“Look,” Louis said, “if I were in your place I would be skeptical too. Let me assure you that I am perfectly above-board here, have no hidden agenda, and only want to deflect the spurious deposition Thurston has filed.”
“How in hell could I help you with that?”
“Well, what does he have on you? Why would you agree to support his son, a complete unknown, for an important role in your movie?”
Fry sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, and said, “I’m a writer. My novel is a trendy piece that’s ripe for a good screen treatment. I’m collaborating with an experienced screenwriter on the script. It’s a dream come true. If you knew about—I guess you could call it my previous life, you’d understand why I don’t want to go back, to delve into the squalid details.”
He paused as if even the contemplation of resurrecting old, distasteful memories was more than he wanted to handle. As if turning some eerie corner, he shrugged and said, “Okay. Here’s the straight stuff. I can’t stand Thurston. Eight or nine years ago, I asked his firm to help me with an indictment dealing with a charge of soliciting sex from a minor. It didn’t happen, but I was accused because…well, I’m not even gay, but the boy, a sixteen year old kid I’d met in Vegas, who had a gambling problem same as I, pleaded with me to cover his losses and I refused. It was a case of getting even.”
“I’m quite familiar with that motive,” Louis said.
“Well, Thurston told me he’d get me off, and he did—something he dug up on the kid to discredit him—and the case was dismissed. I didn’t want even an inkling of that nasty scenario to get out, so I changed my name, took classes, learned a new profession. Hell, in a very tangible way, I cashed in my whole life for a new one. To put it bluntly, Thurston told me he wanted his son in our movie, would invest a couple of mil if I’d agree, and—this is the kicker—would refrain from allowing my old sexual solicitation indictment to ‘slip’ out.”
“But you were cleared. The indictment was quashed.”
“True, but episodes like that have a way of contaminating a person, proven or not. I don’t have a lot of friends. The public respects me as a clever writer. My life can’t take a direct hit on my morals.”
All Louis had so far was that Thurston had threatened Fry with public disclosure of an iffy accusation some years earlier. Not enough of a trespass to provide bargaining leverage. He wasn’t sure what else to ask, when, without prompting, Fry grimaced, lowered his voice, and laid out a critical addendum.
“Bruce Thurston is intensely secretive, sly, and an in-the-closet bi-sexual; unalterably in the closet. Talk about contamination, talk about taking a hit on one’s morals! Hey, Mr. lawyer, I’m not homophobic, but I do know that public dissemination of anyone’s sexual leanings could hurt their careers. And that’s the case with Thurston. Thurston is married, has a kid, and can’t afford to come out, so he sneaks it on the side.
“To close this little seminar out, he hit on me! Make what you will of that. Figure out a way you can squeeze him without messing up my movie.” He paused again, and said whimsically, “Now, why in hell did I tell you all that? Must be my burgeoning need to be the consummate story-teller.”
“And believe me, I appreciate it. You tell an essential tale for my purposes. Thank you, thank you, Mr. Fry! I shall be as discreet as I can about applying pressure to Thurston. I wish you well with your writing endeavors.”
“Let’s hope I won’t regret this little conversation,” Fry said, and as Louis rose to leave, in a friendly gesture, placed his hand on his forearm.
As he walked to his car, Louis, off balance from the male physical contact, pondered Fry’s story, and couldn’t help but wonder whether this beleaguered writer was only telling half truths, and who really hit on whom.
SEVENTEEN
“So, what was the follow-through on that dumb inquisition at IHOP?” Juliet asked.
They were in her apartment for their weekly encounter. The sex had just ended, both sated, feeling mellow, though Harry, as usual, frustrated at the emotional indifference on Juliet’s part.
“My parents figured out some angles. Already knew most of them. Didn’t really need any inside stuff on Galen. Typical of them: overkill, go after every possible lead, regardless of the inconvenience to others.”
“I didn’t feel inconvenienced, only pressured. I bristle when I’m pressured, but because they were your family, I tried to be cordial.”
“You were fine. Your reluctance was totally appropriate. In fact, it gave me courage to jump in. I’d never stood up to them before. I think they actually respected me for it.”
He stopped, rolled out of Juliet’s bed, stood quietly for a moment, facing Juliet, naked as an infant, and added, “My mother, I finally understand, is a cold person. She uses people. My father is more connected, but can be ruthless. Both are far from the ideal of nurturing parents, though I can’t complain about monetary support or domestic comfort. It’s in the showing of affection where they fall short.”
“Hey, I know about that. My old man called me “Honey” only when he wanted something from me. I finally learned how to read his phony messages.”
“Do you think we’re like them? Our parents, I mean? Are we conditioned to be shallow and distant, unable to be truly intimate with another person?” He said it using the general “we,” though, in his heart of hearts, he was thinking specifically about Juliet and her contrasts: the fiery sexual passion, the virtually absent tenderness.
“I believe in free will. We aren’t conditioned to be anything. We choose our attitudes. I’m as warm or as cool as I decide I want to be.”
He took a risk. “How warm or cool have you decided to be with me?”
“Ah, that’s what this is all about. Feeling rejected. Left out. Not quite appreciated for your sweet personality.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s part of your script, though, the playwright’s deeper intent in writing the lines you just spoke.”
“The playwright?”
“You, dummy. Your intent was as clear as a Beethoven overture. ‘Oh, Juliet, why don’t you speak words of love, show me how much you care, fawn over me like a hormone-ravaged teenager?’”
“Come on, Juliet. That’s extreme. Sure, I’d like it if you expressed affection. I mean we get into heavy stuff when we’re screwing, and then it shuts down, as if we weren’t just as intimate as two people can get.”
“Screwing isn’t intimate. It’s an animal act. Any two people of either gender can do it. If I feel intimate I’ll show it.”
“You haven’t felt intimate with me?”
“I come close now and then. But I’m a pretty cautious person. I like you, and I really like the sex with you. Do I love you? I’m not ready to look at that yet.”
“I’m not looking for a lifetime commitment. I didn’t even mention love. It just feels…I feel interchangeable, as if it doesn’t matter who you’re screwing. It’s like having an orgasm in your head without paying attention to the person you’re with.”
Juliet laughed, not cruelly, not with derision, but as if she had a hard time believing good-old, wholesome, naïve, Harry Schiff. “Silly, all orgasms are in the head. The head is the primary sexual organ. It’s all fantasy, all imagination.”
He had never thought of it that way. Sounded right, but damn, so impersonal! He tried to review his own thoughts when making love—yes, his imagination was at work, but he was fully aware of Juliet, the woman beside him or below him or above him. Juliet’s prescription sounded like she made love with a phantom.
“I’m not sure,” was all he could say.
His wounded-puppy manner pulled out a surge of empathy on Juliet’s part. “Poor Harry, don’t look so forlorn. We aren’t in a crisis. Don’t we have a good time? I’m not going anywhere. We have another year together in school. Let’s both be appreciative of what we have.”
He wished he could. Something was missing. His youthful hunger for intimacy, absent with his parents, w
as not being satisfied. Yet, she had a point. Who else in their class—what other man—could claim a once-a-week sexual celebration with such an appealing woman? Juliet Marsh, pixie-like, number one sex object in the drama program; he was willing to bet that even old man Garth Benjamin, their illustrious professor and one-time star, would like to get into her pants, but she chose him, Harry Schiff. Better to be grateful for small favors, he thought, but wouldn’t it be nice if….
Harry stood there, facing Juliet, unsure where to go with their dialogue. Their weekly soirées were delicious, and though he wasn’t sure of the full meaning of the word, believed that he loved Juliet. So he said it.
“Anyway, I love you.”
Her smile was un-readable, but she reached out with her left hand for Harry’s right. When he extended it, and their hands touched, Juliet pulled him close and with her right hand reached out for his penis. Left hand holding onto his right, and right hand holding on to his penis, she tugged him over on top of her.
If a camera had been recording the action, it might have seemed as if the pull on his penis was what brought Harry down onto the bed, but Juliet knew all too well that one must never risk injuring a man’s most prized possession.
BOOK TWO
REACHING FOR STARS
ONE
A n African grey parrot, with orange plumes spearing out from each side of its arched head, its eyes a misty, steel grey, was calling its mistress’ name over and over: “Katy, Katy, Katy.”
Katy had told Harry about the bird; she had named it Gus, and even though it turned out to be a female, had decided to leave the name. African greys are expensive parrots, one could easily set back a purchaser six hundred dollars. Katy got hers free from a friend who was leaving the country and couldn’t transport it along with her many personal belongings.
Gus added a stimulating personality to Katy’s otherwise sedate apartment. She would mimic the phone’s ring, repeat her own name whenever it was said, alert Katy to the bark of a dog in the building or neighborhood, and even entertain with swear words she heard Katy express when frustrations boiled over.
“What is it, Gus? What do you want?’
“What d’you want?” Gus answered.
“I’m asking you. Think you’re a clever bird, don’t you.”
“Clever bird.”
“Well you are. You can also be annoying.”
‘Annoying’ was a bit tricky for Gus’s vocal structure, so she simply said back, “Clever bird,” though Katy would rather think that her pet refused to own a negative label of any kind.
To the bird she said, “You are a clever bird, and even though you won’t accept criticism, you are also annoying. Can you say that?”
“Clever bird,” Gus said.
The phone jangled in the middle of the night. Amanda Detmer had come down with some sort of food poisoning. “You,” the voice said, “Katy Bloom, are on tomorrow night. Be sure you’re ready.”
She could not wait to tell someone. Who would that be? Well, Harry, of course. But it was nearly one in the morning. Ah, what the hell.
His obviously sleepy voice said, “Yeah, who is it?”
“Me. It’s me, Harry. You’ve got to come tomorrow night. I’m doing Glass Menagerie. Amanda is ill. They called. I’m filling in for her!” All this blurted out in rapid fire, his drowsiness ignored, the late hour dismissed.
“Oh man,” Harry said, “I’ll be there. You’re the first one in our group with a real performance.”
“I’ve been missing classes because I have to be on site, just in case. But Benjamin persuaded my professor that being in a professional production is the end goal of all our students and should count the same as class work.”
She had studied with Benjamin for a year, but in the past two semesters her classes were with a woman with the unlikely name of Florida Berry, an intense and charismatic former character-actor who had been in thirty films as well as seven Broadway plays. Florida, as the students called her, could be nasty in her criticism and over-the-top in her praise, if she thought a performance worthy.
“Sure,” Harry said. “You’re in on the real thing. Courses are like rehearsals, important but second in line to actual performing.”
“Florida resisted at first. You know how she is. Her words are gospel, her information from the mountaintop, never to be missed. But Garth asked her to allow me to skip some meetings, and she agreed, but only if I write up a comprehensive paper describing the experience, from the staging, to scenery, props, character interpretations, the director’s style, and the overall production itself. She said she’d use my paper as a teaching aide in her classes.”
“All right. How come you never told me any of this?”
She wasn’t sure if she ought to answer him, but finally, timidly, said, “You didn’t ask.”
“You’re so private, Katy. I spill my guts to you and you hold in all the good stuff that’s happening in your life.”
“Not on purpose. It just didn’t come up.”
“My fault. I’m too damned self-centered.”
“I don’t think so. You’re going through some relationship crap right now. That’s got your attention.”
“Well, I want to be there for you. Where can I get a ticket for tomorrow?”
“You won’t need one. I’ll leave your name at the box office. You’ll have a good orchestra seat.”
“Okay! And Katy, break a leg.”
She punched the “silent” button on her phone and smiled broadly. No sleep tonight, she thought. Too excited. Too much energy to lie still.
Aloud she said, “It’s happening! I know I’m going to pull this off.”
From across the room, Gus’s parrot-voice said, “Clever bird.”
Her performance was flawless, though Katy did not think so, her work roundly appreciated by the audience, who had to get past their initial disappointment that Ms. Detmer was ill and would not go on. When the curtain came down, the applause was thunderous and genuine. This young woman did indeed pull off an intricate acting job in a role that was complex and demanding. To punctuate her success, in the dressing room afterwards, with Harry present, the director said to Katy, “It was not only well done, it was a superbly textured effort, deep and layered. I am impressed, young woman. The Ahmanson family thanks you.”
Katy showed appropriate grace in her triumph, but when the small room was cleared and only Harry remained, she broke into sobs.
“What? Tell me,” Harry said.
“Oh Harry, I don’t know. I never thought I could do this and look where I am.”
“Right where you belong.”
“Yes, but it’s temporary. Who knows if it will ever happen again?”
“Check the reviews tomorrow. I’m sure somebody from the media was here. If they liked it, you could be—how do they say it?—launched!”
Her tears slowed and she reached over to hug Harry. On his part, it felt good and real and…intimate; the kind of affection he longed for from Juliet. He had, alas, no way of absorbing its meaning, since his brain told him he loved Juliet, and Katy was, and would always be, his good friend.
“You are the beacon for the rest of us,” Harry said, sticking with the agenda. “The drama group on campus will not only be thrilled but will be looking to you for inspiration.”
“It’s enough for me if you appreciate my work,” Katy said.
“I do! Your performance tonight was mature and sensitive. I loved it.”
She wanted to hear “I love you,” but that little jewel was beyond Harry’s awareness.
Katy sat on her stool, leaned down and lifted her skirt—the drab-green skirt that Laura Wingfield would have worn—peeled off her fortune cookie/ good luck symbol, and read, “You are ready for success. I think this little baby is what helped me tonight. Kept me from being nervous.”
“It’s your victory, not the fortune cookie’s. I don’t believe in that stuff, but if you do, you need a new one that reads, You are a success.”
It was some kind of grand irony that two days later, after finishing dinner at a Chinese restaurant across from his apartment, Harry’s fortune read: Success is yours. Keep on trucking. He smiled at the hip language, and next day said to Katy, “Here. I’ll trade you this new one for your old one.”
TWO
L ouis Schiff was more than a clever attorney; he also seemed to be able to calculate behavior, its antecedents and potential for repetition. If Bruce Thurston was the way Wilfred Fry described, he would, beyond any doubt, repeat his behavior. Being a modern, relatively aware, person, Louis was not judging Thurston’s sexual activities on a good-bad scale, but rather on an up-front or secretive scale. The man himself would abhor—and be devastated by—an open disclosure of his actions. And while the historical event with Fry might be enough, Louis could not count on the writer’s willingness to go public with testimony; in fact, he was pretty sure the man would balk at any such revelation.
So, Louis Schiff’s firm hired a private snoop to trail Thurston, in hopes of catching him in a compromising position and, if possible, take photos. Time was of the essence since the opening hearing was only a few days away. If necessary, Louis reasoned, he could ask for a two-week delay.
What he needed was not long in coming. Whitey Carter, the private eye he had engaged, called him with the message: “The dude had a rendezvous with another dude over at the Tar Pits on La Brea. They talked for ten minutes, then went back to Thurston’s SUV. I took a video of the whole thing, though I couldn’t get into the vehicle. They were inside for twenty minutes and then the other guy—dressed in suit and tie as well—exited, carelessly zipping up his pants and adjusting his belt. For my money, incriminating enough. I mean it might not hold up in court as proof, but if your guy is afraid of public knowledge of his little affair, he might do a lot to suppress it.” Whitey Carter fancied himself a homespun philosopher.
For Louis and Miriam Schiff, this was precisely what they needed. Good old, vindictive Bruce Thurston could now be backed into a corner, his entire, phony life a trade-off for dropping the indictment against them.
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