“Devaney, what in the hell are you doing?”
“Whut?” Walker has the notebook of his pages in front of him, and when Devaney goes to grab it, he swats her hand away hard. “Ow!”
“Get out of my business, girl.”
“That hurt.”
“Well, what are you trying to do?”
“She thinks I’d be good at this.”
“Dev, I think you misunderstood . . .”
“Misunderstood what?”
Both Walker and Devaney are looking my way for an explanation.
“Don’t look at me.”
“Yeah, don’t look at her,” Devaney says, hitting Walker on the shoulder.
“Christ, how did I get babysitting duty tonight? Please shut up. I want to hear this song. Here.” Walker dumps out a bunch of coke and passes Devaney the tray, as if grudgingly relinquishing a dog treat.
For a split second Devaney reaches for the coke, then catches herself. “You can’t just, you know, shovel me full of drugs to shut me up. I have a brain, too, you know.”
“Turn around and let me see it.”
In a cringe-inducing move, Devaney actually looks behind her at the seat of her skirt. Even though Walker and I can barely stifle a laugh, I can tell he immediately regrets saying this. Walker can get mean, but it’s almost never in this way. Especially when the opponent is unworthy.
“Why are you laughing at me?”
“Jesus, girl. I just need to get some work done.”
“I want to know exactly what my, you know, what my role is around here.”
“You are here for the hang. It’s that simple.”
“The hang?”
I’m pretty sure Walker didn’t mean to make Devaney sound as meaningful as a picture on the wall, but there it is. “Yes. You are supposed to sit on the couch and give me something halfway decent to look at while I try to pull this book out of my ass.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you mean, that’s it? Plenty of women would love to be my muse.”
“Your mule?” Devaney’s ready to take those heels and shove them down Walker’s throat. Her country is up.
“No. Muse,” I say softly, feeling sorry for her. She looks from me to Walker, wondering if that’s a good or bad thing. “You inspire him, Devaney.”
“Christ, can everyone please shut up. The board, Alley, the board.”
Ah, yes . . . the board. I was trying to avoid the board tonight. It’s not that I hate pretending to shuffle images and words around on a corkboard in a desperate attempt to look busy, but I am starting to feel like a third-grader in collage mode. I have paste, I have glue, I have tape and tons of pushpins. I have big scissors, little scissors, Magic Markers, even some string. I noodle around with the fax/copy machine to make certain words larger before putting them on the board. Walker wants me to represent this book in a visual way for “inspiration,” so I spend lots of time clipping out photos and words from old Vanity Fairs and New Yorkers. Currently the board has the feel of an overwrought letter written by a serial killer.
“I can do it,” Devaney says.
Walker holds up a hand to stop her. “Out.”
“What? You’re kicking me out?”
“I don’t have time for nonsense, girl. This is serious business.”
“Fine. I’ll give you serious business.” She takes the tray of coke and does two lines, then clip-clops in her heels outside, where we hear her car start.
“Well, that went well,” I said.
“And what are you trying to do?”
“I’m sorry, I thought I was being encouraging.”
“This isn’t Miss Mabel’s School for the Editorially Challenged and Infinitely Stupid, sweetheart. And you are not here to make friends. With anyone.”
“She’s your girlfriend. Am I not supposed to be friendly?”
“Friendly but not conspiratorial. You’re here for me. Not her.”
“So that’s my role then?”
“Yes. You are the less pretty version of Devaney who happens to have a diploma.”
“Um, thank you?”
“You’re welcome. Where were we?”
“We were outside Oklahoma City.” I gently take the binder from Walker, which contains the pages as he gave them to me—the pages that he ostensibly went over with Lionel and, in so doing, should have learned that they did not match. But he didn’t? Or is he pretending he didn’t? Or did he, and he’s pretending that nothing’s amiss? Or did he, and he’s pretending that nothing’s amiss so he can blast me into oblivion next time we’re on the range? In lieu of an answer to these burning hypotheticals, denial appears to be my only recourse. And with twenty-plus years in an Italian Catholic family, that’s one trick I’ve got down.
The new working title of the book is Roadhouse, which I suppose is better than the old title: Truck Stop. Regardless, it ain’t exactly mining new territory—it’s a road-trip story, plain and simple. Since the story lines of both versions of the book are basically the same, I’ve been able to nudge Walker in the same general direction. Two guys, Luke and Tomás, are on the run from the authorities for a crime they didn’t commit. They are, of course, committing all sorts of crimes along the way, mostly involving illegal drugs and guns. There are political undertones, political overtones. There are plenty of women—some of whom will go along for part of the ride, one of whom will be their undoing. The main problems, as I see them now, are that the structure is too loose and the fun feels forced—two issues that I’m afraid are beginning to creep into our own daily reality.
To get Walker’s juices flowing, I do what I’ve done most every night I’ve been here: I ask him questions about the characters. I remind him about certain plot points he’s trying to develop. Even though the structure of this book is hanging by a thread, I tell myself it will all work if he just keeps going.
Walker shakes his empty glass while still staring at the typewriter. The clink of the ice cubes is my cue for a refill. I fix his drink, then go over to the board and start rearranging.
“This is a big romantic moment between Tomás and Cece, right?”
“Sort of. One of them,” he says distractedly. “You know, I’m a little hungry.”
I head over to the freezer and pull out a frozen sausage pizza. Walker nods his approval, then pulls out a pipe and puts a giant bud of pot inside. In the thousands of moments so far just like this one, I find myself amazed at how we are able to pass the time by doing almost nothing. Many nights after making dinner, mixing drinks, doing some drugs, messing around with the corkboard, throwing in a movie, going in the hot tub, and shooting some guns, I’ll be shocked to look up at the clock and find it’s 1:00 a.m. It’s astonishing how much white space we can fill in between plunks of the typewriter. It feels like we’re doing something when in fact we’re just skirting the inevitable struggle that happens at two when I demand—or at least try to demand—that Walker’s fingers go on the keyboard.
I would like to believe that our actions are in pursuit of the perfect cocktail of drugs, alcohol, and experiences to produce a halfway decent paragraph or two, but it’s hard to deny the generations’ worth of evidence that what we’re engaging in does little more than impair a person’s mental faculties. Even Walker Reade’s. Back in the days of Liar’s Dice, one could argue that the drugs enabled his genius. If they were not the whole point, they were a big part of it. But now they seem to produce what they would in most any fifty-two-year-old man: a desire to give up and call it a night.
Still, despite the tiff with Devaney, this is by far the mellowest evening I’ve spent here—so mellow that every once in a while Walker will turn from the blank page in the typewriter to me and seem almost surprised that I’m still here. The pot was a bad idea, taking an already unmotivated writer and rolling him into the pit of distraction. Walker puts in a new CD and starts changing the channels on the TV. I try to direct him to the board and start talking about the characters he’s supposed to be writing abo
ut. I ask him questions about their motives. Other questions, too, hoping this will spur along, if not a wellspring, at least a trickle of creativity.
“I feel like shit about Devaney,” Walker says finally.
“Where do you think she is?”
“I don’t know. Probably the bar at her restaurant.”
“Do you want to call over there? Do you want me to call over there?”
“Yeah, maybe. Yeah.”
“What’s it called?” I reach for the yellow pages.
“Cantina.”
“Do you want me to talk to her?”
“You get her on the phone. Then I’ll talk to her.”
I call the restaurant and can barely hear the hostess with all of the noise in the background. Once Devaney is on the phone, I head to the back office, just past the hot tub and the gun room, to give Walker some privacy. No one here spends time in this room. On the wall is a picture of Walker receiving his Pulitzer. There are pictures of his children. Even his first wife. There are pictures of him with celebrities—rock stars, actors, presidential candidates. I’m amazed at how young Walker looks in these pictures, but it’s more than that. He looks like he’s having fun—a lightness in his eyes, a sparkle in his smirk. There’s no thinly veiled rage, no look of disdain. Or maybe it’s because he’s keeping good company in these pictures. There are no Devaneys, Alleys, or Claudias for him to slum with. He looks like his true self. Or perhaps what I imagined that to be.
“Alley!”
“Coming.”
When I walk into the kitchen, Walker looks visibly relieved. “She’s on her way.”
“Good. Let’s maybe try to knock out a page before she comes. It’ll be easier, right?” He nods, but then the phone rings. Walker puts the speakerphone on; it’s Larry, who sounds like he’s having a party of his own.
“Hey, big guuuuuy.” Larry sounds drunk—extremely drunk—and happy. My guess is the happiness is related to the half dozen supermodels that are likely responsible for the din of high-pitched giggling on the other end of the line.
“What craziness are you up to, you bastard?”
“I have a break in two weeks,” Larry says. “Is there room at the inn?”
“For you? Always. Why don’t you bring some of your friends?”
“Maybe I will. Alley still out there?”
“She’s right here. You’re on speaker.”
“What’s up, Larry?” My voice is straining under the weight of forced disinterest.
“Hey, girl. So I’ll see you soon.” There’s a crash on the other end of the line, then a splash. Then a collective squeal, mostly female. Something fell. Someone’s in the pool. Someone is yelling for Larry to come in. It sounds like fun. Sounds like Hollywood.
“Okay. So I’ll see you, big guy.”
“Later, you bastard.” Walker stares at the phone after he hangs up, then jingles his glass again. I pour him another scotch, and he types a respectable page in ten minutes flat. We’re both relieved: Our reinforcements are in various stages of being on the way. One for him, and one for me.
CHAPTER 11
“Alley alley oxen free, what’s up?” Larry Lucas says while raising a hand for a high five, as if we’ve known each other for years. He’s fresh off a private plane from LA, although in his khaki cargo pants and olive-green vest over a white T-shirt, he looks more like he’s been airlifted from a humanitarian effort in Sudan.
“How’s it going, Larry?” I just stare at his hand. I am giddy that Larry is here but sense it will be better to not act like it.
“You leavin’ me hangin’?”
“A little bit.”
“Enjoying the ride.” Larry attempts to recover from the snub with an elaborate “cool guy” move—stretching his arms above his head, converting the hanging high five into a full-on raising-the-roof stretch-flex. It’s self-consciously dorky, awkward, adorable—and undeniably hot. The man’s arms are ripped.
I learned during my first night at Walker’s that Larry is strict—and vocal—about “eating clean.” He drinks green tea at every turn. He works out with a trainer six days a week. He employs a “life guru.” And he shoves his face in a tray of blow whenever he can. “I like the getup,” he says, referring to the “cowgirl meets high-priced escort” look I’m currently sporting: cowboy boots, a too-tight ruffle top, and a beige pencil skirt. My recent diet of cocaine and cigarettes has done wonders for my body; I’m actually starting to look good in these ridiculous clothes.
“From the Walker collection,” I say, flipping through an old New Yorker, acting uninterested. Even though Larry makes $10 million per picture, I never lose sight of the fact that I just gave up an unpaid internship and a bartending job to make zero dollars. So I’m not about to blow this gig for this guy, even if I can bounce a quarter off his fine-looking ass. Little do I realize that by “acting uninterested” toward Larry Lucas—a man who routinely receives marriage proposals and women’s panties in the mail—I am acquiring a certain mystery I neither intend nor possess. And it’s apparently turning him on.
“Hey, big guy,” Larry says, laying a man-hug on Walker. “What’re we doing? Let’s get this party started.”
“People are coming over tonight. We got some more pyramids,” Walker says.
“Meantime . . . ,” Larry says.
“Meantime, we have work to do,” I say. Our little team has had a decent two months, but only because of my unwavering commitment to a page a day, no excuses.
“No pages tonight, sweetheart. We have company,” Walker says.
“I thought we didn’t keep bankers’ hours around here.”
“Nice try, but not tonight.” Walker turns to Larry. “I thought we could go fuck with Johnson.”
“All right! Let’s do it. . . . Alley, you coming?”
I look to Walker for guidance.
“Go pick out a gun for later, sweetheart, and meet us by the car. Larry and I have to get some supplies from the garage. Grab a bottle of something while you’re at it and maybe a little snack for the ride.” Translation: We are about to load the car up with something illegal and would like to get drunk while we’re driving. I’m also a little hungry.
While Larry and Walker head for the garage, I procure a picnic basket from behind the bar and open the fridge. I toss in a whole key lime pie, a chocolate torte, a hunk of Brie, two Bosc pears, a few clusters of grapes, a bottle of chilled muscat, and a bottle of champagne. Then I grab a sleeve of crackers from the pantry. I throw in paper plates, napkins, knives, forks, and plastic cups from behind the bar along with bottles of Tanqueray and tonic water, and a Ziploc filled with ice cubes and limes, just in case. I go to the gun room and pick out my .22 rifle and head out to the Caprice—gun in one hand, picnic basket in other, resplendent in my ridiculous “Annie Oakley working the pole at Scores” outfit. Larry and Walker are laughing conspiratorially and loading up the backseat with enough fireworks and Roman candles to invade Grenada. Walker has also packed up the bullhorn/cassette machine from our excursion to Henley’s. They look up at me as I approach. It’s late in the afternoon, and Larry is backlit by the setting sun—as if he needs the help.
“I’m Italian. I know what those are,” I say, pointing toward the fireworks. “My uncle Nunzio can actually get those for you cheap.”
“Hop in, sweetheart.” I slide in between them in the front seat. Walker takes a joint out of his shirt pocket and lights it up, pulling a long toke and passing it to Larry. “Pour us a little something before we get out of here.”
I take the bottle of champagne out of the picnic basket and pop the cork. Larry hands me the joint and grabs the champagne bottle, taking a long swig off it.
“I have glasses . . .”
Larry already has a slightly crazed look in his eye, and he’s only had one toke of pot and a taste of champagne. “Glasses? Let’s go.”
I take a hit off the joint, and Larry hands me the champagne. After a swig, I hand both to Walker. It never occurs to me to
not hand the person driving this car alcohol and drugs, but only because it’s Walker who’s driving. Indeed, the window on Walker’s sobriety is so tiny on any given day, we wouldn’t do anything at all if I started discriminating on the basis of this criterion. The more alarming part—only because I might be in complete denial—is that he seems to function perfectly well when under the influence—any influence. It’s remarkable. And seemingly physiologically impossible. But there it is. For whatever reason, I feel perfectly safe.
We head down the mountain in the Caprice, me wedged between the two men—Walker with his hand on my knee, as usual, and Larry with his hand under my ass. It’s unclear how intentional Larry’s move is, and if so, what the intent is. His hand is turned up, so I suppose there’s little room for debate that he is trying to grab my ass.
“To Johnson’s,” I muse. “Hmm . . . let me see . . . Lyndon B.? No, he’s dead. Arte? Is he dead, too? Johnson, Johnson . . .”
Larry laughs. “Should we keep her guessing, Walker?”
“Yes. Who’s got the joint?” Larry passes the pot to Walker, who takes a long hit and passes it to me.
“Magic?”
“Don,” Larry blurts finally, triumphantly, unable to contain his enthusiasm for this fact. “We should give that ass-clown a clean, close shave, Walker. That would kill him. Take away his Miami Device. Pin that fucker down with a Gillette straight razor. Now that’s cold.”
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