by Tatum West
“Okay, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you too, Nick. Honey?”
The tears are coming in earnest now. I wipe them away and try to give my mother a smile. “Yeah?”
“Don’t be hard on yourself. Sal’s been running a very tight game. You were smart to call us, smart to hire Fox. You can’t be this picture of perfection all the time.”
I wipe away a fresh set of tears. “I never thought I was.”
“Your dad and I… well, that’s what we see. This amazing human being we created, working so hard, never cracking under pressure, charming and funny and smart in all those interviews--”
“Mom, stop. You already got me to cry.” I laugh a little and blow her a kiss. She pretends to catch it and beams at me.
“Definitely not my intention. I’ll call you tomorrow, Nick. Take the night off. Get some rest. Watch a movie.”
I nod, smiling, trying to hold back more tears as I say goodbye. My stomach rumbles as I pack up my computer and organize the enormous stack of bills sitting on my beautiful farmhouse-style dining room table. It’s made to seat ten, but I never have that many people around anymore.
My mother is right. I should relax. I should stay in.
When that happens, I end up shoving a gallon of ice cream into my body, rather than the salad I have thoughtfully planned for myself. And I’d rather not go down that path.
IN THE GRAND scheme of things, I could be much worse off. I still have six million dollars and my house is bought and paid for. I still have my reputation, and my new record will be out at the end of January. I can do some extra promotion, a few more live shows and maybe I won’t even notice Sal has robbed me.
“Here we are,” Troy, the other half of my security detail, announces, pulling the car over. Troy is almost as adorable as James, but he lacks the boyish charm. He’s stiff, like a good professional bodyguard should be. James, on the other hand, moves like a gymnast.
He ducks out and, in one fluid motion, opens my door seamlessly buttons his jacket, checks his shades, and adjusts the big gun holstered at his hip. He slips into the manned car beside me and grins.
“Ready?”
“Ugh, maybe. I can’t believe you talked me into this. I’ll only go if you pretend you’re my boyfriend.”
James laughs. “Definitely. It’ll give the gossip magazines something to talk about. And all the guys on my rugby team.” He pauses a beat. “None of them will think I’m good enough for you.”
I can’t help but laugh. Derek would have come back with some homophobic retort, but James is all sweetness. And he’s not technically on the clock. He actually wants to hang out. “Okay, okay. I’m only doing this so I don’t sob in front of the TV and order ten pizzas.”
“A good reuben, or a piece of coconut cake, is good for this kind of thing. I guarantee it. This is my favorite break-up food.”
“You mean food you eat after you break up with a girl?”
“Nah, man. The last two girlfriends I had, they didn’t like my schedule. Didn’t like the gun, or the celebrities. One of them tried to get me to get waxed. They were both the kind that broke up with me.”
“It’s not a town for deep relationships, is it?”
“No, I guess not. I mean, maybe someday, right? In the meantime, there’s Langer’s. There’s fresh bagels made every day, tuna melts, flatbread pizza--”
“Okay stop. You had me at bagels.”
One night can’t hurt. And it will taste better than sad TV pizza--or the kimchi salad I have prepped in the fridge.
We chat more about the ridiculous girlfriends who let James go, about the Lakers and the apartment James wants to rent down in San Diego one day. Even in the LA traffic, it seems like only a few minutes, and we pull up in front of this strange little restaurant. I typically go to the juice bars and vegan, gluten free cafes that abound in this town. I can safely say I’ve never been here before.
I pull a ball cap and shades out of the bag I keep in the car and put them on, tucking in my growing swath of hair so that no one recognizes me. Langer’s is busy, and my stomach clenches at the thought of fans and cameras and the thought of calorie-rich food. Why did I let him talk me into this?
“Relax,” James says in a low voice, opening my door and leading me up to the host. “You’re dressed in jeans that aren’t orange or covered in pearls, and a Lakers jersey. The jacket looks a little expensive, but no one will pick up on it.”
I huddle into my leather jacket and pull my cap down. “So you say.”
“Nobody here knows who you are, and nobody cares. We just crossed into another dimension where pop music doesn’t exist.”
I lean back against the tile wall, trying to disappear, thankful for the shade of a green cloth awning overhead to shield me from the sun’s hot glare. James stands quietly with me while I, from behind the anonymity of mirrored aviator glasses, begin scanning the crowd for evidence of recognition.
There is none. Nobody even gives me a second glance.
A well-fed old lady wearing polyester pedal-pushers, carrying a big vinyl shopping bag, exits the restaurant in the company of a balding man with pants pulled up to his chest. In line ahead of us there’s a youngish guy dressed all in black, wearing a Yarmulke with curls flowing down his shoulders. Behind him are two guys in t-shirts and dusty jeans looking like they just walked off a construction site. They’re talking about sports. While we wait, a couple gets in line behind James and me. They look to be in their mid-sixties and they probably live in the neighborhood. The man nods at me, then turns to his wife, saying, “Get the cheesecake this time. You only live once, and we could all die tomorrow.”
James stifles a chuckle. “The cheesecake is amazing.”
Once inside, I fall completely in love with Langer’s. It’s an authentic Jewish deli. It still has the original counters, tables, chairs, and chipped glassware from the 1940’s.
“Let me order,” James says as soon as Troy joins us at our table. Troy looks like he’s lost.
“This place is um… classic,” he observes.
“Trust me,” James says. “This place is famous. You two just don’t travel in the right circles.”
When the waitress – who clearly does not give two flying fucks about us--takes our order, it’s for something called ‘the number nineteen.’
“What did you order?” I wince, afraid to know the answer.
“Don’t worry about it.” James waves off my concern. “You’ll thank me when it gets here.”
It doesn’t take long before our waitress is back. The plates are unceremoniously dropped onto the table.
“Anything else?” she asks, dipping her jaw as if she’s daring us to request something more. Even James thinks better on ordering the cheesecake. At least, momentarily.
I size up my ‘number nineteen.’ It’s a monster of a pastrami sandwich on rye. For a guy who takes ‘punishment kale’ dieting to a whole new level, the thing before me is a nightmare of overindulgence. It smells delectable. It’s so very bad for me. It looks so very, very good.
“Oh yeah,” Troy almost moans. “Come to daddy!” He lifts half his sandwich to his mouth, takes a massive bite, and makes a face that expresses the sheer carnal ecstasy of tasting something truly, world-shatteringly remarkable. “Oh, my fucking god,” he mumbles, mouth full, chewing.
James smiles, lifting his sandwich. “Go ahead,” he urges me kindly, his eyes smiling. “Just one bite. That’s all you have to do. Just one small bite.”
I’m going to regret this.
I take the wedge of bread, succulent meat, coleslaw, and Russian dressing, and lift it gingerly toward my waiting lips. It wafts sweet and salty, creamy and sharp into my nostrils, instantly making my mouth water. It’s hot and cold, soft and crunchy, savory and delicate, and once I’ve tasted it, I just can’t stop wanting more, and more, and more.
Kale chips. Rice thins. Shredded lettuce lightly salted and heavily peppered. These things are mere shadows of food when
held up against the stupendous magic of ‘the number nineteen’.
I’ve died and gone to heaven, and heaven is a pastrami on rye.
I pay no attention to anything or anyone else while I eat. I wolf the sandwich down like I am starved. I clean the drippings off the plate with my fingers. When I come up for air, James is grinning at me like a proud papa.
“I can’t believe you ate the whole thing,” he says, beaming. “You want another one?”
Yes.
“No!” I cry, the guilt of my indulgence hitting me like a truck.
I should go to the bathroom before it starts digesting.
“The cheesecake. ‘You only live once, and we could all die tomorrow,’ he quotes.
Oh. My. God. Cheesecake!
After pastrami sandwiches, cheesecake, and a short walk around MacArthur Park, we head toward Beverly Hills for some therapeutic shopping. I feel better after having walked off some of the calories, but the guilt continues to plague me. I’ll see it on myself tomorrow--the bloating at my waistline, the puffiness in my face, even the bags under my eyes. I cringe, even as I walk faster, thinking of each calorie flying away.
But shopping is a welcome-enough distraction.
The girls at Prada on Rodeo Drive know me well. They take one look at me as I shuffle in the front door with my two buff shadows, and they don’t bat an eye. I can imagine all too well that they can smell the lingering scent of pastrami, rising in an aura of shame around us. But instead they smile and offer me the therapy that I truly need—shoes.
It’s Wednesday evening, so the shop isn’t busy. I get three helpful sales professionals to assist me while Troy and James stand by, watching the show. Thirty-some try-ons and two hours later, my over-full belly feels better and I’m the proud owner of three new pairs of Fuck-Me pumps in a size 11 ½, including a hot pink, patent leather platform sandal that’s to-fucking-die-for. Along with the dressy shoes, I buy the newest laced leather bootie, with a six-inch heel, in snow-white leather.
After I’ve laid waste to the shoe department, I check out the ready-to-wear collection. Sadly, there’s little in this year’s lineup that’s interesting to me. It’s all vaguely Eastern Bloc sharp edges and sack-fitted black pleather with a touch of Third Reich red and orange thrown in for good measure. I’m about to dust out, disappointed, until I spot a rack of colorful, tailored polo shirts that just scream ‘Fox Lee needs one of these!’
I struggle with difficult decisions. Do I choose the pale periwinkle color that’ll bring out that same dramatic tint in his eyes? Or, do I go for the soft, pastel pink that’ll make the salt-n-pepper shade of his gorgeous hair go silver in the sunlight?
I select the pink. I buy one for Fox in a size that I hope fits his sexy, broad shoulders, and one for me a couple sizes smaller. I have no illusions we’ll ever be seen together wearing our matching pink Prada polos, but I’ll go to my grave knowing we had them, even if we had them in separate worlds.
“Can you please giftwrap that one?” I ask the sales associate, who tallies up the damage I’ve done.
“Certainly,” she says, smiling. She gives me a quick wink, and I can’t help but grin in return. My stomach does a flip. I shouldn’t. I absolutely, really shouldn’t. But I kind of have to.
Troy carries my bounty to the car, while James and I wait for him to return. Having spent a small fortune on shiny, pretty things, I feel much better. Retail therapy is a cure-all. That is, until I spot a pair of Croc-wearing tourists loitering behind an emaciated mannequin, giggling in my direction, their smart phones aimed right at me.
James has clearly spotted them as well. He coolly steps between their cameras and me, but it’s probably too late. I am embarrassed; they have evidence of #NikkiRippon wearing cheap skinny jeans and a sports jersey, accented with aging purple Chucks. If they tag me on social media, the paparazzi will arrive in about two minutes flat.
I can see it now. Stars: They’re just like us! Nikki Rippon steps out in his Wednesday Worst.
James calls Troy. “Put the lead on,” he says. “We just got noticed.”
Luckily, Troy pulls in front of the shop just a moment later and we make our escape before company arrives.
“Home?” Troy asks, peering in the rearview mirror at me.
I nod. Even an almost-perfect day can be spoiled by fame.
Traffic is heavy and moving slow. It’s almost dark by the time we turn onto Laurel Canyon Drive. I’m dreaming about pairing my new shoes with my outfits at home, when Troy hits the brakes – hard – less than twenty feet from my driveway.
I look up, leaning forward between James and Troy, and see a man standing in the middle of the road. He’s tallish and heavyset, with a pudgy face and shaggy, mouse-brown hair, wearing an overcoat of olive drab. He wears a shocked expression, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He’s trying to say something, his hands out in a gesture of supplication. Now he’s shouting, his face growing red, his watery eyes growing angry as we watch him.
“That’s--oh my God, I’ve seen him before--he’s--”
“Fuck,” James spits, reaching for the door handle. “That’s our suspect! Call Tyler!”
Tyler and Spencer, my night-shift security detail, should be at my house by now, getting ready to replace Troy and James.
James steps out of the car, closing the door behind him. He steps into the illumination of the car’s headlights, while Troy calls Tyler’s number.
I can’t hear what James says to the guy in front of the car, but the guy’s rage appears to be growing. The way he gesticulates and spits as he talks makes me crouch down in my seat, retreating further into my jacket.
I wish I were someone else, anyone else.
A second later, the guy’s hand comes out of his coat pocket. He’s... holding a gun.
I shout James’ name, but to no avail. The shot is fired before anyone can react. “Fuck!” Troy screams, gunning the car’s engine into reverse, away from the man and his gun, away from my friend. One of my only friends.
“Wait!” I scream. “You can’t leave James!”
Everything after that happens in a haze of overwhelming lights and sound. I know I’m crying as Troy gets me out of the car and rushes me to the back entrance of my home, away from the man, who seems to have made a run for it in the opposite direction.
I hear slamming car doors and muted phone calls, and later, there are sirens. Inside, Tyler and Spencer rush me upstairs and get me back into the walk-in closet. My hiding place. It should be a comfort, but I’m shaking, tears streaming down my face.
“James, is James okay?”
“We’re trying to figure that out, Nikki.”
“Okay… Okay. Please, please let me know.”
Tyler turns to go and I have to stop myself from reaching out and grabbing him, begging him to stay.
“We’ve gotta find him. The guy with the gun.” Tyler says. “You are safe here. I promise.”
“But James—”
“We don’t know much yet. There’s an ambulance and police on the scene. Spencer and I are pursuing the suspect. I have to go, Nikki.” Tyler pulls the door shut behind him, leaving me with the light of my phone in the dark, quilted silence of my closet.
I sit there, trembling. It feels like millennia—eons—pass. I am insulated; no sound reaches me here. I have no clue what’s happening. I have no idea if my friend is alive or dead.
In the haze of terror, I dial the only Los Angeles number I know by heart.
Fox answers, his tone easy, sweet. “Hey you. I was just thinking about you.”
He was thinking about me. Normally, this would cause a pleasant warmth to fill my chest, but not tonight.
I have no idea what I say to him. I have no clear idea whether I’m coherent or a blathering lunatic, making no sense at all.
All I’m aware of is Fox’s reply: “I’m on my way. Stay on the line. I’m with you.”
CHAPTER NINE
A s soon as I round the curve to Nikki’s place, I’m
forced to stop the car; the road is closed. Both lanes are blocked by cop cars flashing blue lights, and are peppered with officers sweeping their flashlights along the shrubbery. I call Tyler Dreyfuss’s number because I know he’s the last one who was with Nikki.
“Dreyfuss,” he says, answering with a snip in his tone. “I’m a little busy so it better be important.”
“It’s Fox Lee,” I tell him. “Nikki’s Lawyer. I’m here and I need to get through this LAPD clusterfuck and get to Nikki. Can you help me out?”
"Yes, sir. Where are you now?" he asks.
“I’m near the corner, coming up Mt. Olympus,” I tell him, feeling frantic. “I can’t get to the house.”
“I’ll be right there,” Tyler says. “Park your car on the side. We’ll walk up. The driveway is closed.”
To the uniforms giving me harsh looks I’m just another nosy neighbor or potential suspect, until a tall man in a silk suit emerges from between patrol cars, waving me forward.
“He’s alright,” I hear Tyler murmur to a uniform nearby who’s eyeing me rather uneasily. “He’s with us.”
“Where’s Nikki?” I ask.
“In the house,” Tyler says. “He’s fine. I tucked him in upstairs and told him to stay put.”
“He’s not fine,” I find myself saying. “He’s terrified and doesn’t know what’s going on. What’s happened to James McDormand? Is he hurt?”
“No, sir,” Tyler says. “He’s okay. Bullets were fired by the suspect in question, but the guy is crazy, drunk, a terrible shot—or all three. Bullet grazed James right across the left shoulder. Medics are trying to convince him he needs to go to the hospital, but he’s talking to the detectives currently.”
I sigh, relief washing over me. Finally, some good news in this colossal security fuck-up. At least nobody got hurt.
I find Nikki just where Tyler told me: inside his closet, tucked in tight between couture outfits and a display case of shoes.
“It’s just me,” I say, flipping the light switch so I can see. The next thing I know, Nikki’s sobbing in my arms, his slight body trembling.