Fade to Blue (2 page)
Robbins and Stiles exchange glances. “There’s a security issue with the script,” Robbins says. “As I’m sure you can imagine, the press would love to know what Ryan’s next project is. Until we know you’re with us, we prefer to keep the content confidential. I’m sure you understand.”
I don’t but I let it go. “So I would get to see the script if I agree to score the film?”
“Of course,” Robbins says. “Absolutely.”
“He means when we have you signed,” Stiles chimes in with a big smile.
It all seems a bit over the top to me. It is, after all, only a movie, but I guess Robbins has a point. Both men look at me expectantly.
I glance at Andie, who manages to take her eyes off Stiles long enough to give me a searching, you-better-do-this look. Under the table I feel her hand squeeze my leg.
“Okay, here’s what I’ve decided. I’m in for the piano tutoring. I still want to take some more time on the rest of your offer if that’s okay with you.” I catch a slight frown from Stiles but Robbins touches his shoulder.
“Well, we’re halfway there, then, aren’t we.”
I hear Andie sigh in relief. “I guess we are.”
Stiles jumps up and grabs my hand. “Way cool, man, way cool!” He glances at his watch. “I have to get back to the set. Grant will fill you in on the details. I can’t wait to get started on this.” He waves at Andie and then he’s gone.
Robbins has already taken some papers from a slim leather briefcase beside him and slides them across to me. “This is the formal agreement,” he says. “Nothing tricky, just the payment terms. If you’ll just sign where the arrow is.”
I glance at it briefly, see nothing unusual, and take the Mont Blanc pen Robbins offers, aware of Andie’s eyes on me as I scribble my signature and hand it back. He pulls off one copy. “This one’s for you,” he says, and returns the rest to his briefcase. He stands. “Sorry to run off, but I have several pressing matters to handle. Enjoy your stay. I’ll call you about the beach house.”
Andie and I lean back and look at each other. “What beach house?”
Andie and I watch as a short, powerfully built man in a torn shirt and faded jeans shoves Ryan Stiles against the bannister of a staircase. Ryan fights him off for a moment, but eventually loses his grip. The short man slams a forearm into Ryan’s face and he tumbles backwards, rolling head-over-heels down the staircase where he lies crumpled and still. The short man, breathing hard now, glares, reaches behind his back and pulls a gun from the waistband of his jeans. He starts down the stairs, the gun trained on Ryan.
“Cut!” a voice comes from behind us. A bell rings and suddenly there’s a flurry of motion and activity. The man on the stairs grins and twirls the gun on his finger. We watch as Ryan, at the bottom of the stairs, jumps to his feet. But it’s not Ryan. He turns and high-fives Ryan, who approaches, dressed identically in jeans, boots, and a black tee shirt. Another man in a baseball cap walks to them and talks briefly with Ryan and his stunt double.
“Okay, let’s set it up people,” the director says. Ryan nods, reaches down, and checks a gun in an ankle holster under his jeans. As the stuntman walks away, Ryan lies on the floor, positioning himself in exactly the same pose as the fallen stuntman. There are a few more minutes as the camera and lighting are adjusted. Another man steps in front of the camera with the clapboard.
“Don’t Die Again
, Scene 57, Take one.” He moves back and the director’s voice again pierces the already quiet set. “Quiet please. Roll sound. And, action.”
Ryan stirs on the floor, looking up at the short man coming down the stairs. Ryan pulls the gun from the ankle holster and fires. A splatter of blood erupts from the short man’s chest. He staggers and falls forward, rolling down the stairs and landing next to Ryan. I feel Andie flinch at the sound of the gunshots.
“Cut! All right, people, that’s a wrap,” the director says. “Great, guys. Very nice, Ryan.”
Ryan leans over and claps the short man on the shoulder. “You okay, Barney?”
Barney sits up and smiles at Ryan. “Never better.” He unbuttons his shirt to reveal the plastic bag of fake blood and pulls it off. “Loved working with you,” he says.
Ryan gets to his feet, smiling, and saunters over to Andie and I. “So. How’d I do?”
“You shouldn’t turn the gun sideways,” Andie says. “They always gets that wrong in movies. It’s not nearly so accurate.”
Ryan’s smile fades. He glances at Andie for a moment, then at me.
“Hey,” I say. “She would know.”
Ryan gazes at Andie for a long moment. “You ever shoot anybody or been shot?”
“Both,” Andie says, matching Ryan’s gaze.
Ryan looks away then smiles again. “Well, I guess you would know then.”
Andie just nods, turns, and walks away.
“It wasn’t that long ago, “ I tell Ryan. “Bank robbery shooting in San Francisco.”
“Oh shit,” Ryan says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” He looks around. “Look, I’m going to change and then we’ll go out to Malibu, show you the house. I’ll meet you guys outside.”
I find Andie outside the sound stage, leaning against a vintage car. “You okay?”
She nods. “Yeah. I know it’s a movie, fake and all that, but…”
“The star shine fading?”
“I don’t know. There’s something about him.”
“Of course there is. He’s a good-looking, millionaire movie star.”
The ride up the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu is uneventful. Ryan takes a few phone calls while Andie and I watch the scenery. It’s one of those perfect sunny California days. A light breeze blowing off the ocean, the sun, an orange ball starting its decline to the sea. For me, it’s a homecoming of sorts. I grew up in Santa Monica, lived a few years in Venice before I went to Europe, and I’ve driven this road countless times. It was also the road where I had the accident that nearly ended my career as a jazz pianist.
We pass Pepperdine University and go another ten miles or so, past Point Dume, then down the hill to Trancas canyon. At the light, the driver veers to the left down Broad Beach Road, past the rear of a number of large homes that, according to Ryan, are full of television and movie people. We get an occasional glimpse of the ocean between houses. Then finally, the road curves to the left and up a slight incline and stops behind a large white villa. Tall wrought-iron gates block the entrance.
Ryan gets out and, blocking the driver’s view, punches in some numbers on the key pad. The gates slowly open on a half-circle driveway. There’s a red BMW sports car already parked, as well as a chocolate brown Mercedes sedan. The driver pulls in and opens the rear door.
Before we get out, Ryan leans forward and takes Andie’s hand. “I’m really sorry, Andie. I hope you’ll forgive me. I was way out of line.” He turns on that megawatt smile.
“Nothing to forgive,” Andie says. “I’m just still a little tense about guns.”
“Yes, I know that now.”
Andie and I get out and follow Ryan inside. The door is opened by a tall young blonde. “Hi, baby,” she says. She wraps her arms around Ryan then steps back.
She’s maybe twenty-five, wearing sandals, a flimsy unbuttoned shirt, and a white bikini that leaves nothing to the imagination. Her eyes flick over Andie and she holds out her hand to me. “You must be Evan Horne,” she says. “I’m Melanie Hammond.”
“This is my honey,” Ryan says, draping his arm around her shoulder. “Isn’t she something?”
“Indeed,” Andie says. “I’m Andie Lawrence. I’m Evan’s honey.” Andie smiles sweetly.
“Melanie just wrapped a movie with Adam Sandler,” Ryan says. “Not a big part but she was great.”
“I bet she was.” Andie squeezes my hand so tightly I can feel her nails dig into my palm.
“C’mon, Evan,” Ryan says. “Let me show you the guesthouse.”
“We’ll meet you by the pool,” he says to Melanie and Andie.
Andie shoots me a look then goes off with Melanie. I follow Ryan out a side door to a flagstone walk that leads to a small guesthouse. One window faces the ocean and the sound of the surf filters up. “I hope this is okay,” Ryan says. He opens the door with a flourish like a bellhop showing me a room in a luxury hotel.
There’s a queen-sized bed, two stuffed chairs facing a small fireplace, a flat-screen television mounted on the wall, a small refrigerator. Ryan opens it and shows me it’s full of beer, soft drinks, an array of juices. “You need anything special, just let Emillio know. He cooks and runs the house.”
I nod. “It’s beautiful,” I say.
Ryan beams. “C’mon. I haven’t shown you the best.” We go back in the house to an enormous living room. The wall facing the ocean is almost all glass with a spectacular view of the surf and beach that stretches back as far as I can see. In one corner, black and gleaming in the filtered sunlight, is a baby grand piano. “Try it out,” Ryan says.
I sit down and run my hands over the keys. It’s in perfect tune, of course, and the action is wonderful. I play a few bars of blues and glance at Ryan. “Very nice,” I say. The sound fills the room.
“Use it all you want,” Ryan says. “You probably practice a lot, right?”
“When I can.”
“You’ll have plenty of time,” Ryan says. He stands, looking at me as if memorizing the moment. “C’mon, let’s get some lunch.”
We join Andie and Melanie on the glassed-in patio, where Emillio is serving. Melanie is on her cell phone. Andie is staring at the ocean, a Bloody Mary in front of her.
“Yeah, it was like, whoa,” Melanie says into the phone. “Just awesome.”
Andie rolls her eyes at me and takes a long pull on her drink.
Melanie glances up, sees Ryan. “Gotta go,” she says and quickly closes the phone.
“Why don’t you put a top on,” Ryan says. Melanie gets up and excuses herself. Ryan glances at us. “Body like that, you want to flaunt it.”
When Melanie comes back, she’s wearing a denim shirt, buttoned halfway over her bikini top. Ryan nods and smiles. “Well, let’s eat,” he says.
Over a lunch of shrimp salad, rolls, and iced tea, Ryan entertains us with movie stories and a rundown of other celebrities that live along the beach. “Don’t be surprised if you run into Ali McGraw walking her dog,” he says. “Stallone too. He had a place down here for awhile. He hired a boat to set off fireworks on the fourth of July a couple of years ago. Very nice guy and a major talent, right, honey?” He looks at Melanie.
“One of a kind,” she says.
“Well,” Ryan says, getting to his feet. “Melanie and I are going to take a siesta.” He winks broadly. “You two make yourselves at home, take a walk, whatever. Anything you want, just ask Emillio.”
When Ryan and Melanie are gone, Andie looks at me. “Are you kidding me?”
“Okay, okay. He’s trying.”
“She’s afraid of him,” Andie says. “Did you see the look on her face when he told her to put something on?”
“Yeah, I did. I was kind of disappointed.” Andie just glares. “Okay, just kidding. C’mon, let’s take a walk.”
Just down from the pool, there’s a short, worn path leading down to the beach. We leave our shoes and socks and let our feel sink into the sand and walk along the water’s edge, checking out the impressive homes. Lots of wood and glass, decks and balconies, but not many people. We pass a few other beach strollers, but no one gives us a second look.
We find a spot just out of reach of the encroaching surf and sit down in the sand. The ocean air, the breeze, the sun, all feels good as I lean back on my elbows. Andie sits up, hugging her knees, staring out at the water.
“Something on your mind?”
Andie shrugs. “I don’t want to rain on your parade, but how long do you think it’s going to take to get him to look like a piano player?”
“I don’t know. Couple of weeks, maybe three. I think he’s probably a quick study. Why?”
“Just don’t get all caught up in this celebrity thing, okay.”
“C’mon, Andie. You know me better than that. I’ve been around money before.”
“I know you have but this is different. It’s not just money. It’s limos, beach houses, stars, girls like Melanie. It’s a whole other world.” She turns and looks at me. “Trust me, there’s something not quite right about all this. The way he asked me if I’d ever shot anybody or been shot myself. He already knew.”
“Ryan Stiles can’t help being a movie star. He likes it.”
“He likes the power. Melanie and I are going to have a siesta? Please. That was for our benefit. Sex on demand with Miss Hard Body.”
We look up as a woman in shorts and tee shirt runs by with a small dog on a leash. She waves and smiles.
“Hey,” Andie says. “I think that was Ali McGraw.”
We get up and walk back toward the house. “I know what you’re saying but none of it really bothers me except for one thing.”
“What?”
“They want me to score the movie, but I still haven’t heard a thing about the script.”
Back at the house, it’s all quiet. I show Andie the guesthouse and we have our own siesta to the sound of waves crashing. I leave Andie asleep and walk back out on the deck by the pool. Emillio is standing, staring out to sea.
“Beautiful, isn’t it.”
He turns. “Mr. Horne. Can I get you something?”
“A beer would be nice if it’s no trouble. And please, it’s Evan.” Emillio nods and heads for the kitchen and returns with a bottle, a chilled goblet, and an ashtray.
“Try this,” he says.
I take the bottle from him and do a double-take. On the label is a picture of Thelonious Monk. Brother Thelonious Belgian-style abbey ale. I take a sip and nod. “Nice. Who makes this?”
Emillio smiles. “A small brewery in Northern California. I found it at Trancas market. It seemed appropriate for your stay.”
I take another drink and light a cigarette. “So how do you like working for Ryan?”
Emillio turns and looks out at the ocean again. “It’s fine,” he says, “not too demanding, and of course this is a great extra benefit.” He waves his hand toward the surf, crashing now as the tide comes in. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to start preparing dinner.”
I finish my beer, wander into the living room, and sit down at the piano. I play some chords, then drift into “What’s New.” When I look up, Ryan Stiles is standing, leaning against the wall, shirtless in a pair of long shorts.
“You make it look so easy,” he says.
“Well, I’ve been doing it a long time.”
He comes closer, watching my hands. “Want to show me a few things, kind of get started?”
“Sure. You’ll probably be playing on a mock keyboard, no sound, but to look authentic, your hand movements will have to match the sound track as closely as possible.” I show him some left-hand voicings, a blues, and work through the changes with my right hand. “Like this, see?”
Ryan nods and watches. “Man, wish I could do that.”
“Well, hopefully, we’ll make it look like you can.” I get up and have him sit down. I position his left hand and show him the movements. He’s awkward at first but gradually begins to get the idea, repeating the left-hand three-note voicings over and over.
“That’s good,” I say. “Now play against it with your right hand.”
He stumbles then and stops. “It’s like patting your head and rubbing your stomach.”
“Exactly. The natural tendency is both hands want to do the same motion.”
He tries again, playing a chord with his left hand, then single notes with his right. He does it several times. It’s clumsy but he gradually gets his hands working independently.
“There you go. It’ll come eventually.”
He nods and stops, rubbing his wrists. “I can feel it already. Muscles I haven’t used before. You play again. Let me watch.”
We exchange places. I sit down and play a blues solo for a couple of choruses and take it out, feeling Ryan’s eyes on my every movement.
“I gotta get that head movement too. The way you lean in or tilt back, your eyes on the keyboard. The camera will catch all that.”
“You don’t have to look like me,” I say. “You can decide. Bill Evan kept his head down a lot of the time. Keith Jarrett rocks back and forth, sometimes even stands up as he plays. Every pianist is different.”
Ryan nods. “Lot to learn,” he says. “I’ve going to videotape you while you play and study the tape if that’s okay.”
“Sure.” I begin to realize how hard this is going to be for him to simulate the movement and motion of a jazz pianist in a relatively short time.
