5 The Boy Who Never Grew Up

by David Handler

  “W-Would you like to dance, Mona?” he asked her, his voice cracking just like Badger’s did when he asked Debbie to the prom. Debbie said yes but got the mumps, so Badger took his mom, who was voted prom queen.

  Mona said, “I’d love to dance, Matthew.”

  “Great.” He heaved a sigh of relief. “Will you excuse us, Meat?”

  “I have to cut out now, Matthew.”

  “But we just got here,” he protested. “Where are you going?”

  “It’s business. I’ll see you back at Bedford Falls later.”

  “Okay, Meat, if you say so. Hey, wait—how am I gonna get home?”

  “Improvise.”

  Parked cars lined both sides of Hazen Drive all the way down the hill, well past the gate where I’d found the bodies of Abel Zorch and Geoffrey with a G. Paparazzi were crowded outside the Schloms’ gate. A police cruiser was parked there with two uniformed cops inside it. Then again, maybe it was only Norb’s bogus car. And maybe they were only actors pretending to be cops. No telling. I only knew that it was definitely time to get out of town.

  I left the Batmobile with a male model in a red jacket and strolled up the driveway. It was steep and curved around behind another house before it arrived at a 1940s reproduction of a Provencal stone cottage, not small. It sat on top of the hill, the lights of the San Fernando Valley spread out below. There was a tennis court, a pool, and a large floodlit patio. That’s where the activity was. Two hundred or so celebrities had come to pay their last respects to Abel Zorch and their first to Mr. Hiroshi Nakamura of the Murakami Corporation, Wild West style. The old guard was on hand—the Jimmy Stewarts, John Gavins, Charlton Hestons. The new guard was on hand—Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, Demi Moore and Bruce Willis, Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger, Sly Stallone and bimbo. They were all there, costumed in their ten-gallon hats, fringed buckskin jackets and stonewashed jeans, their deerskin vests, elkhide boots and duster coats, their leather chaps, string ties, and calico shirts. They were all there, chewing on their plates of barbecue and cole slaw and spitting the remains into their bandana napkins. A pig was roasting on a spit over an open fire. A country western band was playing—Willie Nelson, in fact. Approved society page photographers and the Entertainment Tonight puff crew were on hand to capture all the fun. The earplug brigade was there too, meaning Ronnie and Nancy were about somewhere as well.

  Lulu took it all in, awestruck. A relapse, I’m afraid. It was quite some crowd. But a brief relapse, happily. After a moment she shook herself, like she does after a bath, and went scampering off in search of the sushi bar I’d promised her. A small lie on my part. She wouldn’t have left the reunion otherwise.

  Toy Schlom, elegant society matron, spotted me quickly, her violet eyes sparkling. She seemed gay and at ease amidst all of this. Also lithe and ageless. Not an ounce of fat on her. She wore a black suede vaquero hat, a faded denim shirt open to the navel, and skintight white jeans tucked into black snakeskin Tony Lamas. I noticed again how unusually smooth and shiny her skin was. Watching her move across the patio toward me I decided she wasn’t coated in polyurethane at all. No, the entire lady was made of durable space-age polymers.

  “Why, you’ve not worn a costume, Mr. Hoag,” she observed in her Locust Valley lockjaw. “I should be very cross with you.”

  “Not to fear, Toy. On the inside I’m still a rootin’, tootin’, six-shootin’ buckaroo.”

  She laughed and took my arm, guiding me toward the house. “You are an interesting man. I may have to adopt you for the evening. There are so few interesting people here.” She was skilled at this, all poise and flattery. “You must eat, of course. But first you must say hello to Norbert and our guest of honor.”

  She took me inside through the French doors. Very Provencal in here as well. Stone floors. Whitewashed walls. Rough, country antiques. There was an upstairs, and wings going off in both directions.

  “Not a terrible house,” I said.

  “I’ve just finished decorating it,” she said. “It is nice, is it not? Especially for a tear-down.”

  “You’re tearing it down?”

  “On Monday,” she confirmed. “We need more space. A ballroom, a dining room that can seat more than two dozen. We love the location, so we have decided to build on it. An exact duplicate of the villa in Tuscany Norbert and I stayed in on our honeymoon. It will be very authentic, very bold. And it will have space. My new closets, I assure you, will make Candy Spelling’s closets look like—”

  “Closets?”

  “We’re renting down the block while the construction takes place. Abel’s house, actually. We’ve made arrangements with his estate.”

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Abel,” I said.

  “Why, certainly,” she said brightly. “After I’ve greeted my guests, and you’ve eaten. Shall I look for you in the study?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  They were in the living room, posed stiffly before the stone fireplace like heads of state at a summit conference. On the left was Schlom, the thug with the yellow rat’s eyes. On the right was Nakamura, who was a pretty tough-looking customer himself. The man from Murakami was in his sixties and built of solid oak, with slicked-down black hair and steel-framed glasses. The Reagans were with them right now, both of them looking like they’d paid a recent visit to a good, professional taxidermist. So were the national TV news crews and a crew from Tokyo, lights blazing, cameras rolling. Flanking Nakamura was the Japanese ambassador to the United States, who’d flown in from Washington for die occasion. Flanking Schlom was Kinsley Usher, the tall, silver-haired ex-senator from the state of California who was every inch Hollywood’s vision of a statesman. The man was so distinguished he made Lloyd Bentsen look like Buddy Hackett. None of these people were in Western wear, though I suspected Ronnie wanted to be.

  After the cameras had stopped rolling and the former President and Nancy had been carted away, Toy led me up to her husband.

  “Darling, here is Mr. Hoag,” she sang out.

  “Glad to see ya, Hoag,” he growled, shaking my hand. “Say hello to Mr. Nakamura. This is Stu Hoag, Hiroshi. He’s helping us bring this Bedford Falls thing to a conclusion.”

  “I suppose that’s one way of describing what I’m doing,” I said.

  Nakamura’s eyes flickered at the mention of Bedford Falls. A brief flicker. Nothing more. He bowed, then shook my hand. His grip made my fingers tingle. He said he was pleased to meet me, and happy that the heat wave had broken. He spoke fluent English, or seemed to. He was cordial. Still, I wouldn’t have wanted to get in a fight with him. Next to him, Schlom was Cuddles Sakall.

  I moved over and let Usher dazzle me with his smile.

  “I’ve just been in contact with Sheldon Selden, Mr. Hoag,” he informed me in his rich, resonant voice. He talked as if the cameras were still rolling. “I was attempting to impress upon him how crucial it is for both sides to pour oil on these troubled waters. I suggested we all sit down together tomorrow morning like responsible adults.”

  “A novel concept, Senator,” I said. “I like it.”

  “I hope you’ll join us.”

  “I don’t believe I qualify.”

  “That isn’t so, sir,” he insisted. “I understand you’ve become a trusted family adviser.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  He frowned. “What did you mean?”

  “I meant I’m not a responsible adult.”

  I left him to ponder this and moved on outside. A cowpoke waiter handed me a frosted mug of beer. I found Pennyroyal and Cassandra standing by the pool polishing off their vittles. Pennyroyal wore a starched calico prairie dress unbuttoned up to midthigh, white boots, and a suede cowboy hat held on with a chin strap. She was unquestionably the cutest little cowgirl there. Possibly the cutest in the history of the West. Or maybe it was just the way she was looking at me.

  “You’re here,” she said, her eyes soft and expectant.

  “You can’t
keep Stewart Hoag away from a hootenanny. Ask anyone.”

  “I’m so glad you made it, Hoagy,” she said, resting her hand on my arm.

  “I’m glad you’re glad,” I said, grinning at Cassandra, who had on her denim jacket, jeans, and no hat.

  “Gawd,” she cried, giving me a buggy-eyed onceover. “Ya look unreal in evening clothes. I mean, gawd!”

  “It is a pretty awe-inspiring sight.”

  “Where’s your cute little friend?” she asked.

  “She’s off playing seek the sashimi.”

  “I mean the Lieutenant.”

  “I let him have his Saturday nights to himself, provided he’s back for bed check.”

  “Have you eaten yet, Hoagy?” Pennyroyal wondered, gazing up at me.

  “I have not.”

  “Let me get you something.”

  “Not necessary. I’ll get it myself.”

  “Please,” she insisted. “What can I get you?”

  “I want it all,” I replied. “While a select few of my organs still function.”

  Off she went to fetch it.

  Cassandra watched her, nodding to herself. “Yeah, yeah, shewa—it all makes sense now,” she commented tartly.

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  “All day she’s like a love-struck schoolgoil, completely useless to me. Stars in her eyes she has. I figure, hey, Pretty Penny’s getting dicked by someone new. Shewa enough, this afternoon she calls up Trace and breaks it off with him cold. So I know there’s somebody else. I shoulda figured, y’know? I really shoulda.” She shook her head ruefully. “Wow, I never had a chance with ya, did I? You’re waaaay outta my league.”

  I heard a low growl at my feet. Lulu. She’d discovered I fibbed about the sushi.

  “It looks mad,” observed Cassandra warily.

  “Appearances are not deceiving.”

  She showed me her teeth. Lulu, that is.

  I showed her mine. And said, “I never claimed to be a perfect father.”

  Grudgingly, she went off to mingle, but not until she’d hmphted at me, something she got from Merilee.

  “Christ, you’re smooth. I actually believed all that shit ya told me about being loyal to Merilee. So what are ya gonna do if she takes ya back? Dick ’em both?”

  “Cassandra, I hate to disappoint you, but I spent last evening in Trancas with Trace. Then I went to the fireworks show at Homewood. I did not, as you so eloquently put it, dick Pennyroyal.”

  “I don’t believe ya.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Me? Cranking out pages in my room. Faxed ten more to our editor. How many pages youse guys done, huh?”

  “This is not a track meet, Cassandra.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, honey. There’s a finish line, and I’m getting there foist.” She glanced across the patio. “Christ, look at her, will ya?”

  Our little cowgirl was working her way back to us through the crowd with my dinner, a shy doe smile on her face.

  “What about her?” I said.

  “She’s gone. I know women, and that woman is gone. I shewa hope ya know what you’re doing.”

  “I seldom know what I’m doing.”

  “Here you go, Hoagy,” Pennyroyal said, somewhat breathlessly.

  I took the plate from her. There was barbecue, beans, cole slaw, corn bread. “Thanks. Doesn’t look terrible.”

  “I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I said, tasting the barbeque.

  “How is it?” she wondered anxiously.

  “Excellent.”

  “Oh, good,” she said, relieved.

  “Gawd, I’m outta here,” announced Cassandra, rolling her eyes. “This is waaaay too sickening for me.”

  After she’d gone I said, “She thinks you’ve fallen for me.”

  Pennyroyal’s baby blue eyes searched my face. “And what do you think?”

  “I think the skies are cloudy and the forecast calls for pain.”

  Her forehead creased fretfully. “I still can’t believe what happened to Homewood. I saw the flames when I was leaving. Who would want to do that, Hoagy?”

  “Too many people.”

  “I didn’t think it would be smart for me to stick around,” she said. “What with the way the family feels about me. I mean, the last thing I need right now is to be caught in your bungalow late at night drinking champagne with no underwear on. …”

  I tasted the slaw. It was interesting slaw. It had raisins in it, carrots, a hint of onion. Green, I believe … “You weren’t wearing any underwear?”

  She shook her head, slowly and gravely.

  “Are you wearing any now?”

  She shook her head again, her eyes locked onto mine.

  I drained my beer. I was thirsty all of a sudden. “You’re not making this easy for me.”

  “I’m not trying to make it easy,” she purred, leaning in to me. I could feel her breath on my neck. “I’m trying to make it hard.”

  “And you’re succeeding admirably.”

  She laughed. A wicked, delicious laugh. Debbie Dale never laughed like that. She leaned in closer. “Will you come home with me tonight, Hoagy?” she whispered. “I want you. I really, really want you.”

  “I thought we went through this last night.”

  “And I thought we got past it.”

  “It can’t happen, Pennyroyal.”

  “But it will,” she vowed. “It has to.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Maybe in a movie. But not in real life. In real life, there’s a tomorrow after the fade-out. There are consequences. Hearts get stepped on.”

  She gazed up at me, a faint, mocking smile on her lips. “You really should write movies. Such a good speech. So noble and honorable and mature. Henry Fonda could have said it. There’s only one problem with it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “And it’s high time you found out.”

  “Has she called you?”

  “No.”

  “Has she written you?”

  “No.”

  “Have you heard one word from the woman since she left you?”

  “She hasn’t left me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “How? What are you going on?”

  “Faith.”

  “That’s not much,” she sniffed.

  “Don’t kid yourself. That’s everything.”

  Cassandra came rushing up to us excitedly. “You’ll never guess who’s trying to crash the party!”

  “Elvis?” I ventured hopefully.

  “Trace. He’s outside the gate, bombed and howling like a wolf. He’s calling for ya, honey. He keeps saying, ‘Big Steve wants his pretty baby back.’ ”

  “Damn him,” Pennyroyal cursed angrily. “Just what I need right now—another ‘Penny the Whore’ headline.”

  “Maybe ya oughta go calm him down, huh?” Cassandra suggested. “The guards can’t get rid of him.”

  “And humiliate myself in front of the most important people in the movie business?” Pennyroyal raged. “No way.”

  “But he’s fallin’ down drunk. Might get himself arrested.”

  “Good,” Penny said coldly. “I hope they haul him away and throw him in jail. I’m going inside until he’s gone. Excuse me.” With that she fled for the house. She did not look back.

  Cassandra watched her, amazed. “Wow, when that girl breaks it off, she breaks it off.”

  “So it would appear.”

  “WHERE’S MY PRETTY PENNY?! WHERE IS SHE?!”

  “Oh, gawd.”

  He had fought his way inside. Two security guards were all over him, but they couldn’t bring down the old quarterback. He was red-faced and wild-eyed, arms flailing, shirt torn. “WHERE’S PENNY?! BIG STEVE IS CALLING YOU!”

  It got very quiet. The celebrity party-goers watched Trace with utter disdain. Not because he was drunk or because he was making an a
ss of himself, but because he so obviously reeked of failure. That’s one perfume everyone in Hollywood is allergic to.

  “COME TO BIG STEVE, BABY!”

  “Possibly you should see about getting the man home,” I mentioned to Cassandra.

  “Why me?”

  “You wanted to be a big-time ghost—this is part of it.”

  “COME ON, PRETTY BABY!”

  “Why don’t you do it?”

  “I only clean up after my own elephant.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s your celebrity’s mess, Cassandra, not mine.”

  “BIG STEVE NEEDS YOUR SWEET LITTLE PUSSY, PENNY!”

  Reluctantly, she nodded. “Yeah, yeah, shewa.” Then she went over to try and calm him down. Guts she had plenty of.

  I went inside to find Toy. She was in the living room, chatting with the John Forsyths. She nodded at me and gestured toward the hallway off the dining room. I strolled that way. Past a powder room. Past a spare bedroom, which was being used as a coatroom. A hat check girl sat in there reading the current issue of People, the one with Pennyroyal and Georgie on the cover, and the headline “IT’S JUST THE TWO OF US NOW.” At the end of the hall was a small, paneled study with shuttered windows. There was a French provincial cherry writing table, a couple of deep leather armchairs, a wet bar. Norb’s inner sanctum. The place where he came to be alone with his deepest, vilest thoughts. On the walls were framed pictures of him with Harmon Wright, with Anwar Sadat, Menachem Begin, with Boris Yeltsin, Lech Walesa, Michael Jackson, Bob Hope. There was even a picture of him with Matthew Wax on the set of To the Moon, inscribed Thanks for all of these neat toys, pop. Love, Matthew. I searched through his liquor stock for a single malt. Finding none, I poured myself a calvados in a Baccarat crystal glass and sat down in one of the leather armchairs.

  Toy breezed in a moment later. She left the door open. You don’t close doors at Hollywood parties. People will think you’re snorting or fucking in there. “Such a lovely party, isn’t it?” she said gaily. “Abel would have adored it so. He loved the glitter, the lights, the laughter.” She took a seat behind the writing table. “I understand our friend Trace has made his usual drunken scene. And the poor dear wonders why no one will give him a job.”