“Wow, Liza, you look fantastic,” Isabella said as Liza got into the car.
“Isabella, hon, wonderful to see you. I’m so excited you finally get to come to the set! I’ll show you around, introduce you to everyone.”
“I’m going to love this,” Isabella said. “And I brought my swimsuit so I can try that swimming hole Mom told me about.”
“Well, since it’s a teacher’s in-service day all over the county, maybe there will be some other kids around,” Liza said. “Brian has a sixteen-year-old son.”
As they chatted away, Lieutenant Gotti called with an update: forensics hadn’t been able to lift any clear prints off the security lights. “But we’ll find him, Ms. DeMarco. It just may take some time.”
“I understand. And thanks for the update, I appreciate it.”
“You bet. By the way, while I was updating my notes on the break-in, I came across a file about an arrest that involved an older man who trespassed at your daughter’s school and then harassed her.”
Shit. “Yes. What about it?”
“Well, I followed up on it, thinking that maybe he was the perp who broke into your house. After his arrest, he was evaluated psychiatrically, then Baker Acted. He spent three days in a psychiatric ward, and was released. One of the nurses at the facility actually drove him to the airport, and he presumably got on a plane and went home.”
Presumably. That word worried me. Vito was a slippery devil, and if there had been a way to sneak out of the airport, he probably had done so. “Do you know if the nurse actually escorted him to check-in and saw him board the plane?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find out.”
“I’d appreciate it, Lieutenant. I just don’t want any repeat performances.”
“Can’t say that I blame you. We have his prints on file, though, so I’m going to run them against whatever we got from your house and see if anything shows up. I’ll be in touch.”
“Have you spoken to Paul Jannis yet?”
“Yes, I did. He has an alibi, says that he was at La Playa, having dinner with members of the cast, that you even saw him there.”
“Where was he before he got to La Playa?”
“In conference with his attorney about his son’s problems.”
“Did the attorney confirm that?”
“Yes.”
Then the attorney is lying to cover up for him, I thought.
“But don’t worry, Ms. DeMarco. He’s on my radar.”
“Thanks again, I appreciate the update.”
• • •
At Gallery Studios, we parked to the side of the main building. We were early enough so that there were still electric carts lined up in the lot, keys in the ignition, for cast and crew to use to drive themselves to studio four. The five of us crowded into one of them, and Liza drove us along that hard-packed path that led past the swimming hole.
A light fog swirled across the ground, and the air was still cool enough so that the area around the swimming hole was deserted. But once the air warmed up, I was pretty sure that would change, particularly if there were any other kids on the set today. Maybe John and I would come down here for a repeat performance of our last visit.
And maybe not.
Now that I knew the truth about who he was, I wasn’t sure what I felt about him—an enormous, visceral attraction, yes—that hadn’t changed. Even thirty years ago, I’d felt that. I’d felt a visceral attraction for Tony, Alec, and Paul, too. But there had to be something more than hormones. I would like to blame all my past mistakes on hormones, but I knew that wasn’t the case.
“What scenes are they shooting today?” Liza asked. “I didn’t get a chance to look at the script notes you sent me, Marvin.”
“The Sunday-night date with Tony, the apartment scenes. Then in studio two, it’s going to be the club scene at Platinum. Renée sent me some photos of the set, and it looks so genuine you’d think you were in Brooklyn. And there’re thirty or forty extras today in the Platinum scenes.”
“Does the club still exist?” Flannigan asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “But now it’s a strip club.”
Flannigan laughed. “Well, that’s what thirty years will do, right? I mean, just look at all the changes we’ve seen in our lifetimes. The Internet changed everything. Isabella hasn’t even lived in a time without cell phones and the Internet, without Facebook and all the social media.”
“No Facebook?” Isabella exclaimed. “No iPhone? No iPod? No texting? How boring would that be?”
Marvin passed me his iPad with the photos the art director had sent him, and suddenly I was back there on that night with Tony, anxiously wondering how the hell I was going to get into the club since I was underage. But Tony had fake ID that said I was Priscilla Montiglio, twenty-two years old. Her photo didn’t look much like me. Not a problem for Tony. He had known the fat bouncer, who had glanced at the ID, smirked, unhooked the velvet rope, and ushered us into the noise and smoke and surrounding darkness.
I remembered that “Love Machine” by the Miracles had been blasting through the place. Guys in tight pants and nylon shirts unbuttoned halfway down their chests gyrated to the music with girls whose breasts bulged out of tiny halter tops. They all wore high-heeled platform shoes. It was like something out of Saturday Night Fever.
Tony had led me past the bar and along the edge of the dance floor to a restaurant area, where we’d sat with Richie and Vin and their dates. I remembered how much I detested Richie. He had recently beat up my closest friend, Janice, and here he was at the club with another girl.
But that was the mob’s MO with women. Take Vin Priganti. His family had overseen the mafia activity in Brooklyn, and everyone had known it. You didn’t cross Vin. His father, Tino, had built an empire on gambling, theft, loan-sharking, and prostitution. And the torch would pass eventually to Vin, so when he had issued a command to his peers, everyone jumped into action. He was a pig through and through.
I wondered what had happened to him, to all the Brooklyn Boys. If any of them were still alive, would they recognize themselves when the movie came out? Probably not. They hadn’t really seen themselves as bad guys. They were just doing what their fathers and grandfathers ten times removed had done before them. It was like a trait passed down genetically from father to son.
“Looks amazing, doesn’t it?” Marvin said.
“Renée’s incredible,” I replied. “Maybe Gallery should keep her on payroll for all their film and TV work.”
“I’ll suggest it,” Liza said. “But I bet Brian is already thinking about it.”
“Hey,” Isabella said, “can I get hired as one of the extras?”
“You can ask,” I replied.
“They’d probably love it,” Liza remarked.
As we pulled up in front of studio four, I noticed that one of the cars parked in the lot was a 1972 black-and-beige Toyota, the exact vehicle that Tony had owned, that he’d driven to Platinum’s that night. “Is that car—”
“It is,” Marvin said with a laugh. “Hey, Gallery does things right, all the way down the line.”
I could almost see my younger self in that car, thrilled to be with the handsome Tony Kroon, but wanting to say something to him about what his buddy Richie had done to my friend Janice. I hadn’t because I’d promised Janice I wouldn’t, so I had made an inane comment that I’d never forgotten: Hey, do they really have dikes in Holland?
Ya mean lesbos?
His reply should’ve been a dead giveaway about the sort of person he was. But I was just fifteen and hopelessly naïve. Now it was thirty years later, and in spite of Tony Kroon and Vito and all the rest of them, I had written myself into a better story. The story wasn’t perfect yet. It was a diamond in the rough that I would continue to polish and work at until it was exactly the way I wanted it.
In the stu
dio’s front room, a spread of food had been laid out, breakfast stuff so varied it would satisfy any palate. The cast and crew were milling around, and Liza immediately started working the room with Isabella, introducing her to everyone.
My daughter was starstruck when she met Jenean, Camilla, and Susan. Within moments, though, the three women were plying her with questions about school and her interests and whether she wanted to write, too. Then they herded her through the breakfast line. Marvin and Flannigan were talking to the crew. I started to get into the breakfast line but spotted Kelly, from the Malibu Motel, and hurried over to her.
“Kelly, it’s so good to see you.” We hugged hello. “How’re you doing?”
“Just great, Sam. I can’t tell you how fantastic it is to be out of that clerk job. I’m so excited about this movie.”
“Are they shooting a Brooklyn-girl scene today?”
“They might. Mr. King said it depended on how well things go this morning. He asked us to come in just in case. If not today, then this week sometime.” She lowered her voice. “Any news about Vito?”
“Yeah. We’ll catch up, okay? I need to get a bite to eat.”
“Sounds good.”
I slipped into the breakfast line behind Isabella. “Mom, they’re all so nice,” she whispered. “After we eat, before the shooting begins, they said we can take some photos together outside.”
“Fantastic, love.”
“Does Susan look like Grandma Ruth did?”
“With makeup. And she has her personality down perfectly. You’ll see.”
“Thanks for letting me tag along.”
Across the way, King, Prince, and Paul emerged from another room. Paul looked to be in good spirits, laughing at something one of the other men had said. Then he saw me, and his laughter dried up faster than rainwater in a desert. I glanced down at the food and helped myself to scrambled eggs and bacon and a biscuit smothered in honey.
I could feel Paul’s eyes on me as I followed Isabella through the line, adding slices of cheese and fresh fruit to my plate. Scalding eyes. Eyes that shot those poison daggers at my spine.
“Let’s eat at one of the tables outside,” I suggested to Isabella.
“Great.”
The picnic tables were a recent addition, and because the weather was gorgeous, they were all filled. Renée Tennerin, sitting with one of the artists in her crew, waved us over. I introduced Isabella to both women, and Renée introduced the artist, Barbara.
“Marvin showed me the photos of the Platinum set, Renée. It looks exactly as I remember it.”
“Wonderful. It took some Googling to find old photos of the place, but once it’s dark and the music is rockin’—and the extras are wearing those Saturday Night Fever clothes—it’ll be like the original Platinum’s was teleported here.”
“You think they’d let me be an extra?” Isabella asked.
“They might,” Renée said.
“I heard that a couple of the extras were no-shows,” Barbara said.
“You know how to dance?” Renée asked.
“Sure.”
Renée snapped her fingers. “Like, boogie on down?”
“Definitely.”
Isabella snapped her fingers, brought out her iPod and a mini speaker, scrolled to a song, and was suddenly on her feet, dancing, swinging her hips, her feet moving rhythmically, her dark hair flying. Renée and Barbara started clapping, and pretty soon, so did everyone else. Isabella was so into the dancing that she moved with her eyes shut and didn’t realize she had such a large, enthralled audience. When she was done, everyone cheered and clapped, and she glanced around, obviously thrilled. She gave a quick little bow, then disconnected the speaker and put it and the iPod back in her bag.
“Hey, Brian,” Renée called, “Some of the extras were no-shows. Do you think Isabella can fill in?”
King, Prince, and John—where had he come from?—apparently had seen the whole thing, and King flashed a thumbs-up. “You’re hired, young lady. Renée, after she eats, get her over to costumes to be fitted. We can email the paperwork later. Welcome to the troupe, Isabella.”
Just like that, my beautiful daughter had become a member of the cast of extras for the scenes at Platinum’s. How was that for Hollywood magic?
John made his way toward us. He looked good enough to eat, decked out in jeans that fit him perfectly, a blue Polo shirt. His eyes met mine, then he greeted Renée and Barbara. “Got enough room for one more?”
“Of course,” I said, and slid over on the bench to make room for him between Isabella and me.
“That dancing was awesome, Isabella.” He extended his hand. “I’m John Steeling.”
“Thanks, Mr. Steeling. Nice to meet you.”
“I’ll be emailing all the paperwork to your mom.”
“Wow, this is so cool,” she said. “My friends are never going to believe this. But if it’s a club, I need to look like I’m twenty-one, right?”
“Makeup will fix you up,” Renée said. “Don’t worry about that. In fact, as soon as you’re finished eating, Barb and I will walk you over to costumes and makeup.”
Within minutes, John and I were alone at the table, the two of us on the same bench, his thigh touching mine. I realized, again, that I wouldn’t be here now, in this moment, if Paul hadn’t optioned my book and given me the chance to write the screenplay. I was grateful. But the bottom line was that he was just a more sophisticated version of the men I’d known in Brooklyn.
“Did you get your house squared away?” John asked.
“Pretty much. We have to replace some furniture and dishes, that sort of thing. The cleaning crew was great, John. I really appreciate your sending them. The house has never been so clean.”
“Brian and George both know about the break-in at your place.” He paused. “And Brian asked if you’d been paid yet. And so did George.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“The truth. I told Brian that I want Paul fired, that I’ll cover what he owes you.”
“What’d he say to that?”
“He asked me why. I told him everything. And then he said that Paul will be gone by the end of today.”
I started to say something, but just then Prince, standing on the steps, shouted, “Okay, people, listen up. We’re going to start shooting in studio four in fifteen minutes. After that winds up, we’ll have lunch, then shoot in studio two. If you don’t have a copy of today’s script notes, raise your hand and we’ll make sure you get a copy.”
As John raised his hand, my phone vibrated, and I slipped it out of my back pocket. A text message. From Paul.
Can we talk privately?
I glanced around the crowd, looking for him, and spotted him sitting with members of the lighting crew. He was busy texting and wasn’t aware that I was watching him.
No.
He glanced up a moment later, and so did I. He glared at me; I shrugged. He looked down at his phone again and another text came through.
R u sleeping w/him?
I didn’t dignify the question with a response. I knew he was watching me, so I deliberately leaned in closer to John and whispered, “Has your deal with Gallery gone through?”
“We signed the papers yesterday. Why?”
“Just curious. I’m glad this is working out for you and for them. It seems like a good fit all the way around.”
“You ready to go to Brooklyn, Sam, for the shooting there?”
“It’ll be weird, but, yeah, I’m ready. You have new dates?”
“Not yet. The—”
“Excuse me,” Paul said, suddenly appearing behind us. “I’d like to speak to Sam privately.”
I glanced at him, stood, grabbed my bag. “I’ve got nothing to say, Paul. Leave me alone.”
I started walking away to join the crowd
of crew and cast that was headed back inside the studio. But Paul rushed up behind me, seized my arm, spun me around. “Did you tell King you hadn’t gotten the rest of your money yet?”
I wrenched my arm free. “Did you break into my house and wreck everything?” I shot back.
“Did I what?”
“You heard what I said.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“How should I know? Why the hell do you keep stalking me? Confronting me? Isn’t it obvious that I don’t want anything more to do with you? That we’re done? That there’s nothing going on?”
“Nothing going on?” he snapped. “There’s plenty going on. I discovered you. I own you.”
His words wiped out my guilt. Before I could say anything, John grabbed Paul by the back of his shirt and jerked him away from me. “You don’t grab her arm like that, asshole. She said to leave her alone. Got it?”
Paul, flustered and pissed, pushed John away from him. “Get lost. This isn’t your business.”
Aw, shit, I thought.
“It’s very much my business,” John snapped. “You owe Sam half a million bucks. You’ve breached your contract with her.”
“Who the hell do you think you are, Steeling? You don’t work for this studio, you don’t—”
“I’m now one of the owners.” John swept past him, his expression unreadable, like stone, and hooked his arm through mine. As we moved away from Paul, John said, “I think we’re done out here, Sam.”
“We may be, but Paul isn’t,” I said softly.
“He is. Trust me, he is.”
But just as we reached the front steps to the studio, Paul barreled into John from behind, body-slammed him like some NFL player. John pitched forward, I stumbled away from him, and John and Paul both crashed to the steps, rolled to the ground, and fought like a couple of feral dogs. Carl Davidson, the director, and a couple of the line producers ran over to them, shouting and waving their arms, trying to pull them apart.
Even though John was taller than Paul, far more fit, and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds of muscle, Paul—in his adrenaline-fueled rage—clung to him like Velcro. They rolled and punched each other, and Davidson finally managed to grab the back of Paul’s shirt and jerk him back far enough from John so that John’s legs trapped Paul against the ground, and his massive hands gripped the sides of Paul’s head and jerked it upward, toward his own face. He hissed, “I’m saying this just once. Back off.”
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