by Unknown
“What’s so fuckin’ funny?” the driver shouted.
Between laughs, trying not to stutter, Eric said, “I I—I might as well have—” He laughed some more. “—I might as well have done it myself!”
He continued to laugh the rest of the way to the police station.
FIRST BORN
JOHN FARRIS
“HELLO? MIRIAM?”
“No, this isn’t Miriam, Gregory. No doubt you’re surprised to hear my voice again. Eye expected you to forget. But today is the very day Eye told you that Eye’d be giving you a call. Doesn’t time fly when you’re conquering the world? Exactly twenty years have flown by. Two great decades. Has any of this rung a bell with you, Greg?”
“Fella, I have no idea who you are or what—”
“What Eye’m talking about? Ah well. Eye’ll pause now to let the hurt sink in.”
“This is a private number! How—? Only my wife and my—oh, no. Oh Jesusss! Has something hap—”
“You sound a little out of breath. You must’ve just finished your morning fifty in the pool.”
“—happened to Miriam? Is that why you’re calling me on this—”
“Breathe easy, Greg. No cause for alarm. Miriam’s fine. It’s Friday. She’s having, as usual, the works at her spa. Big doin’s tomorrow night at the Dorothy Chandler. Congratulations on your Humanitarian Award. Wish Eye could be there, but it’s a tough ticket for nobodies like me.”
“Is this about one of my kids? Who are you, goddamn it! Better give me a name or—”
“If you hyperventilate you’ll pass out and crack your head on the pool apron. You might even scar that immensely valuable face. Now calm down and listen. No harm has come to the wife and kids. Your adorable Livy is at a callback for the new Bruckheimer show, which Eye believe is to be a mid-season replacement on Fox after the pro football season. Now this is confidential. Livy is going to get the part! Isn’t that exciting news? But we both know how talented she is.”
“J-Josh—”
“Joshua, by my reckoning, has just finished up his physics lab at the Harvard School. Bright boy. Like his father. Eye’m curious, Greg. How could you not have recognized my voice? No one can say it’s a voice that is easily forgotten. Once you’ve placed the voice, of course, the face is easy. And, of course, the circumstances of our one and only meeting.”
“All right, fella. So where are you going with this? You seem to know so much about—so what have you been doing, stalking my—”
“Good grief. Eye’m not a crazy person. Nor am Eye a shakedown artist. So what if Livy has done a little sniffy from time to time. It doesn’t concern me. Matter of peer pressure. She’ll soon outgrow the desire to experiment. Thankfully, she is not an addictive personality. Now, last but by no means least, to put your mind completely at rest: Eye don’t do kidnappings.”
“That’s it. I’m hanging—”
“ ‘Hanging up?’ Quaint. Those were the good old days. Incredible, isn’t it, what technology has wrought in a mere twenty years? Cell phones. But it would not be wise to end our conversation prematurely, Greg. There are no ‘callbacks’ in my profession.”
“Your?”
“Profession.”
“Which is?”
“Eye befriend people in desperate need. Does that joggle your memory? Bet it does. Take a couple of deep breaths, Greg. Should you need to put the phone down and finish toweling off, Eye’ll gladly wait. But we are enjoying a lovely warm day, so even though you do take your solitary swim in the nude there’s little chance you’ll catch cold. A perfect day like this—that does make LA-LA Land bearable the rest of the time. Do you remember the unseasonable monsoon weather the night Eye saved your life?—Ah, there it is! That little catch of the breath. It’s almost as if Eye’m right there with you. Marvelous technology. So it has all come back to you. The thunderstorm. Lights flickering in that seedy little bar of Moe Bacon’s, down at the slovenly end of Robertson. Other than the couple in the corner booth who were mostly in the bag, there were only you and me and the comely barmaid.”
“Kimmy?”
“Good for you, Greg. But of course you remember Kimmy. Her situation so much like yours, except Kimmy did have a part-time job. Both of you past thirty and frayed at the edges from having been knocked about and chewed on by the Action—the treacherous, remorseless, soul-devouring Hollywood Action.”
“Kimmy. Dear God.”
“That sounded more than a little wistful. She did attempt to get in touch once it started happening for you. But you couldn’t make time for her. She never meant all that much to you anyway, did she, Greg? Just someone to sleep with, who commiserated because she also knew what failed dreams did to the luckless and needy. Maybe you could have helped her on your way up. But that’s not what Eye’ve called about.”
“This is bullshit, and I—”
“Greg, Greg. Eye’ve given you twenty of the most wonderful and productive years you could ever have hoped for! Now it’s time for gratitude—and, of course, the agreed-upon recompense. Then we can discuss renewing your contract.”
“What contract? I never signed anything with you. I’ve been with CAA for—”
“There is no denying that you owe part of your success to that storm-trooper agency. But Eye knew what they could do for you once Eye put you in Mike’s hands.”
“Now you’re telling me you knew Mike Ovitz?”
“And so many like him, not a few of whom have been kicked to the wayside in this dog-eat-dog town. As for actors, how does the saying go? ‘It’s not enough to want it, you gotta need it.’ Portrait of Gregory Wales, age thirty-three. Profession: unemployed actor. The Place: Moe’s bar on Robertson. Greg’s situation: beyond desperate. Oh, there Eye go again, channeling Rod Serling. Let us dolly in for that long-ago close-up. Greg Wales, slumped at the bar. Down to his last dime to call a hack agent who can’t do anything for him. Down to his last shot of cheap scotch, on the cuff courtesy of the simpatico Kimmy. And let us not forget that stolen bottle of prescription Seconals in the pocket of Greg’s tattered trench coat. Enough Seconals to provide the final exit in the dingy melodrama of his life. But wait! Here comes the turning point! The defining moment that began Act Two in the life of Greg Wales. In the person of… Yours Truly!”
“You’re a fucking wack job. Channeling Rod Serling? Seconals? Okay, okay. Now I get it. I’ve been punk’d. So who put you up to this, Miriam? But enough is enough already, so—”
“Remember my warning about cutting me off, Greg! Deep breath. Another. Good. Is it necessary to review Act Two, now that you’ve reached the Super Bowl of Stardom?”
“No. I would like to get dressed now, if you’ll—”
“But don’t you still get that nagging feeling? All of you, no matter how powerful you become—or as a consequence of that power—get it sooner or later. Dick Cavett once asked Bob Mitchum about the ruling passion of LA-LA Land. Was it sex, money, drugs? The lust for immortality? No, Mitchum said. Fear. Fear of losing it all. The whole big-star package. Star-bright, limelight, the red carpets, the G-5 jet, the little sweetmeats on the side.”
“Nobody’s taking what I’ve earned away from me.”
“Just bear in mind before we square the account that it was Eye who rescued you after you had downed twenty Seconals in that noisome little toilet of Moe’s, thereafter sent you streaking into Hollywood orbit.”
“Yeah, right. Let’s get this straight. I never took any damn Seconals. And whatever conversation we may have had couldn’t have amounted to much because I don’t even know your name. And you won’t tell me who you are, will you? Because you know I have people who deal with people like you, pal. And this conversation is—”
“Going on too long? Yes, yes, you’re right. Shall we say tonight at eleven sharp? Moe’s, Eye think. For old times’ sake? Eye still do a considerable amount of business there. Where the heart-worn and desperate meet in a community of denial. Who knows? Gorgeous as the weather is now, by eleven tonig
ht it could be raining. That little touch of film noir ambience. Speaking of, Eye don’t suppose you still have that shabby Burberry you were practically living in? Of course not; just messin’ with you.”
“You’ve had your fun! Fun’s over. I’m not meeting with you tonight or any time! If you try getting in touch with me again, I swear—”
“Eye” would like Livy to wear white. Casual, not too trendy. With some frivolous gold bling and her hair brushed down past her shoulders. Most becoming. White happens to be a passion of mine, and because your daughter technically is still a virgin—”
“Livy?”
“Olivia Raquel Wales. Age sixteen. First born of Greg and Miriam Wales. Promised to me on this very day twenty years ago, in exchange for the deluxe Gregory Wales Star Package, which you must admit has been a tremendous value.”
“You sick, miserable piece of—”
“Don’t, Greg. We should also talk about—”
“Fuck you, little man!”
And Greg Wales snapped his cell phone closed.
After a few simmering moments he reached back, then threw the compact phone high and far into a grove of Italian cypress on a steep hillside. Far below a twelve-foot stone wall that surrounded his fiefdom lay the city of Beverly Hills. Greg’s four acres occupied some of the most expensive real estate on the planet. At certain times of the year he and his family dwelled, literally, above the clouds.
The Olympus-style home of Greg Wales, two-time Oscar winner.
Naked now at poolside, trembling from anger.
The extension of the house phone played a perky tune. Also a very private number. Greg’s shoulders drew together as a defense to the chill snaking up his backbone.
They had caller ID. But instead of the caller’s number appearing in the little window of the handset, there was a text message, which he unwillingly read as it scrolled.
Eye think you should know that the world has just changed, Greg. Instead of Act Three beginning, you We just not there any longer. Why don’t we let that sink in for a few moments, hey Greg? Then when you’re ready to have things back as you’ve become accustomed, just press the pound sign on your handset. See you and Livy tonight at Moe’s.
Still furious, but with that crawly feeling changing to fear, Greg was about to hurl the wireless handset after his cell phone. But he stopped when he heard children laughing and splashing at the shallow lagoon of the huge pool, near a stair-step waterfall. They sounded much younger than his two.
He’d been alone, just seconds ago. Hearing nothing but a small plane over the valley, some players on Denzel Washington’s tennis court. Stunned, he looked around at the shady lagoon.
Three kids. The oldest, a red-haired girl, probably not more than twelve, prepubertal shapely. He’d never seen her or the two boys before.
One of the boys, wearing yellow flotation cuffs on his upper arms, was paddling idly in Greg’s direction, squinting up at him. The sun was behind Greg, backlighting him to good advantage. He was really buff for a fifty-three-year-old man, kept the tan glowing year-round. And he had one of the world’s most recognizable faces. But the kid didn’t react to him. Not a flicker of expression as he changed direction in the pool.
Greg became aware of other, low voices. He whipped his head around, meeting resistance and getting a jolt from his arthritic neck. Probably time to stop making so many action movies. But they were enormously profitable.
He didn’t only have children for company: half a dozen adults were gathered around a long-legged beauty on a chaise. They weren’t just having brunch, lazing around. A photo shoot was in progress. Tamed, focused, shadowless light. The kind of concentrated, suspenseful activity that might accompany the opening of an important tomb. Greg knew the photographer: small, gnarly, a desert-rat look. He had recently shot Greg in Morocco for a six-page layout in Vanity Fair’s April—
Greg felt a whiplash shock. It blurred his vision momentarily, left him light-headed. He refocused on the woman on the chaise, object of everyone’s expertise. From the degree of deference being paid, she had to be top-tier showbiz. Greg had no clue as to who she was or what she might be doing here in his—another shock, of indignation, registered belatedly. What the hell had they done to his garden? Instead of tropical blooms and plantings, he saw formal little hedges, topiary—as if the garden had been ruthlessly redressed by a team of—
Topiary? He hated—
Then he couldn’t think of the word, or any words. His mind suddenly became a void, as if he were experiencing the worst attack of stage fright in the history of his profession, a lockjawed, coldcocked numbness.
He felt the sun on his angular nakedness like a spotlight. He blinked helplessly. What scene was this? Rolling. Speed. And… action. They were all waiting for him. He felt the pressure of their expectations.
As if he’d heard and must respond to an insistent prompt, Greg drifted around the pool and approached the garden, where statuary framed an entrance. They were all doing a damned good job of ignoring him. The children played and chattered in the lagoon. His frozen perceptions began to thaw. He was over his unreasonable fright. He smiled a mean, knowing smile. Okay. So this had to be an elaborate punk too, probably with Miriam’s wholehearted cooperation.
Mir—?
Who was that? Who did he say? The void was back. No words words words. He trembled and felt frail in summer light, ephemeral, disappearing. He had no more pain in his arthritic neck. That was something… but it was a blessing followed by sheer horror, because when he looked at himself there was nothing to see. Fingers, hands, feet… and his fabled sword! He wasn’t conscious of having a body at all. And yet, and yet—his blood was high, full-flooded with colliding emotions: fear, grief, anger.
The redheaded woman being prepped for the shoot (there could be no doubt that she was the mother of the girl in the pool) smiled as the makeup artists eliminated an unwanted highlight on one cheekbone. They were great cheekbones. The woman was at work too, small changes of expression, settling into the Right Face, communing with her artistic spirits. Her appeal was lusty, shading to an eldritch romanticism. He must know her, but what was her name? There had been hundreds of beautiful women in his personal life, complementing his art; either he had acted with her or fucked her or both, but… but…
The woman’s Romany eyes shifted slightly as requested by the photog. She looked past a crouching assistant with a light meter to where Greg was, or felt he was, about twenty feet away between two brutally disjointed marble statues. Her gaze was as remote as the chiseled blank of goddess eyes.
Whether or not he still had a body, which he couldn’t confirm, he still had eyes, and they were weeping.
Tears the woman was unaware of. If she were seeing him, he would have noticed some nuance of reaction. So he just wasn’t there for her—not only wasn’t there, he realized with a dismal failure of heart and nerve, but hadn’t been, not in twenty years. When it would have been so easy to give her hope. A simple act of remembrance, gratitude perhaps, a returned phone call.
He’ll know who I am. We used to Kimmy.
He might have whispered her name, but he didn’t hear himself. Couldn’t hear a thing anymore. Not the voices, the wind surfing through tall cypresses. The kids sporting in the pool.
But if she was Kimmy, here, in his place of sumptuous celebrity, if indeed it was Kim who had taken the treacherous little man’s Star Package deal, then what had become of Greg Wales?
Those damned Seconals.
The photographer was ready. Kim lifted her chin, smiled as the shoot team drifted respectfully back from her idol space.
Greg smiled too. Truly heartbroken for her.
In that moment of decision the scene changed again. The photo shoot in the garden became a faded tableau, like a frame taken from a bad print of an early-thirties film. There was a sensation of blood and flesh returning to him after that terrible interval of nowhere, nothing, gone, white-faced and stone-cold on the dirty floor of Moe Bacon’s toi
let. His other Eternity.
“Kimmy. You look so beautiful. And I’m so sorry.”
Greg lifted the telephone handset. It seemed welded in his grip. Powerful. Magical.
An eye appeared on the small screen. The eye winked at him. There was amusement in that wink, but basically it was insulting.
Ready for another ten years of close-ups, Mr. Wales? Pay my price.
“Sure. You’ll get what you have coming to you. My end of the bargain.”
As he had been instructed, Greg pushed the pound sign, instantly banishing Kimmy and retrieving the life he could not bear to part with.
Lester had accompanied Livy to the callback for the new Bruckheimer TV series, and he drove her home afterward. Lester had worked almost ten years for the Wales family. Before that he’d been a boxer, staying with it too long, sometimes one fight away from a heavyweight title shot, but never able to win that crucial bout. At age fifty he had begun to shuffle a little when he walked.
“I’m going out tonight,” Greg told him. “I don’t want any paparazzi picking up my trail. Can you borrow your brother’s Hummer for me to drive?”
“No problem, Mr. Wales.”
“I want you to meet me at a place called Moe’s down on South Robertson. Drive your own car. Park a block away but don’t come in. Be there a little before eleven.”
Lester nodded. He was often complicit in the Byzantine maneuvers of the superstar when Greg needed a few hours of total privacy or secrecy. He also understood intuitively that this time trouble was involved, but he asked no questions.
Livy was at her desktop computer catching up on school-work when Greg walked into her suite. She wore headphones, orally conjugating French verbs. She gave Greg a preoccupied smile and held up the spread fingers of one hand: five minutes.
Greg went outside on her balcony and looked at the moon rising over the Valley, although it wasn’t yet full dark. A clear night, the moon full or almost full, a vivid yellow. Good, he thought, then shuddered, although the air at this altitude had no bite. The Valley lights seethed like a blanket of live coals.