5 The Boy Who Never Grew Up

by David Handler

  I followed. He was still asleep, burbling quietly. “Seems like a very well-behaved little guy,” I said as we stood there, looking in at him.

  “He’s an angel,” she said. “I love him to death. Does Matthew … does he ever ask about him?”

  “He started crying before, just thinking about him. Georgie’s favorite scene in Dennis came on the TV.”

  “I know just which one it is,” she said. “It’s when Dennis meets Althea and he … and she … and they …” The tears came first. Then the sobs, big wrenching ones. And then she hurled herself into my arms and let go completely. I held on tight. She was small and slim, but a sturdy little package, her back ridged with muscle, her clutch pythonlike. When she was all cried out she released me. I gave her my linen handkerchief.

  “I—I don’t know why I did that,” she blubbered, using it.

  “You’re upset.”

  “But I hardly know you.”

  “Think nothing of it. People cry in front of me all the time. I seem to have that effect on them.”

  “You’re awfully nice,” she sniffled.

  “No, I’m not.”

  She studied me, her porcelain blue eyes shimmering. “I meant, you’re very comforting.”

  “I’m a good, hot bowl of Cream of Wheat, all right.”

  “In case you didn’t know it, Cassie has a terrible crush on you.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “And she’s not the only one who does.” She whispered that. I barely heard it. Maybe I never heard it at all. She gave me back my handkerchief. Then she got in and drove off.

  I watched the lights of her car disappear down the road … “What makes them so special, Meat?” … I don’t believe I’d ever missed Merilee as much as I did right then, standing there in the road, holding my wet hankie. I missed her so much my chest ached. I took a couple of deep breaths in and out. Then I shook myself and climbed into Tod Stiles’s Vette and headed back to the dream factory.

  The phone was ringing in the Ramon Novarro bungalow when I came in. Merilee. She missed me. She couldn’t live without me. Her. It was her. It had to be her.

  I lunged for it. “Hello?”

  “Gawd, you’re such a star.”

  It wasn’t her. “In what sense, Cassandra?”

  “I mean, ya get so used to people not living up to their own hype,” she gushed. “But you, wham, this thing’s already going right through the roof. I’m in awe. No shit—awe.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Didja steal Penny’s negatives yourself? Is that how ya did it? Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “Actually, I rather thought you did it.”

  She let loose her shriek of a laugh. “Me? No way, Jose.” She lowered her voice again. “What about Zorch and his boyfriend? Didja kill ’em?”

  “What do you think?”

  “It occurred to me, I gotta confess, that ya mighta. I mean, you’re so lucky, and nobody’s this lucky, but—nah—you’re too classy to shoot down two guys. Ya wouldn’t. Ya didn’t.” She came up for air. “Didja?”

  “They were dead when I got there.”

  “Yeah, yeah, shewa. So listen, I’m out here in Trancas and Penny just called and—”

  “Locked in a heavy give-and-take session with Big Steve?”

  “Jealous?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “She said they think maybe Johnny didn’t do it.”

  “Evidently not. What time did you get out there?”

  “Me? Hey, forget it, honey. I been here since five. Took a dip in the blue Pacific. Neighbors can vouch for me.”

  “And Trace? Where was he?”

  “Someplace up the beach. He come shambling in about seven-thoity. He has no concept of time. None. He’s the reason I’m calling. Penny said you’re tight with the cop who’s investigating it.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it tight.”

  “Trace wants him to know that the fight he had with Zorch at Spago was just … Here, wait, I’ll let him tell ya. Trace, wake up! Christ, he’s so laid back he’s comatose. Hey, honey, wake up! I got Hoagy here, willya?”

  There was a rustling, followed by the heavy breathing thing. “How the hell are you, Buck?”

  “Just dandy, Trace.”

  “I … uh … I wouldn’t want anybody getting the wrong idea about me and Abel. He was a worm, and I hated his fucking guts, but it’s not like I’d kill him or anything. What I mean is, I already got enough problems without the cops mixing me up in some fag killing. Half the casting directors in town are fags. They’ll cut me dead if they think I had anything to do with it.”

  “Where were you when it happened, Trace?”

  He yawned. “Right here.”

  “Cassandra just told me you weren’t.”

  “She did? But I was … I see what you’re saying. I wasn’t home, but I was here. Up the beach, visiting a sick friend.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Hey, let’s not get too carried away here, Buck,” Trace warned roughly. “I’m not involved in this thing, remember?”

  “What are you doing tomorrow, Trace?”

  “Maybe a joint at sunrise,” he replied. “Couple of margaritas for breakfast. Care to join me?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Come on out. I’ll be here all day. Fourth house from the left, one looks like it’s ready to fall over. Takes after me.”

  “I’ll be there. Could I speak with Cassandra again?”

  She got back on. “So listen, Hoagy, if there’s anything I can do …”

  “Actually, there is.”

  “Gawd! This is like a dream. My old lady in Bensonhurst won’t believe this. Just name it. Anything.”

  “You used to work for the Enquirer. Know anybody here in the L.A. bureau?”

  “Yeah, yeah, shewa. Coupla people.”

  “Think they might tell you how they got hold of the negatives? Off the record, I mean.”

  “I was wondering about that myself,” she admitted. “They may not, since they know I’m woiking for her. But I could try, if ya want me to.”

  “I want you to.”

  “Hey, it’s done. I’m like Domino’s. I deliver—right to your door.”

  “The phone will be fine, thanks.”

  “Does this mean we’re actually woiking together?” she asked eagerly.

  “It means we’re cooperating.”

  “What are you gonna do for me?” she wanted to know.

  “I’ll let you have my autograph. How’s that?”

  “Hey, Hoagy?”

  “Yes, Cassandra?”

  “You’re a real douche bag.”

  “And it’s high time you found out.”

  I hung up. The phone rang again almost immediately. Lamp. He was at the station house. I could hear voices and phones in the background.

  “Just wanted to let you know it checked out, Hoagy,” he reported crisply. “Johnny and Wax were at Hamburger Hamlet. The waitress and hostess IDed the both of them for the time of the shooting. I’d still like to talk to Johnny though. He may have some ideas.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “Maybe he saw something when he was hanging around at the scene. Or someone. He’s not there at Bedford Falls, is he?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “If he turns up will you call me?”

  “Of course, Lieutenant.”

  “We’ve got ourselves one other dead-end road,” he informed me. “That ex-boyfriend of Geoffrey Brand’s, Darren Dust, has been in Palm Springs for the past three days. Jeepers, who goes to the Springs in the middle of a heat wave? It must be a hundred and thirty there. Anyway, we can cross him off … Oh, I got hold of the service manager at the Rolls-Royce dealership. His boys worked on Zorch’s car this morning and delivered it to his office on their lunch break. It sat there in the parking lot of Zorch’s building until he used it in the late afternoon to go to court. I drove by the building just now. It’s all
valet parking. They keep them down in the basement, unlocked. Someone easily could have slipped down there and fooled with his remote. We’ll check the day men tomorrow, see if they remember noticing anybody.” He hesitated a moment. “The heat’s on under this one, Hoagy. Zorch was big time. Many powerful friends. You, uh, don’t have anything for me, do you?”

  As it happened, I had four or five things he could check out that I couldn’t. He wrote them down and said he would.

  “There is one other thing, Lieutenant,” I added.

  “What’s that, Hoagy?”

  “I smoothed the way for you with you-know-who.”

  “You did what?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  “She thinks you sound real nice. Seriously, I think if you play your cards right you and Penny will soon be—”

  “Cut that out!” he cried. “Gosh darn it, Hoagy, I mean it!” Then he slammed down the phone, hard. He was getting a little touchy. Must have been the heat.

  It was certainly hot in the bungalow. No breeze came in through the windows. I shut them and flicked on the air conditioner. I took Lulu out for a walk while it did its job.

  The bungalow courtyard was dark and deserted. Bunny was still at the two Shelleys’. We strolled, Lulu sniffing at the plants, me sniffing at the day’s events. The theft of Pennyroyal’s negatives. The murders. It couldn’t be a coincidence. They had to connect. And the same person had to be responsible. But who? Matthew and Johnny were accounted for. Cassandra, too, apparently. But Trace wasn’t. Nor was Pennyroyal. Except that she wouldn’t discredit herself by leaking her own nude shots to the press. That made no sense. There was Norbert Schlom, whose multibillion-dollar deal with Murakami was in jeopardy because of Zorch’s gutter tactics. There was Toy Schlom, whose murky past tied her in with Shambazza and the negatives. And then there was the Bedford Falls inner circle. The two Shelleys, Bunny, Sarge. They’d do anything to protect Matthew and his studio. Had one of them killed for him? Possibly. But why leak Pennyroyal’s negatives? Why drive a deeper wedge between her and Matthew when reconciliation was Bedford Falls’ best hope? No sense. It made no sense at all.

  Perplexed, I found myself up near the front gate. Shadow was on duty in the guard’s booth, browsing through a copy of The New England Journal of Medicine. A small fan blew on the counter before him.

  “Evening, Shadow,” I said.

  He showed me his gold tooth. “Why, good evening, sir.”

  “Batman make it back yet?”

  “He did.”

  “Any visitors? Robin, perhaps?”

  Shadow hesitated. “No sir. Quiet night. Extremely so.”

  “Did you really do that to him, Shadow?”

  “Do what, sir?”

  Plant coke in his bungalow so he’d have to direct The Three Stooges?”

  He shifted uneasily on his seat and looked away. “That happens to be a part of my life I deeply regret. Mr. Schlom, he’s an evil man. Expects his employees to be just as evil as he be. But I got out of that place, thanks to Matthew. And I’ve tried as hard as I know how to make it up to him. I truly have.”

  “What else do you know, Shadow?”

  “Sir?”

  “You told me the Shadow knows plenty. What else?”

  The old outfielder thumbed his chin thoughtfully, then crossed his big arms. “I know that Bedford Falls is doomed. I know that. Yessir.”

  “How come?”

  “Because Miss Ayn Rand was right. She be one smart lady, that gal. Ever read a hefty volume of hers by the name of Atlas Shrugged?”

  “I have.”

  “You’ll recall she suggests that the true hero of this American land ain’t no ballplayer or soldier but the man who creates something, a product, and makes a profit off of it. And that this here creator, he is destined to be destroyed by the moochers and parasites and other various forces of mediocrity who are lurking out there in the tall grass.”

  “Is that what you think is happening to Matthew?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I think that’s the essence of the movie business. Always has been. Always will be.”

  Shadow took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and swiped at his thick, muscled neck. “Small fry. We all be small fry here. Don’t stand no kind of chance. No sir.” He sighed wearily. “Shit, don’t be listening to me. I’m just tired and hot. Said on the radio it might finally break tomorrow. Something sure gonna, it don’t. You get yourself some rest, sir.”

  “Good night, Shadow.”

  We kept walking. Took a turn through Homewood, which almost seemed like a real place in the night. Its business district all buttoned up. Its residents tucked safely into their beds, dreaming nothing but sweet dreams. It gave me the creeps walking through there. Lulu seemed to like it.

  We moseyed by Stage One on our way back. I hadn’t thought Shadow was being totally straight with me, and I wasn’t wrong. Johnny’s big white Fat Boy was parked there at the stage door. He was inside visiting Matthew. I thought about going in. I thought about phoning Lamp like I said I would. I didn’t do either of those things. I went back to my bungalow and poured myself two fingers of Glenmorangie and put on some Garner. I stretched out on the bed and listened to him play “Body and Soul” like no one else ever has or ever will. I lay there a long time, listening. And remembering how Pennyroyal Brim had felt in my arms.

  Chapter 7

  THE HEAT WAVE DIDN’T BREAK. IT WAS EIGHTY-SIX degrees by eight A.M., the weatherman promising it would top a hundred for the fifth day in a row. Pennyroyal’s pictures did. The Enquirer hit the stands that morning with all of her plastered tastefully across the front page—the headline, “SAY CHEESECAKE, PRETTY PENNY,” also serving as a bikini of black ink. She was standing beside a potted plant, wearing a top hat and no tails. She had a dreamy expression on her face, lips parted, as if in rapture. Her face was a bit fuller, but otherwise she hadn’t changed much over the past eight years. Penthouse, it was announced, had won the bidding war with Playboy and would be showing us the X-rated Penny in a few short weeks.

  The House of Wax story got plenty of play that morning, what with the murder of Abel Zorch, high-powered Hollywood attorney and former ranking official of the Committee to Reelect the President. There were expressions of great sadness from the likes of Norbert Schlom, noted paper eater, who called Zorch “a man of vision and clarity who looked into the future and saw how to get there.” Executives of the Murakami Corporation of Japan noted him as one “who paid scrupulous attention to the difficult demands of business without ever sacrificing his honor.” G. Gordon Liddy, former CRP general counsel turned lecture circuiteer, lauded him as “one tough son of a bleep. Abel took no prisoners.” There were no new leads on the killer of Zorch and Geoffrey Brand, age twenty-three, of West Hollywood. Film star Johnny Forget, who had been observed at the scene shortly before the crime, was wanted for questioning but was not considered a suspect, according to Detective Lieutenant Emil Lamp of the L.A.P.D.

  I was up early, stropping Grandfather’s razor. Time to get out my mukluks. I wore them when I wrote the first novel. I’ve worn them at the typewriter ever since. There’s not much holding them together anymore. In that respect, they’re a lot like me. I spent the morning roughing out Matthew’s childhood, Lulu dozing under my chair with her head on my foot. I gave him a boyish, earnest voice. I focused on the latchkey kid angle, contrasting the warm, caring family and community life of his Badger movies with Matthew’s own solitary childhood of safe places and imaginary gunfights played out in the backyard of his bland suburban ranch house. I wasn’t overly happy with it. There was still too much I didn’t know. About his father. About the basketball team. But I did cover some ground, and that’s what mattered right now—the pressure was on. My drum banger called me that morning from New York in a major dither. Cassandra was already delivering pages to her publisher. Why wasn’t I? Cassandra was going to be done by January first. Why wasn’t I? Penny’s book would be in the stores by the summer
. Ours wouldn’t be out until fall. Why? Calmly, I pointed out that our deal called for me to deliver in April, not January. Not so calmly, he pointed out that we had to get into the stores while this story was so hot. He suggested this wasn’t publishing—this was war. I suggested he find a different, faster warrior, which made him even more agitated. Then I hung up on him. I don’t think that made him feel any better, but it worked for me.

  Mrs. Shelley called me that morning, too, right after she got off the phone with the Monroe High Alumni Association. The Class of ’72 twentieth reunion dinner dance was this coming Saturday night at the Sheraton Panorama City. She had made us a reservation for two. Mona Thayer, née Schaffer, would indeed be in attendance. Mona was a registered nurse, divorced, and the mother of an eight-year-old daughter. She lived in Canoga Park.

  Merilee Nash did not call me that morning.

  My name was stenciled on my parking space now. I was somebody. It was obvious. Martin Short, who was writing a script in the bungalow next door, said hello when I passed him on my way to Stage One. Leonard Nimoy smiled at me when he rode by on his bike, and he doesn’t even know me. Former angry playwright turned boring director David Mamet rode by me too, only he didn’t smile. He does know me. I also saw six little boys dressed up like bumblebees. I couldn’t tell you if they were smiling or not.

  I ran into Sarge on the way, striding regally along in shorts and running shoes, clipboard clutched to her breast, calves glistening in the sunlight.

  “Just the person I was looking for,” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow at me, amused—I was dribbling the basketball that I’d bought. Today’s gift. “Ain’t you, like, the wrong color, man?”

  “I thought Matthew could show me a few of his moves.”

  “He hasn’t got any.” She laughed. “Suffers bad from White Man’s Disease—vertical leap’s maybe four inches. Pathetic. Why you looking for me?”

  “I lost my Waterman pen. Thought maybe I left it in your Land Cruiser.”

  It was parked nearby in the executive lot. She unlocked it for me and waited while I pretended to search under the seat. A secretary stopped and said hi to her. That’s when I snuck a look in the glove compartment.