by Davis Bunn
The truth was crippling. Celia felt her breath tearing in and out of her constricted throat, passing through her clenched teeth. She yearned to love him. It was not the accident that held her back. It was her. She did not even know what love was. Love him? Be real with him? How on earth was she supposed to do that when she had no idea who she was?
“When I got to the federal pen,” Brent said, “I did what everybody said I should, which was, step one, take a chill pill. Step two, find me a car. A car is the inmate term for the group that is going to watch your back, keep you alive. There are a lot of cars—the Aryans, the Mexican Mafia, the Crips, the Bloods. Me, I chose the car known to the other inmates as the Hypers. As in, hyper-Christians. I figured, why not? They seemed the least likely to stab me in my sleep or beat me to a pulp. How hard could it be?”
Something in what he’d said, or something in the crowd, or some whisper murmured far below the level of her hearing. Something reached down and pulled Celia up straight. She blinked away the fog over her eyes. And she fastened upon the man at the microphone. The stranger she knew so well.
“I wasn’t the first guy who entered the believers’ group with a lie on my lips and in my heart. They knew, and they accepted me anyway. They talked to me about the third way of doing time. And that was changing my life from the inside out. They kept on until I finally came face-to-face with the truth that broke me down. The truth we all know here, don’t we. That there was no way on earth I could change myself. Not ever. I was trapped. I was imprisoned by a lot more than the bars on my cell.”
The crowd was so rapt, so silent that the man who roared made them jump—even the ones who stood along the edges. “Amen!” the man cried, his throat strangled. Celia felt the pressure of that cry squeeze tears from her eyes. She jumped again as the woman seated beside her reached over and put a hand on her shoulder. Don’t touch me, she wanted to scream. I’m a star. The words that remained unspoken only caused her to weep harder.
“It was not the accident that broke me. Not the conviction that cost me my career. Not the sentence, not the county jail, not the federal pen. It was a black man named Amos who was doing thirty to life. A man with a light in his eyes and wisdom in his voice. Who told me what I had already come to realize. That I could not change. But Jesus was waiting to change me. Do it for me. Forgive me, teach me, heal me, and make me whole.”
Brent looked down at the front row of seats and said, “You brothers want to join me?”
He waited while a group of roadies came to stand at the foot of the stage, then said, “If there’s anybody out there who’s hurting today, anyone who doesn’t know Jesus and is ready to come kneel with us at the Cross, my brothers and I are ready to pray with you. Jerry is going to come forward and offer us another fine prayer. Tim, why don’t you come up when he’s done and lead us through ‘I Surrender All’ one more time.”
She was up and moving before Jerry came anywhere near the amen. Stumbling in terror that if she looked up she would see the people watching, afraid her shame would force her to turn away. Afraid of herself, afraid of being wrong, afraid there was nothing up there but humiliation and weakness. But she walked anyway, so blinded by tears she could not really see where she was going. Her sweater flopped out around her because she had to keep her arms outstretched to maintain her balance.
Then the man by the stage started toward her. And though she could not really see him, she knew who it was. And she ran.
34
Stanley entered his office after the third and final Sunday morning service. He looked as though he had aged ten years. He asked his visitor, “Shouldn’t you be at lunch or something?”
“I’m right where I need to be,” Liz replied.
“Give me a minute.” He disappeared into the bathroom. Liz heard the water running. She recalled a pastor from her teenage years who claimed to lose five pounds in sweat every Sunday. Stanley’s approach was somewhat quieter than that old Texas revivalist’s. But the exertion required to carry three back-to-back services was telling.
Especially today.
Stanley emerged wearing a fresh shirt and a sweater-vest, his customary office garb. He combed his hair and said, “I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“I was chased around Austin by all the bad times.” He slumped into the chair next to Liz. “I don’t guess I realized until last night just how much I want this job.”
“Stanley, the job is yours.”
“Come on, Liz. There are two biddies on the board who would like nothing better than to show me the street.” He rubbed his face, the skin turned rubbery by exhaustion.
A thump from the conference room directly overhead lifted both their heads. The church elders were gathered to vote on Stanley. He showed her the terror gnawing at his gut. “What if they cast me loose?”
“That’s not going to happen. But even if it did, your course is set. Another church will take you in a heartbeat.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve heard what people are saying about you. The congregation loves you, Stanley.”
“Not all of them.”
“You’ll never carry everyone. In a church of two, one has to be a dissenter. It’s human nature.” She smiled warmly. “Can I talk to you about something else?”
“I can’t promise I’ll hear you, but fire away.”
“I spoke to Bobby last night. The unions have requested an injunction to shut down their filming. Something about using nonunion labor on location.”
“This is the same group that burned down his studio?”
“Bobby thinks so.”
“Is he lawyered up?”
“He says he is.”
“I don’t see how we can do much more for him than pray.”
“That’s why he called. I’ve already spoken to our friends in the group.” She studied this man whose brute force was in direct contrast to the dress shirt and sweater-vest, the office’s oiled cabinetry, the fine leather furniture.
“You’re looking at me that way again, Liz.”
“What way is that?”
He actually blushed. “I don’t know how to call it.”
“Stanley.”
“What?”
“Let’s go out. Have dinner. Maybe take in a movie.”
“You mean a date?”
“I’ve spent weeks waiting for you to ask me. Obviously that’s not going to work.”
“I haven’t been on a date since … oh my.” He leaned his head on the seat back. “I married Cindy when she was nineteen and I was in my last year at seminary. Call it thirty-five years, give or take an ice age.”
“There have to be rules covering this. I’ll have one of my staff do some research, write up a memo, and messenger it over.”
“Liz, a pastor doesn’t just date.”
“I know that.”
“I mean, especially one of his own congregation. It’d be like lighting a Roman candle in the chicken coop. The only way a pastor could possibly be seen with a single woman is if, well …”
She reached across and took his hand. “I know what I’m asking, Stanley.”
35
The sunset dragged on in perfect cinematic style. Beverly Hills glittered with people living the high life. The streets were packed, the bars and cafes teemed—only the sidewalks were empty. Off Rodeo Drive and a very few other spots, only tourists walked. If a local was on foot, he was either jogging or walking his beast.
Shari drove Jason’s Land Rover. The thing was only slightly smaller than a Hummer but drove like a cloud on steroids. She loved being this high off the street. She felt like she could look down on the universe. Jason had given her a set of keys and begged her to use it. During the week he went everywhere by company limo. Shari had a full pass to the Galaxy limo service but still felt uncomfortable being shepherded around town. She also hated the way people slowed whenever the limo halted, then looked disappointed when they d
idn’t recognize her.
She pulled up in front of The Ivy. Jason had heard from allies along the food chain that several celebrities were dining here tonight. That had clinched the deal. Shari’s grandmother loved being treated regally by staff who were desperate to please Jason, while being observed by stars whom Lizu pretended to ignore. Their weekly dinners with Shari’s grandmother were always unique occasions. The fact that Jason went to such trouble for Lizu, and did so week in and week out, was another reason Shari felt increasingly close to the man.
But that was not why tonight was so special.
Despite the fact that the evening was crucial, Shari arrived both late and on the phone. She paused to pull a bill from her purse’s side pocket. Jason had advised her to change a hundred into singles at the start of each week. Put them somewhere she would not have to stop and hunt to locate, or risk slipping out a fifty by mistake. She had laughed at the time. But already her days had accelerated to where Shari was needing to replenish the supply by Thursday.
The Ivy’s concierge was a pro, which meant he accepted Shari’s keys and the bill without saying a word. He had two jacketed employees doing nothing but keeping the paparazzi away from the front walk and out of the street, which meant the celebrities were already inside. The Hollywood posse had an amazing nose for public sightings, especially when there was a chance of photos that could be sold to the gossip sheets. Shari slipped through the forest of cameras and tripods, climbed the brick stairs, and walked onto the restaurant’s extended front porch. She said into her phone, “No, Zubin. Absolutely not.”
The diminutive agent was at his most oily. “My dear Shari, I seem to recall a recent conversation in the backseat of a limo. I suggested that you not tighten the screws too hard, because sooner or later we would be back doing business again. Does that ring a bell?”
The matre d’ said quietly, “Your guests have arrived, Ms. Khan.”
She nodded, angry that she could neither hang up nor accelerate the agent’s pace. “Zubin, ten million dollars is double what Tracy Alwin earned on her last picture. Which was a complete and utter disaster.”
“Not her fault, Shari. The film was a stinker and directed by a moron.”
Jason had celebrated their first week’s anniversary of living together by giving Shari the lightest and most fashionable Bluetooth earpiece. The entire apparatus was the size of a large earring and was so light she often forgot she was wearing it. The device had crystal-clear reception and possessed a battery that would not die even on a day like today, when she used it ten hours between charges. The system had two drawbacks. First, it cost almost two thousand dollars. Second, the mike was back by her jaw, so there was no way to use it and whisper.
Which meant every person on the restaurant’s front deck heard her say, “I will go six million and not a cent higher.”
The matre d’ bowed and ushered her inside.
The front room of The Ivy was the size of a modest parlor. Despite the films that showed actors seated on the terrace, only the tourists dined outdoors these days. The paparazzi had forced the stars indoors. As a result, The Ivy’s front room had become one of the hardest places in Los Angeles to book a table.
The number of tables varied depending upon how many guests were seated at each. Tonight there were just five. One contained Shari’s grandmother. And her mother and father. Shari’s mother, never very comfortable around Lizu, was somewhat mollified by the fact that seated at the next table was Disney’s latest find and the hottest child star in the world. But that was not why Shari had arranged for this evening’s meal.
By the corner window, appropriately shaded against flash photographs, was a British actress by the name of Samantha Vaughan, who played a southern vamp on a television sitcom and sounded like she had been born and raised in the Louisiana bayou country. The television show currently occupied the nation’s top slot, and Samantha’s picture graced the cover of this month’s Vanity Fair. The previous week, she had also headlined a small feature released by Fox Spotlight, and the film had crashed through the weekend opposition like a battering ram.
Shari’s mother might fret over her daughter becoming imbedded in a world she called trashy, but she was as amenable as anyone to this much star power.
As Shari hugged her parents and grandmother, Zubin said on the phone, “There is no way I could take such a paltry offer to my star.”
Shari covered the mike with her entire fist and said to her family, “I’m really sorry. But I have got to finish this thing. I have a meeting with my boss tomorrow at seven.”
Her mother frowned. “Seven in the morning?”
Her father said, “It’s fine, darling.”
Her grandmother said, “Does she not look magnificent?”
The matre d’ managed to bow and hold her chair at the same time. “Mr. Garrone has rung the restaurant three times, madam. He says your phone has been tied up and he wanted you to know that he has been delayed but is underway.”
“Her Jason has the manners of a courtier,” her grandmother said.
Her mother sniffed.
“I’m really sorry, but I have got to finish this call.” Shari uncovered the mike and hardened her voice. “Listen carefully, Zubin. I’ll only say this once. Six and a half million dollars is my last and final offer.”
Her mother gasped audibly.
“That is laughable,” Zubin said.
“I’ll tell you what’s a joke, Zubin. Your request for twentyfive thousand dollars a week expense money on location. Just so you are aware, Tracy Alwin is not Liz Taylor.”
Her father said, “Is she talking about Tracy Alwin the actress?”
Her mother said, “Twenty five thousand dollars a week?”
The fact that her evening was being stolen by the discussion made Shari angrier still. “Forget the masseuse and the hairdresser and the astrologer. Where does she get off thinking we’d ever pay for a full-time vet for her cat?”
“I’m sure there is a little room for discussion on that point. But not the sum for her participation. Nine and a half is as low as I can possibly—”
“Then I hereby withdraw Galaxy’s offer, Zubin.”
“May I remind you, Colin Chapman has insisted that Tracy be his costar.”
“Colin Chapman is not writing the check. Sam Menzes is.”
Her mother said, “Colin Chapman?”
Her grandmother leaned back and smiled.
Zubin said, “Perhaps I should take this up directly with Sam. I’m sure he will see reason.”
“I’m sure he will,” she shot back. Her face was flaming hot. “I’m meeting him about this tomorrow for breakfast. He told me to wrap this thing today or go elsewhere. I’ll let him deliver the news that we are no longer interested in working with your client. Not now, not at any time in the future.”
“Not so fast—”
“This conversation is so totally over, it’s incredible.” Shari ripped out the earpiece, pressed the Off button, and jammed it into her purse. “I hate that thing.”
“No you don’t,” her grandmother said. “You hate the moment.”
She said to her parents, “I’m really sorry.”
“My dear young lady,” her grandmother replied, “I was just telling my son and daughter-in-law that only something of critical importance would have detained you. One look at your face is enough to know this was not of your making.”
Shari realized the entire front room, including the waiters, was watching them. She felt her face go redder still. “No. Absolutely not.”
Her mother said, “You were talking with Tracy Alwin, the movie star?”
“Her agent. Zubin Mikels.” She said to her grandmother, “I’d like to wring his fat little Kurdish-Armenian neck.”
“Such language,” her mother chided.
“No doubt well deserved,” Lizu said.
“He was supposed to meet with me at two this afternoon. He put me off until I was leaving the office. Knowing Zubin, he probably
heard I had dinner plans and was meeting Sam tomorrow.”
“Sam Menzes,” her grandmother interpreted. “The chairman of Galaxy and Shari’s new boss.”
“Well, Sam’s not new. But my position is.”
Her mother asked, “And already you’re calling this man Sam?”
“Hollywood is a pretty casual place,” Shari replied.
“Casual is not always a good thing,” her mother said.
Her grandmother frowned but held her peace.
Shari’s father asked, “This agent would know of your movements and use it against you?”
Her grandmother smiled. “It sounds positively Persian, does it not?”
Jason did not actually burst into the room. But he did enter so fast he beat the matre d’ to the table. “I am so tremendously sorry. Of all the nights to get trapped by a crisis.”
“Tell me,” Shari said. She kissed him lightly, feeling all the room’s eyes on them once again, most especially her mother. “Mom, Pop, I’d like you to meet Jason Garrone. Jason, these are my parents.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Khan, what an honor this is. I’ve been looking forward to this for so long. And then to arrive late.” He leaned over and kissed Lizu’s proffered cheek. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
Shari said, “I just got here as well.”
He studied her face. “Trouble?”
“Maybe we should leave it for later.”
“Why later?” Her grandmother spoke with quiet authority. “Your parents have not driven all this way for you to play nice. They are here to learn about your new man and your new life.”
Her father said, “I am certain I would find it fascinating.”
This was the point at which her mother would normally have either offered a snide rebuke or sniffed loudly. But the combination of Jason’s looks, the celebrities sharing their room, and their daughter just having played hardball over a six-million-dollar movie contract left her numb.