by Unknown
Potts wasn’t sure he understood her correctly. It took him a moment to reply. ‘I’m not the sort you want to socialize with. I ain’t going to be some entertainment for your fancy friends.’
‘No one else, just you and me. And maybe my mother, though she usually eats in her room. Will you come?’
‘You serious?’
‘I’m a good cook. I’ll make you a pot roast. You look like a man who appreciates a good pot roast.’
Potts believed with all his heart that this was a mistake, that it would end badly, that he’d wind up in the shit somehow because of it. Everything his old man ever said about screwing around outside your class, about wanting things above your station, came roaring through his mind like a freight train. Things this good just didn’t happen in real life, not to guys like Potts. If they did it was a fucking trick or a joke by God designed to take some of the starch out of you. That’s what his old man always said. But Potts was a fool, Potts was a fucking idiot, Potts was going to do it again, Potts said:
‘Yeah, sure. Okay.’
Ingrid took out a notebook, scribbled down her phone number and address, and handed him the note. ‘Seven o’clock Tuesday night. The address and phone number are there. You won’t stand me up, will you?’
‘No,’ said Potts, though he wasn’t sure.
‘Then I’ll look forward to seeing you, Mr Potts,’ she said.
‘Potts,’ said Potts. ‘Just Potts.’
Fourteen
They wrapped for the day at 6.30 p.m. and by 8.00 Bobby was out of makeup and climbing into the car. He’d been on the set for fourteen hours and, in spite of the money and the Victoria’s Secret girlfriend and the fame and the cars and the fancy house on a mountaintop, Spandau almost felt sorry for him. Truth was, he often felt this way about actors. Their lives were nothing like people thought, and whatever they got it was always in extremes. Either not enough or too much of everything, and both had clever ways of killing you in the end. It was ugly to starve and struggle to do your craft well and not have anyone notice or give a shit. On the other hand it was perhaps even uglier to be glutted by fame and money like some Strasbourg goose and isolated by the people around you to the point where you lost touch with whatever it was that made you an actor.
It had been a rough day. Not as rough as some, since things had gone well on set, but Mark was being a bastard about getting his number of shots in. So the days were long. Some of the actors bitched about feeling rushed but everyone knew it would have been worse if they’d started to slip over schedule. It was cheaper and easier just to go into overtime a few hours a day than eat up additional days. They’d built this into the budget but Mark was still pushing it. Mark wasn’t the sort of director who’d tell the producers to go fuck themselves and he was already jumpy and looking over his shoulder at the Suits whenever they came on set. The Suits knew this and as a result spent more time irritating the hell out of Mark than they would normally. Anyway it wasn’t inspiring and now everyone was dreading Wyoming where they suspected Mark was going to have a meltdown. Directors can’t afford to be nervous and even when they are they can’t afford to show it. It’s like blood in shark-infested waters. By now it was commonly understood that there would be a face-down at some point in Wyoming when cast and crew got fed up and told Mark to kiss their asses. And Mark was going to freak because he was scared to death of the Suits and by now the Suits had his number and were happy to make him the patsy for getting this thing in well below the budget, which was actually $15 million more than they’d told Mark or admitted on paper. Hollywood films operate on a ‘need to know’ basis and Hollywood producers never think you need to know anything.
With the makeup off you could see the fresh lines in Bobby’s face and the darkness under his eyes. He was unusually quiet and slow moving, seemed to drag himself out of the trailer and into the waiting car. Acting isn’t like digging ditches for a living and most of what you do is sitting on your ass, except whenever you’re sitting on your ass you’re aware of what’s at stake and what will happen if you can’t manage to do whatever magic it is they expect you to do. Nobody is shy about telling you you’re fucking up an $80-million picture. Conversely, you can’t believe a word they tell you if they tell you you’re good. In fact you can’t believe a word anybody tells you until it’s either a success or it collapses suddenly around your ears, and it is precisely this sort of anxiety that wears you down. Which was why at the end of the day hot new star Bobby Dye was slumping around like an old man.
Spandau himself was mind-numbingly bored and antsy from standing around with nothing to do all day. Yet Bobby wanted him there and Spandau didn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone. Nobody was going to try to kill him, so the bodyguard part of it was a joke, but Richie Stella had been unnaturally quiet and things were bound to heat up the minute Stella found out Spandau was asking around about him. It was a dangerous game, but whatever Stella did would weaken his position and make him vulnerable. Stella operated by moving in the shadows, and whatever he did now would draw him into some degree of light. Bobby wasn’t in any danger but there was a very good chance that Spandau might meet with an unfortunate accident. Spandau was far safer with Bobby – Stella would never do anything around Bobby – and this was one of the reasons he stayed close to him. That and the fact that the kid was so goddamn lonely, and Spandau liked him in spite of the dictates of common sense.
Bobby and Spandau sat in the back of the car. Duke, the driver, climbed in and looked at Bobby in the mirror. ‘Where to?’
‘Home,’ said Bobby. ‘I just want to go home.’ He sat back and closed his eyes.
‘I can do that,’ said Duke, and started the car.
Crusoe was about to be released and showed every sign of doing far better than expected, and the studio, wide-eyed with glee, had upped their promotion to fan the flame. Bobby was locked onto the set of Wildfire all day and couldn’t make the rounds of the talk shows, but the studio had made him accessible between takes. Bobby was furious but contractually there was nothing he could do but go along. This meant that instead of working on his lines or just chilling in his trailer, Bobby endlessly had some hair-helmeted bozo shoving a mike and camera into his face and asking him the same goddamn stupid questions. As the studio anticipated, Bobby found himself in the position of simultaneously promoting Crusoe and Wildfire, and on his own time. Half the time he didn’t know which questions were being asked about which movie and he answered the wrong ones, which made him feel like an idiot. If there is an actor’s idea of hell, this is it. In truth it didn’t make a goddamn bit of difference what he said as long as he didn’t say anything negative and he got the names of the films and the stars right. Except for key words, no one is actually listening, his publicist once explained to him, only watching. Imagine your audience out there trying to heat up their frozen entrees and swatting at children. As long as he could keep smiling and looking good, everything would be fine.
The lot was quiet and everything was fine until they rolled through the gates. The guard said to Duke, ‘You got some fans out there,’ and Duke took it to mean a few desperate autograph hounds, which was normal. Instead the car came off the lot and was instantly engulfed in a swarm of screaming bodies.
Nobody was prepared for this. It was 8.00 at night on a weekday. But the extra publicity had worked okay and either the studio or somebody inside had leaked when Bobby would be coming off the lot. They were waiting for him. Duke stopped the car, unable to move without running over someone. Once the car stopped it got worse, and they were all around the car, on the car, trying to get in the car. The heavy vehicle lurched from side to side as faces and hands pressed up against every inch of glass surface. The screaming itself was maddening and the contorted faces just inches away behind thin glass was like a Francis Bacon-designed nightmare. Inside the car they heard ‘We love you Bobby we love you’ but there was instead something malevolent about it, as if they’d hurt him if they could, rip him apart and devour him
in their affection, ingest him to make him part of them. Sometimes through the spaces between the bodies you could see the flash of cameras. A photo op. Crazed Fans Eat Crusoe Heartthrob. How many more tickets would this sell? How many more tickets do you need?
Spandau had been through this before with other actors, but usually at premieres and other planned events where it was expected and could be controlled. Even then you felt vulnerable, you always felt vulnerable, but after a very long couple of minutes it was obvious no one was coming to help them.
‘Jesus, Duke, get the fucking car going!’ said Bobby.
‘I don’t want to kill anybody. They’re hanging on the front and back.’
‘Well do something!’
‘Maybe if you went out there and signed some autographs or something.’
‘I’m not going out there, are you crazy?’ Bobby yelled at him. ‘Call security, for chrissake!’
Spandau was laughing in spite of himself, though now he was nervous as well.
‘What the hell are you laughing at?’ Bobby said to him. ‘The absurdity of this never ceases to amaze me.’
‘You’re my goddamn bodyguard, why don’t you go out there?’
‘Are you nuts?’ laughed Spandau. ‘Look at those faces. Anybody opens a door and they’re all going to be sitting in your lap.’
Bobby started laughing too. ‘This is ridiculous.’
Duke called lot security on his cellphone. ‘Hi, this is Duke Slater, I’m Bobby Dye’s driver. We got a problem out at the Pico entrance. We were just leaving and we got swarmed by fans. They’re all over the car and I can’t move it. I don’t want anybody to get hurt, can you guys send somebody out?’
Duke listened, then hung up.
‘That’s just great,’ said Duke.
‘What?’ said Bobby.
‘They’re sending some security guys to the gate but it’s not likely they’re going to do anything. We’re not on Fox property. Technically it’s a job for the Beverly Hills PD.’
‘You’re shitting me. I’m making a goddamn movie for these people!’
‘Fox has no authority, and if they try to break up the crowd and somebody gets hurt, they get sued.’
‘So what the hell are we supposed to do? I can’t fucking wait here all night and they’re going to be in the fucking car in a minute.’
‘If I move the car, I’m going to hurt somebody.’
Spandau is laughing. Bobby is laughing. Duke starts to laugh. They all just sit there.
‘What the fuck do we do?’
‘We just sit here until the cavalry comes,’ said Duke. Bobby looked out the window at the faces. Many of them, male and female, kissed the windows.
‘This is surreal,’ said Bobby.
‘Yeah,’ said Spandau, ‘but one day it won’t be there and you’ll miss it.’
‘Nah,’ Bobby said to him. ‘I mean, this is what it takes for now. But eventually I don’t want to do this. This whole star trip is bullshit. I’m going to direct my first film, did I tell you? I’ve got it all set up with Jurado. I finish Wildfire, I’m going to do a small film. Something like Cassavetes? You know Cassavetes? Cassavetes is the fucking shit, man. Cassavetes is my hero. Maybe I’ll stop acting altogether. You know, get into a position where I got some control. Produce, direct. Stop being a meat puppet.’
Spandau tried to stop thinking about the number of actors who’d said this to him. Big ones, little ones. In the beginning all they want to do is be loved as actors, and after a while all they want to do is get out of it and manipulate somebody else for a change.
A very pretty girl, maybe eighteen, wrote her phone number in lipstick on the window. She smiled at Bobby and kissed the window next to the number, leaving the sexy imprint of her lips.
‘She’s kind of cute,’ said Bobby.
‘She’s not bad,’ agreed Duke. ‘Too bad we can’t think of some way to get her into the car. Well, you’ve got her number.’
About that time another female fan pushed the pretty girl away. She smeared the phone number and tried to replace it with her own. This one wasn’t as hot.
‘Too bad,’ said Duke.
‘Get away, you scurvy bimbo,’ Bobby said to her quietly through the glass. ‘Bring back the other one.’
The crowd began to thin away from the car, and it became obvious that somebody was doing something. Security guards from the lot wedged themselves between the car and the crowd and pushed them back.
‘We catch you guys at a bad time or something?’ Duke said through an inch of open window.
‘We can’t just run onto the street and start shoving people around,’ said the guard. ‘We got it under control now. You can roll.’
‘We can roll,’ Duke said to Bobby as he closed the window.
‘We’re rolling,’ said Bobby. ‘Oh boy.’
The car inched forward until it was clear of the crowd and Duke pressed the gas.
‘Fucking unreal,’ said Bobby as he turned to look at the crowd.
‘You’re a star, man,’ said Duke. ‘They love you.’
‘They love me,’ repeated Bobby. ‘Right. I need to remember that.’
Fifteen
The guy on the skateboard was in his early twenties. He didn’t do any fancy tricks but he was fast and he pushed the board along at a good click. He came sailing down the sidewalk on Richie Stella’s street when, for some reason, he decided to hop off the sidewalk into the gutter and then hop back onto the sidewalk. He almost made it, too, but the back wheels didn’t quite clear the curb and he went down just behind Richie Stella’s black Audi parked in Richie Stella’s driveway. The board went sailing on past the car but the skate-rat didn’t.
Richie himself happened to be standing near the front window and saw all this. He went quickly out the door not with the intention of helping the skate-rat but with the intention of breaking the kid’s legs if he’d damaged the car.
‘Hey, you little shit!’ Richie called from the front porch.
The skate-rat staggered up from behind the car, holding his elbow.
‘Stay the hell away from my car,’ Richie said to him. ‘You and your goddamn skateboards, you’re gonna dent it!’
‘Hey mister, I’m okay,’ said the skate-rat. ‘I’ve just lacerated my fucking elbow, thanks for your concern.’
Richie said, ‘Just stay the hell away from my car, you little faggot,’ and went back inside.
The skate-rat flipped him off, then limped over to his board and skated away. Terry was sitting in his own car down the street and around the corner. The skate-rat whizzed up to Terry’s car, did a skid-stop, flipped the board into the air and caught it, all inches from Terry’s window.
‘Charming,’ Terry said to him. ‘But at your age don’t you ever want a real car?’
‘Man,’ said the skate-rat, ‘I deserve to get compensated for this shit. Look what I did to my arm. This falling shit, I should get hazardous duty pay or something.’
‘Nobody told you to fall. How do we know you did it on purpose? How can we be sure you’re just not a shitty skateboarder? Think of it from our perspective.’
‘A little something extra in the paycheck, is all I’m saying. This is above and beyond the call.’
‘I’ll talk to Coren,’ Terry said. ‘Did you attach it?’
‘Of course I attached it. This is why you guys pay me the big bucks, right?’
‘You turn it on?’
‘Gee, duh . . .’ said the skate-rat, crossing his eyes. ‘Talk to Coren. Get me some extra bread or tell him I ain’t doing this shit no more. It’s fucking dangerous.’
‘You’re bleeding on my door. Now go away like a good boy and bleed elsewhere.’
‘And tell Walter we’re in the twenty-first century now. This Victorian Radio Shack shit he’s using is an embarrassment. That thing was big enough to have tubes in it. Tell him to pony up some bucks so we can look like pros, for chrissake.’
The boy skated away. Terry sighed and thought about his
own youth. Nobody had skateboards in Derry in those days. Nobody knew what a fucking skateboard was, and wouldn’t have cared if they did. Terry’s youth was about smoking and trying to get laid and drinking until you puked and trying to see if you could clout a Brit greenie with a brick without getting caught or shot. Life was so innocent in those days. Terry sighed again and looked down at a laptop computer sitting in the passenger seat. He typed in the Internet address Spandau had given him. A map appeared with a small dot blinking in the middle of it. Terry settled back in his seat to wait. It was Thursday. The car would be moving soon. Terry didn’t trust technology but he was all for anything that made his life easier.
The dot began to move a couple of hours later.
Terry watched the dot move almost imperceptibly toward him and glanced up to see the Audi, with Martin behind the wheel, glide past. Thankfully Martin was in his own little world and didn’t notice him. Or at least Terry hoped like hell he didn’t, or things were liable to get complicated. Terry gave him a good lead and then followed.
The system was remarkably easy to use, except for Terry having to watch the screen and still drive the bloody car. A couple of times Terry overshot a turn – you couldn’t really tell the distance to a turn, just that a turn was coming – and had to backtrack. It was worse through town, since Martin apparently had his own unique shortcuts, but once Martin turned onto the interstate life got easier. Terry had his iPod jacked into the car’s sound system and listened to Bach’s Goldberg Variations as the flashing dot led him out of LA and east toward the desert. Martin stopped twice, and both times Terry thought Martin was making a pickup, but it was only at gas stations to pee. Poor Martin had something wrong with his plumbing, or maybe the whole business just made him nervous. Terry drove past and found a discreet place to pull over and wait until Martin caught up again. It was like playing leapfrog, and it amused Terry to think that you could probably do a decent job of tailing somebody even if you were ahead of them. There was a lot about this job that Terry found amusing. He had no great hopes for human nature and was rarely disappointed or shocked by what he saw people do. He took these occasional jobs for Spandau and Coren as much for the entertainment value as the money. Terry didn’t like being bored and would complicate his own life unnecessarily if he wasn’t amused. Then again, the whole of fucking Ireland was like that, so he came by it honestly.