging Pete targeted areas in which the new management could cut costs, but Russ Matovich howled that he couldn’t operate under the proposed constraints. He and his associates hadn’t flown commercial or paid for a meal in a decade. Instilling discipline was key. When Russ arrived to bitch, Richard gave him “time out” in the outer office. But the new president would need sterner measures, since he was still seething. Russ had mastered the tantrum as a technique of intimidation. Out of disrespect he sat on the edge of Richard’s desk, then screamed, “Are you out of your mind? Do you honestly think I’m going to put up with interference? How am I supposed to turn this place around if I’ve got an accountant up my ass?”

  “With your talent, you can do anything.”

  “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Read my contract.”

  “I have.” Richard leaned across, poking his finger in Matovich’s chest till he retreated. “I know exactly what your rights are. You’re an excruciatingly high paid employee.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s right. Your bullying and bullshit are history. Let’s get this straight, Russ, I’m going to be involved—deeply involved. Forget my promises, like I forgot most of the pretentious acting tips you used to give me. If you can’t stomach Richard Jastrow over your shoulder, breathing in your ear . . . quit. It’s that simple.”