by Julia Dumont
They clinked glasses.
“Does this whole trip remind you of Titanic just a little bit?” he asked.
“More than a little bit,” she replied. “I doubt the ship will sink, but a few hearts might.”
“What are the other movies about boats?” he asked. “I was thinking about The Cat’s Meow, have you seen that one?”
“No, I don’t think so. Maybe part of it on TV. It’s the one about Chaplin and a murder, right?”
“Right, well it’s Kirsten Dunst as Marion Davies, William Randolph Hearst’s mistress, you know. Bogdanovich directed it. They go out with a bunch of famous movie people…Chaplin is played by what’s his name, the comedian in the dress…Eddie Izzard, and I can’t remember who plays Thomas Ince, Louella Parsons, and they others. It’s Ince’s birthday. But anyway, Hearst is a jealous man…understandable, he’s sort of a big, fat, old man having this long-term affair with a beautiful starlet…I mean, the Hearst Castle, the Santa Monica beach house, all of that was for her. And he suspects Chaplin is screwing her. And he probably is…I mean, he’s Charlie Fucking Chaplin, right? And Ince is kind of fueling the fires of Hearst’s jealousy, snooping around, digging up evidence, and at one point, Ince tries on Chaplin’s derby and Hearst mistakes him for Chaplin and_____pow_____he shoots him. Dead. Then they all take a secrecy pact. The End.”
“Wow,” said Cynthia. “Well, yeah. That could totally happen here.”
Timothy laughed very hard and so did Cynthia, but she was actually a little worried that something like that could happen this weekend. Not murder. Something less violent, but equally weird.
They got two more margaritas and just as Cynthia swallowed her first sip, Timothy leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth.
“Oh, my,” she said, “that tasted good.”
Chapter 30
SATURDAY EVENING
It was almost eight o’clock when Jack Stone pulled into the parking lot of the Long Beach Yacht Club. He had been there many times before and, in fact, had a boat of his own——a gorgeous racing catamaran, a very fast double-hulled sailboat——moored there for years. For a while, he’d been fairly heavily involved in Formula-18 Catamaran competition. He was an excellent skipper and he absolutely loved it——he’d won some races——but finding the time was almost impossible since he’d become an international film star committed to making one, sometimes two, sometimes three films a year. He realized a few years back that he’d either have to give up sailing or “romancing” and, well, that was that.
He cut through the clubhouse, thinking he’d just say a quick hello to the salty old dogs he’d gotten to know over the years. They were pretty much always there.
He entered the bar and immediately a few patrons called out, “Jack!” “Where’ve ya been, ya lousy land lubber!” and “That last movie, The Long Way Down, sure was a sorry piece of flotsam and jetsam! You shoulda been sailing!”
“Ha, ha! Very funny,” he said throwing his arms around two of the ancient mariners who seemed like they hadn’t moved from those very stools since the last time he’d seen them. “Do you two ever go home?”
“What? We are home,” said one.
“We have our priorities straight,” said another, “unlike some Hollywood pussies we know.”
This got a laugh from all corners of the room.
“Jack, me boy,” said another, “I want you to meet some new friends of mine. This is Summer and her boyfriend, Max. We call him Tatted Max, to avoid confusion.”
Summer and her boyfriend, who was covered with tattoos on every square inch of visible skin except portions of his face, turned around.
“Wow,” said Tatted Max, “Jack Fucking Stone.”
“Hi, nice to meet you,” said Jack, reaching out to shake his hand.
Summer, teetering from the alcohol, intercepted Jack’s hand and shook it enthusiastically while smiling her sweetest possible smile. “So,” she said, “one of the douches who screwed up Molly Hannigan.”
During the car ride, Max had related the entire sordid tale to Summer and Tatted Max about how he and Jack had been involved in a wild fracas at the palatial estate of Sternberg and Hannigan, who Jack and Max had both been screwing on the side. Since Tatted Max had taken over the driving when he hopped aboard at Venice Beach, Max was able to imbibe in the bourbon, thereby sliding comfortably into the mood for revealing secrets.
Max told them that at the time, he had been unperturbed by it all. In fact, that day had ended happily for him…he’d ridden off with the lovely Lolita on her cute, tight, pink Vespa, both literally, and then, later, literally did exactly what that sounds like metaphorically. They’d had a really good time for seventy-seven hours straight…with occasional breaks for other forms of sustenance. He remembered seventy-seven because they’d gotten a hotel on the Sunset Strip and, noticing the time as they were finally packing up, started singing the old TV theme song. Above all, he wanted fun______and for him sex was fun’s major ingredient______every single day of his life. He said he’d often lied to others in the pursuit of this happiness, but that he never lied to himself. Today’s events had given him pause. Not just seeing Molly again, but also spending time with Summer. For the first time in years he found himself at least wanting to try to tell fewer lies. He was really looking forward to seeing Lolita.
Jack, on the other hand, had always been more deluded. Fifty percent of his lies were ones he told himself. He somehow believed he wasn’t lying. He was in a continual state of self-deception.
Summer and Jack were still shaking hands, but the shaking slowed, and then stopped. Jack was understandably stunned by what she’d said. “What? Wait, who are you again?”
One of the old guys said, “Never mind, Jack. I want you to meet the other Max. This guy’s a hoot and a half.”
Max Ramsey slowly twirled around in his chair. Of course, he knew exactly whom he was going to see, but Jack did not have the same advantage.
Max held out his hand.
“Hi, Jack, I’m Max.”
“A pleasure to…” Jack reached out his hand, but then stopped. “Wait…I know you, right?”
Max could not resist. He could never resist a joke.
“Well,” he said, “we know some of the same women, although from what I hear, I know them a whole lot better.”
“Oh, right!” he gasped. “You’re Cynthia’s brother! From Fiji! You sick motherfucker, or should I say sister-fucker!”
This only made Max laugh. He had pretended that Cynthia was his sister, but after all the revelations that had flown by, Stone still had never caught on that it was just a joke. He could not stop laughing. Summer and Tatted Max were also laughing because in the car Max had shared the sister-fucking story: “And I bet you a gazillion bucks that Jack Stone still hasn’t figured it out.”
Summer turned to Tatted Max: “We owe Untatted Max a gazillion dollars.” This made the three of them laugh even harder.
Which made Jack even madder.
“What the hell are you lunatics laughing about?” He hated Max for two main reasons: One, the sister incest thing. For no good or logical reason, he did not hold Cynthia responsible whatsoever for complicity in this imagined incest. And two, he hated Max because, even though Max had caused just as much tumult and heartache as he did during the Sternberg incident, while Jack lost three movies, his best friend, several lovers in a dwindling stable, the respect of many of his peers and fans, and a large chunk of his leg to a mad Chihuahua______well, not mad, but definitely very angry______Max had escaped unscathed. He had beat Jack at his own game.
Max didn’t hate Jack. He just thought he was an asshole and an idiot. Period. And he loved shining a light on his asshole-ness and idiocy. He found it entertaining.
The patrons of the yacht club bar were confused. The two attitudes______smoldering rage versus giddy amusement______seemed odd, to say the least.
Of course, Max refused to explain. He loved that Jack was shocked and enraged for all the wrong rea
sons.
“To get back to your point,” he said, “yes, I came all the way from Fiji to rendezvous with my baby sister out on Ava Dodd Radcliffe’s little dinghy.”
“You are not going out on that yacht!” said Jack, sounding righteous and noble in the defense of sisterhood and womankind, and everything, really.
“OH. I’M SORRY,” Max said in a much too loud voice. “ARE YOU DEAF? BECAUSE I JUST SAID THAT’S WHERE I AM GOING. MY SISTER IS EXPECTING ME. SHE HAS A THING FOR THE GENTLE ROCKING OF THE SEA. SHE’D PROBABLY LOVE TRAINS FOR THE SAME REASON. MENTAL NOTE: BOOK TRAIN RIDE WITH SIS.”
Summer, Tatted Max, and the bar patrons were amused, entranced, disgusted, or a combination of those things.
“You sick wannabe,” said Jack, fuming…breathing heavier now.
“YEAH,” said Max with a shrug. “YOU SIMPLY CANNOT BEAT SOME LITTLE SISTER LOVIN’.”
That was it. Jack lunged forward, swinging hard, but Max knew it was coming…he’d intentionally driven him to do it. He quickly grabbed a nearby chair, lion tamer style, and Jack slammed his fist into one of the metal legs.
“Oww! You asshole!” he screamed, still coming.
Summer wanted to get into the fight, but Tatted Max held her back, while Max picked up a nearby pint of ale and rocketed the contents into Jack’s face.
This slowed him down, but not by much.
Max threw the empty glass at him…and sprinted for the door, the two kids right behind him. They dragged one of the round tables with them, lodged it in the open doorway, and headed for the dock.
Jack tripped over at least three chairs before struggling with the obstruction in the doorway.
The odd trio made it to Slip 225.
“Hello, Mr. Ramsey,” said Paul Winslow, who happened to be carefully folding the last page of his Mad Magazine, the Mad Fold-In. “What’s the hurry?”
Max had been aboard Ava and Jonathon’s boat many times. He really was just a friend to Ava. “Get me to Ms. Radcliffe’s boat, Paul. Pronto,” he said, leaping into the cigarette boat, Summer and Tatted Max right behind him. “There’s a crazy movie star in there who’s off his meds. And he’s taking it out on me. Us.”
“Sure thing, Max.” Paul moved fast. “You’re lucky, I’m the last guy here and I was about to go home. The yacht already sailed, but we can catch it.”
He cast off, powered up, and by the time Jack reached the end of the dock, they were already thirty yards out.
“Good man, Paul. This is Summer and Tatted Max. You know, when I was a kid I was the only Max around. There were probably five Maxes under seventy years old in the country. Now the planet is lousy with Maxes.”
“Hey, who are you calling lousy?” asked Tatted Max.
“I’m just saying that the nation has sort of maxed out on Maxes, that’s all.”
“There are definitely twice as many Maxes on this boat than there should be,” said Summer, giving Max Ramsey a fake evil eye.
“Well,” said Paul, “friends of this Max are friends of mine.” Then, squinting toward shore, “Hey, isn’t that Jack Stone?”
“Yes,” said Max. “Poor fellow. As much of an asshole-creep as he is, you gotta feel for those tormented by the scourge of mental illness.”
“I had no idea. I used to see him around here all the time. And I can testify to the fact that he was a total asshole to me. I guess that was why.”
“No,” said Summer, “he’s an asshole even when he’s sane.”
Meanwhile, the dock was crowded with angry, drunken denizens of the bar, all shaking their fists and trying hard to outdo one another with loud, colorful, nautical expletives. Jack was their man. Their man in Hollywood, goddamn it. They had only met Max and the others a half an hour ago. Plus, they didn’t take kindly to incest.
Paul looked back, squinting at the dock again. It was dark and visibility was low.
“So…I guess all those old dudes are off their meds?”
They all burst into laughter and were still laughing when they finally reached the Que Sera Sarong. Max, Tatted Max, and Summer climbed the ladder.
“Thanks, matey,” Max said. “I tell you what. If you can delay Jack from getting over here, there’s something in it for you. And if the deal I’m working on hits, the something will be a number with a lot of zeros.”
“Avast!” Paul called over the sound of the motor, “We pirates have to stick together!”
Chapter 31
SATURDAY 6:23 PM
Max and company wandered into the dining room where a whole new spread of food and drink had been laid out. Loud party music was playing too, but except for two couples dancing and a couple of the chef’s assistants, the place was empty. The party had apparently spread to all corners of the yacht. They loaded up plates with all kinds of gourmet offerings and then poured champagne.
Max had no doubt that Jack would be coming for him. But since he would need to hitch a ride with Paul (who would happily do anything he could to delay his least-favorite asshole even without his offer of monetary gain) or one of the bar relics (who would need a lot of coaxing and black coffee to abandon their boat-style bar stools for an actual boat, even for Jack), and the wind had picked up, so the yacht was now pointing, moving along at a very fast clip, they’d have time to relax a bit.
They ate and drank, gazing at the star-filled sky with the wind in their faces. They watched the lights of North America fade and disappear over the watery horizon.
“This may be the most beautiful place on Earth,” said Summer, putting her arm around Tatted Max.
Max refreshed their champagne glasses and headed over to the rail. He could see several boats, their headlights dancing like fireflies along the surface of the sea. One of those sets of lights might be Jack coming for some kind of macho showdown.
“Hey, you guys,” he said. “I’m going to go look for some people. They’ve gotta be here somewhere.” He walked along the deck, wondering where everyone was. He wanted to see Ava, just because she was a very good friend and he wanted to check in on how she was doing. He felt protective of her after Jonathon passed away. He wanted to see Cynthia; just to say that he got it, that he knew it was over. He wanted to see Lolita for other reasons.
He walked along, coming across various couples and small parties of guests chatting and drinking. The acoustics were peculiar since the sound of the wind and waves gave all of these sequestered groups their own auditory sense of privacy. Their conversations and laughter could not be heard until Max was right up close to them and then immediately dissipated as he passed, swallowed up by the great white noise of the sea.
He made a complete lap of the deck and still couldn’t find anybody he knew. He passed Summer and Tatted Max, who had curled up in a hammock and were either asleep or just in some kind of meditative state of communal bliss. He thought they looked adorable. Even though he knew no one was seeking, nor cared to hear it, he found himself approving of Tatted Max.
Max continued his search, but this was weird…sort of a largely invisible party. He put his ear to one cabin door, then another, hoping to hear something that would provide a clue. But the wind in his ears, the luffing of the sails, and the rush of water against the hull was far too loud.
Then he heard the putt-putt-putting of a motorboat slowing down, then silence, and he knew it was time to make a decision.
He tried one doorknob. Locked. He hadn’t thought about that. The next one: locked. He heard the motorboat rev again. Jack had to be climbing the ladder at this point.
Max tried the next, the next, the next: locked, locked, locked. Finally one turned. He pushed the door open quickly and quietly and locked it behind him.
It was pitch dark in there. He might have heard breathing…he wasn’t sure. It could have been the wind. He just stood there. He couldn’t turn on a light, which might attract the attention of the rabid movie star who was undoubtedly patrolling the perimeter right now, looking for any excuse to bust down any door.
He opted for sta
nding still as a statue for a while, there in the dark. He didn’t know how long. He was playing this by ear. He kept thinking he could hear something close by, but he wasn’t sure. And he was reluctant to even whisper a hello, because that could lead to a scream, which could lead to lights, and god knew what else.
One thing about Max was that he was able to laugh at himself in even the direst circumstances. He started to chuckle softly. He couldn’t help it. He tried to hold it in, but it could not be denied. He covered his mouth with his hands, which led to soft sniff-sniff-sniff-type laughter through his nose.
Then, from the darkness, came a voice, a sweet woman’s voice, saying, “Hello? Is there somebody in here?”
Chapter 32
SUNDAY GETTING LATE AT NIGHT
Cynthia had been in her room with Timothy for a long time.
She had said, “Timothy, would you mind just talking for a while?”
He had said, “I’d love that.”
What was it about musicians? How ridiculous could she get, she wondered. Her long-distance relationship with Pete was falling apart and here she was sitting on a bed on the verge of falling into it with another one.
She was attracted to him. He had the kind of strong, but soft voice that she found intoxicating. He wasn’t forcing himself on her at all, but she was slowly being drawn in.
He was in the middle of a sentence. He was talking to her about why he loved re-reading Raymond Chandler since he moved to Los Angeles. He had lived here for a couple of years before he’d spent any real time downtown. And just a few months ago, he’d bought a loft in a converted old office building on Broadway smack in the middle of downtown. Its ceilings were twenty feet high and he was on the twenty-seventh floor. The view was glorious, she really needed to come over and check it out. He was also an artist, not professionally, but he had actually gone to art school. In his spare time he built things. The first thing he made when he moved into his loft space was a huge sculpture of a couple…embracing, kissing, floating high up near the ceiling. They were twenty feet long, their legs and arms entwined, weightless, like the figures in a Chagall painting. They were covered with words, collaged typography, some readable, some overlapping, fragments left to the viewer to finish and interpret. He had a picture of it on his iPhone and it was gorgeous and sexy and a monumental testament to love and life. And the thing that Cynthia liked most about it was that he wasn’t doing it for money or fame or anything else. He was a successful musician…he had no intention or desire to switch over to making art.