Inheritance (58 page)

She gave a brittle laugh. "They don't tell us. But this morning the art director told me my hips were too big."

"You told me they always make comments like that."

*This time it sounded different." She perched on a low stone wall between two flower boxes. The setting sun was behind her and her face was shadowed. "It's not orderly. There isn't any correct way to do things or plan things. You never know what they're going to want next."

"You mean which model they'll want next?"

"Which kind of model. Of course I'm not worried that it will affect me, but it's very dull to be part of something so disorderly and uncreative."

Paul knew how she hated not knowing the rules, because that meant she didn't know how to tailor her behavior to fit. "Has it really changed?" he asked. "A couple of years ago you

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didnU think there was anything wrong with it. You wanted it more than anything else."

She shrugged. "I know more about it now than I did then.'*

It suddenly occurred to him that she wouldn't stay in modeling long, and he thought how strange it was that their lives had become reversed. When they met, Emily had known exactly what she wanted—to be a model, to be married—and he had been wandering around Europe, restless and dissatisfied. Now he knew what he wanted, at least in work, and she was the one who seemed to be drifting.

Nearby, a bird sang out and was echoed by another. In the late afternoon stillness they heard the clink of glasses from the house below. "You haven't asked about my trip," Paul said.

"Oh. How was it?"

"Fine."

She ignored the shortness in his voice. "Good. Did you finish?"

"The tour? I thought I told you there are four more weeks."

"I remember you said something about it, but I can't imagine why you have to go to every concert. They're probably si\ i the same; he's probably the same wherever he is. And I hate having you away."

"I don't like being away. But I have to do this."

"You like doing it. You love doing it. You love making movies."

He gazed at her angry eyes. "I thought you understood that. I've told you how I feel."

"You never used to feel like that about anything. Except me.

"I still feel that way about you," he said, almost reflexively.

"But work. You never felt that way about work."

"I wanted to." He wondered how much to tell her. They almost never talked about his work; it was her own career that most interested her. "I was always waiting for something to come along that I could care about. It didn't occur to me that I ought to be looking for it, that things might not always fall in my lap." He smiled ruefully. "Amazing, how long it took me to learn that; it comes from being brought up with too much money."

"That's just plain nonsense. Things do come, if you're pa-

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tient. Larry offered you this work; you didn't go hunting for it."

It gave him a moment's pause. "You're right," he said. "But it would have died, like a lot of other things, if I hadn't worked at it, studying and following Larry around like a baby learning to walk. Maybe it was just timing: I needed something to care about."

"Well that's all right as long as it wasn't someone you needed," she said brightly. But then she added wistfully, "I wish I felt the way you did. About anything." She was looking over the parapet at the view of Los Angeles and did not see Paul's startled look. "I guess I will someday. Everybody does, don't they?" There was a silence. "How long will your movie take?"

"Four to six months. And I promise we'll get away then; we'll take a long trip and—^"

"And then what will you make?"

"What film?"

She nodded.

"I don't know. We'll find a subject that interests us."

"How about me? You're interested in me, and Larry thinks I have a fascinating face; he told me so. You could make a movie about me."

He frowned, then quickly erased it. "I could. Someday I might. I'm going to get another drink; would you like one?"

"Yes." She followed him into the house. "It could be very helpful to me, Paul."

"A film? How?" He smiled at her. "You're one of the top models in the country. A documentary on the bright and dark sides of the modeling business doesn't sound helpful to me."

"You don't have to do the dark side."

"We have to do both; that's one of the things that makes a documentary different from fiction." He put his arm around her. "Helpful how?"

"Any exposure is helpful."

Her voice was evasive, and Paul tilted her face to look at her. ^That's not it. What is itT'

She snuggled against him, hiding her face against his shirt. "I'm just not happy. I want ..."

Paul held her close. / want. It struck him how many of Emily's sentences began with those words. "What?" he asked.

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*To be happy."

Paul felt a moment of helplessness. "I thought you were."

"Sometimes I am. I try to be. It doesn't always work." He held her, wondering what to say, wondering what the hell it was she wanted and how much he could do for her. "I just thought, something that showed I was different from the others—more interesting—so they'd want me for more than my looks ..."

He heard the tremor in her voice again and wondered what his life would be like if he had only his face to depend on. "I'll think about a film," he said gently. "I can't promise anything."

Emily turned within his arm and brought his head down to' kiss him. "Thank you, darling. I know you'll do your best for] me. I do trust you."

And we'll live happily ever after, Paul thought wryly. But, the thought faded. Emily was holding his head to hers, kissing j him again, her small tongue darting in his mouth like a flame. "Missed you," she murmured against his lips and stretched] against him on tiptoe, pushing one leg between his.

Beneath Paul's hands her body was soft and yielding, and] the warmth of her skin penetrated the light shift she wore. His hands tightened until her slendemess seemed to fit in his] palms. "Missed you," she said again, holding his head to hers. One hand caressed his neck and slipped inside his open shirt collar; swiftly she unbuttoned the shirt, and her fingers werej warm in the dark hairs on his chest and the smooth skin beneath his belt. "Every night," she breathed. Her leg moved rhythmically between his, and as Paul pulled up her shift, his fingers sliding along her breasts, she turned, leading him^ down the hallway to the bedroom.

She was always able to mask her self-centeredness with the heat of their bodies.

"So," Larry said when they were on the plane for Minneapolis, "was it a honeymoon?"

"It's always a honeymoon," Paul said lightly. He had never] understood the male need for sexual recapitulation, unless the night or weekend had been such a failure it could only be erased by lying about it. But the truth was, his week with

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Emily hadn't been a honeymoon, except in bed; they hadn't had enough to talk about, and when they did talk, they often seemed to be talking about different things. After two days, Emily managed always to be working or shopping or meeting friends for lunch. The truth, which Paul acknowledged reluctantly, was that, whatever kind of carnival awaited him on Farley's tour, he was glad to be on that plane. ''And I got some work done," he added.

"Good. So did I." He handed Paul a folder. "Outline of Farley's life."

Paul chuckled and held out his own folder. "Outline of the fihn. Fifth draft."

"God damn. Good for you. Well, let's see."

They read in silence, then worked for the rest of the trip on lists of people to interview, sites to film or stock shots to rent, and scenes with Farley. "Where's he been this week?" Paul asked.

"New York and L.A., seeing art dealers about finding new Remingtons to replace the ones that were stolen. He's hung up on cowboys; they're his role models or something. And he talked to some insurance investigator who's working on the robbery. I called him last night and he was okay; coked up, but I don't think anybody'd notice if they didn't know what to look for. My bet is he cares about the tour and our film enough to keep some kind of control over himself. After that, all bets are off."

Larry stayed through the concert in Minneapolis, then left once again. "I'll try to get back for the biggie in Washington," he said as he and Paul had breakfast before he left. "Should be a smash. They sold out the bleachers at two thousand bucks a head, and they expect a quarter of a million on the rest of the mall. 'Course those are freebies, but still, live TV, money pouring in . . ." He shook his head. "They started with zilch and they've built it into a first-class circus."

"Who knows, it might even make some money for the hungry," Paul said dryly.

"Who?"

They laughed ruefully. "Nobody but the hungry remembers what this tour is all about," Paul said. "How much of the money do you think they'll get?"

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Larry shrugged. 'Ten cents on the dollar? I never looked into it. They sure as hell don*t get much. I have to go; I hope I'll see you at the grand finale. Good luck with Farley."

The tour moved across the country to Detroit, Buffalo, and Pittsburgh. Buffalo was almost a disaster: Farley had a bad night, forgetting the words to his songs, stumbling over his patter with the other musicians, telling a joke that rambled interminably, then petered out with no punch line. "Goddam it," Louie exploded afterwards. "You forgetting every fucking thing I told you? Your life depends on this tour! You gonna shit all over it because of a lousy habit you could kick if you really wanted to?"

"I know," Farley said humbly. "I know, Louie. I'll be okay. Things just got a little out of hand. I'll be fine."

"Get to bed," Louie ordered. "Relax. Cogitate. You need a couple days to recover before the next concert."

Farley shook his head. "I need company. It's hell when I'm alone." And that night and the next, there were parties, as •there had been in every city, and dinners bought for hangers-on, and gifts for the women who shared his bed. "I'll be fine," he mumbled when Louie scolded, but he could not finish the concert in Pittsburgh: he wandered off before the last number, and the other musicians performed in his place.

"I was okay," Farley said to Paul the next day. They were in his hotel room in Washington, watching a television commercial for the final concert of the tour, to be held on the mall stretching from the U.S. Capitol to the Washington Monument, and he was nervous. "Up to the last two it's been good, you know. Hasn't it? I mean, good good, not just some shit that fills the seats because some second-rate fart papers the house. I mean, we've been selling tickets! And raising money! Right? We've had audiences! On the name Britt Farley. And the talent. Right?"

"Right." In a comer, the cameraman was quietly filming. Paul wondered if Farley was aware of it.

"But that was small potatoes. I mean, what's Salt Lake City, when you think about it? A pimple on the desert, right?** He paused, thinking. "You didn't hear me say that. It's a very fine city. But what I mean is, how many celebrities ever performed for three hundred thousand people on the mall in

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Washington, D.C., the capital of our country? Awesome, right? An awesome responsibility. My agent says that's what it is. Tell that guy to turn off his camera."

Paul nodded to the cameraman.

"He can go get some coffee, too."

Paul nodded again, and the cameraman left the room.

"Un-huh." Farley opened the desk drawer near him. "Got a stash here unless some gremlin ripped it off . . ."It had been a long time since he hid from Paul. "You're family now," he had said, "and my coke is your coke, as long as you pay for what you use and don't overdo it."

He poured the white powder in a straight line on the desk, his hand steady, and then breathed it through a straw deep into his nose. "Three hundred thousand people," he repeated. "I'm a king again." He met Paul's eyes. "Sony, rude of me. You want some? Appetizer before lunch."

"No, thanks. I was just thinking—^"

"You don't have to be polite, I got plenty and I like you." He held out his hand, but Paul smiled and shook his head. "You always turn me down. You do do this, don't you? I mean, shit, am I telling my life story to Mary Poppins? What do you like? I'll get it for you. I can get anything you want— no, wait, you didn't hear me say that. Goddam it, tell me what you like!"

None of them likes to be the only one, Paul thought; they have to believe everyone does what they do. "I don't talk about it," he said easily.

"You can trust me!"

"I'm sure I can. But it's a habit; I just don't talk about it."

"And I can trust you, right?"

Paul's glance sharpened at the new note in Farley's voice. "I hope you trust me. Are we talking about anything special?"

"Not a big deal." There was a pause. "Just a smsdl loan."

Paul kept his face calm. "How much?"

"Couple thousand? Three, if you got it."

"Not in my pocket. I can get it. How soon do you need it?"

"Pretty soon. This afternoon."

Paul hesitated, then, very carefully, he said, "I wondered about the parties and the presents. Is that where it went?"

Farley shrugged. "A king has expenses. I'll pay you back."

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"I'm not sure you can."

"Damn right I can! I got resources! I can figure things out!" When Paul was silent, he leaned forward. "Listen. One thing about this pretty white stuff—it opens my mind. I can solve problems—think up new ideas—you name it I can do it. Everything's so goddam clear and easy! No limits, that's what this little friend does for me. It's the only friend that does it. You got a wife? I had a wife, a whole bunch of wives. But they're no good. This stuff, now, this stuff is fine! It won't talk back, won't walk out on you, won't get smart. I'm not much for smart women. You like smart women?"

"I like them to be as smart as I am."

"Well, that's okay. That's right. But most of 'em think they're smarter, think they can take over your life." His face took on a brooding look. 'There's one little lady I truly love with all my heart. I told her so, but she said she doesn't want to settle down. I did something once, almost spoiled a party she was giving—^I wasn't nice—and she told me off and made me go to bed. But she didn't kick me out of her hotel, you know? Sat with me at brunch the next day, this gorgeous lady, soft and friendly, not a smart ass telling me how to run my life. And I thought, shit, this is a real lady, she takes time to be nice to people. I tell her that every time I see her. Laura, I love you and I'll always stay in your hotels and never bark at you again because you are a kind and lovely lady and you make me feel good. But she's the only one, you know. Everybody else wants something from me. And that I definitely do not need. Like I was saying. What did you ask me?"

Paul was staring out the window. Farley followed his gaze to see what held his attention, but all he could see was another Washington building across the street. "Hey, fella, you still with me?"

Paul turned to him. "I was thinking about the lady in the hotel."

"Laura. You'd like her. Soft-spoken even if she is smart. She's smarter than me, but it don't seem to matter; she's . . . gentle."

"What's her last name?" Paul asked.

"Fairchild. Fair child. Nice, huh? I figured it out; it fits her. You know what? You'll meet her! I'm tibrowing a party when

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the tour is over—celebrate all these great things weWe done —and Vm inviting Laura. So you'll meet her. But first we got this other thing. You'll get me the money, right?"

"Right."

*Thanks, buddy. I knew I could talk to you."

**ril be back," Paul said. He left the room and went to Louie Glass's room, one floor down. "How broke is Farley?" he demanded.

"Not broke. I told you, he's rich."

"He may have been once; he's not now. He's asking me for money." He watched the lines deepen in Louie's face. "I asked you before, Louie: where's the money been coming from all these weeks?"

"I don't know, Paul. I wondered, just like you, but I don't know."

"Bullshit. There's nothing about Britt you don't know; it's your job to know everything. Where does it come from, Louie?"

"Look, why don't you just run your camera and make your movie? This has nothing to do with you."

"It has to do with Britt. And that's what my fihn is about."

Louie shook his head. "Not this part. Some things are off limits."

Paul perched on the windowsill and watched Louie pace. "He's taking it from the tour, isn't he? Using money from ticket sales and checks coming in—^"

"Leave it alone! It's not your problem where he gets the money! What the fuck is it with you? You a crusader or something? All you're doing is making a movie about a singer; the rest of it—it's all separate. You've never asked one lousy question about how the tour worked, you never gave a damn— "

"Well, I'm beginning to give a damn. This tour is a good thing in a world that doesn't have enough good things, or people to do them, and I want to know what's happening to it. And you're going to tell me."

"Not me. The accountant may be sloppy; we'll check that. But I don't know a thing for sure."

^That's a lie."

Louie shrugged.

Judith Michael

Paul slammed out of the room and went to his own room where he called the New York office of Britt Farley's Music for the Hungry. "I need some numbers before the final concert," he said to the accountant, his voice mild. "Just background for the film. Can you give me total tickets sold, total revenue, and total expenses to date?"

"Can't do it," the accountant replied. "Not now, anyway. There's a lot going on here, you know, they won't get me an assistant, it's a fucking mess with everything happening at once and nobody really keeping track— "

'That's what you're there for," Paul said sharply. "What the hell is your job if it's not keeping track?"

"Goddam it, it's not my fault!" The accountant's voice rose to a screech. "Don't tell me what my job is! I know what my fucking job is! It's keeping that junkie happy! That's what Louie said: keep him happy! Pay his bills, send him money when he—^" His voice stopped. "I mean . . ."

"I know what you mean," Paul said. "Does anyone else know?"

"Listen, are you gonna put this in your movie?"

"Does anyone else know about it?"

"Louie."

"Besides Louie."

"I don't think so. God, I hope not. But listen, are you gonna put—?"

"How much has Farley used?"

"Look, I don't have to tell you—"

"You haven't any choice; Louie's already saying you may be sloppy in your accounting. How much has he usSd?"

"He said that? The son of a bitch said—^"

*^How much?"

"Son of a bitch. A couple hundred thousand. Two hundred twenty thousand, five hundred sixty-one dollars, to be exact. But I couldn't tell him no! I mean, Louie said to keep him happy, and Farley said he'd pay it back! You wouldn't put it in your movie, would you? I mean, I got a job to worry about, a family, and it wasn't my fault! I just followed orders! You don't want to ruin Farley either, do you? I mean, even if you don't love him, there's all those people who think they're gonna get money or food or something . . . you say something, it hurts the cause, all those people. Right?"

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Right, Paul thought. That stupid bastard; he had a chance to !do something decent and pull himself up at the same time. "I jdon't know what I'm going to do," he told the accountant. "I'll talk to you later." He hung up. The stupid bastard. He doesn't care whom he destroys. Including himself.

In eight weeks, from ticket sales and televised coverage with pleas for money, they'd raised five million dollars, and fliey expected more than twice that from the concert on the mall, the climax of the tour, to coincide with the biggest fund drive. Two hundred thousand was a small part of that, but that wasn't the problem: if word got out that any of the money was going into Farley's pockets, they would lose their tax-exempt status and television sponsorship, and also permission to use fhe mall. And thousands of people would demand their money back.

Paul had never been under any illusion that Farley cared about the poor and hungry of the world, but, as Louie said, he'd ignored it: it wasn't his problem; he was only there to make a film. But in the past weeks, in spite of the circus atmosphere and the phoniness of the whole thing, he'd gotten involved with it. Just in time to find out that this stupid bastard had done the one thing that could scuttle it.

The concert on the mall would be held in two days. Or it would be canceled.

Farley was sprawled in a chair in his room, staring at a soap opera on television, but he leaped up when Paul came in. **You got it? I knew you would. Have a drink. What's your poison? How much did you get?" He held out his hand.

"I haven't got it."

"Haven't—! Jesus, fella, you playing games? You promised!"

Paul pulled out a desk chair and sat down. "I wondered how you'd pay it back."

"I'll take care of it! Britt Farley is an honorable man! I'll pay it back!"

"Before or after you pay back the two hundred twenty thousand you've taken from this tour?" ; "What the fuck are you talking about? Take? I didn't take a fucking thing!" Paul was silent. "I sent some bills to New York to be paid—you talking about that? Shit, it was a few

Judith Michael

hundred bucks, it wasn't. . .** He moved his head as if a collar were binding his neck. ^'What's-his-name, that Minnie Mouse accountant, you been talking to him? He said he wouldn't talk to anybody. Promised he wouldn't. Anyway, he's a liar." Paul sat still. "Wsll, fuck it, what difference does it make? We finish this thing widi a bang in D.C. and take in a few million, who's gonna notice a few measly bucks aren't there?"

Suddenly he swung around and looked at Paul, his eyes sly and bright. "I forgot. I had it all figured out. There's lots of time to put it back. All those people have to prove they're hungry, right? And there's booldceeping and the eternal revenue boys, and then they gotta decide who gets the money and then they gotta get it Uiere. Shit, it could take a year for all that. By then I'll have a series, be making good money; I'll put it all back. Nobody'U know. Except you, but you're family, so that's all right. And"—he swivelod his head—^'^there's nobody running the camera."

The door was filing open and Lx)uie hurtled into the room. "He called the IRS!" he burst out to Paul. "You really fucked us, you know that? The little shit says he isn't gonna be anybody's fall guy, and he called them and they're coming tomorrow for a field audit. Field audit! Tomorrow! You hear that?"

Farley looked from Lx)uie to Paul. "What's going on?"

"What's-his-name, the accountant!" Louie yelled. "Says we told Paul and he doesn't trust us, and now the tax boys are gonna be all over us and we've been fucked!"

"Hell no," Farley said wisely. 'They take forever; everybody knows that. They'll fart around for a few months, playing with numbers. We got plenty of time."

"You poor fool," Paul said. 'The only thing that makes this tour work is people's confidence. As soon as word gets out that you're being audited, you lose that. The tour is through and so is your comeback, if you can call it that. You haven't got—"

"I don't wanna hear this!" Louie shouted. "Nothing's through, you hear? We'll figure something out! I got contacts, they'll talk to the IRS, hold 'em off—"

"You're going to make sure people talk about it," Paul said.

! **'

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"Wait a minute," Farley said. "You guys crazy or something? My fans love me; they'll come no matter what. They don't know from field audits; they want to sit out there and love Britt! There's no problem! Everything's gonna be fine!" Behind him, his hand had been groping; it touched the drawer handle and pulled it open while he kept his eyes on Paul and j Louie. "You stick with me and everything'll be just—^"

"Leave that stuff alone," Paul said.

"I pay attention better if I have some. You'd understand if you weren't a fucking Mary Poppins— "

"If I don't ask my contacts for help, who do I ask?" Louie said, almost to himself.

Paul reached out and clamped his hand over Farley's. Leave it alone. Now listen. I'm not going to let this whole thing go down the tubes."

"What are you gonna do to stop it?" Louie asked.

"I'm thinking about it. But first I have to know that Britt can perform."

"A'course I can perform! I told you, my fans love me! Doesn't matter what I do: I don't have to be top-notch; I could howl like a hyena and pee on them from fifty yards, and they'd scream and say I'm awesome. A'course I can perform ... no question!"

*That's not what I had in mind," Paul snapped. "You're going to give that concert, and you're not going to howl or pee or do anything else except sing and make it the best you've ever done. Did you get that? I'll stay with you every minute between now and the time you go on that stage, and you'll be as clean as I can get you— '*

Farley barked. His head back, he let out a series of high yelps that turned his face red. Paul waited it out, his hand still clamped on Farley's until the yelps faded away. "And when you're clean," he said quietly, "and you've given that concert, and the tour is over, we'll talk about how we finish the film."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Farley's voice was a rasp. "I can't go on if I'm clean! Are you so fucking stupid you can't get that? I've gotta have something or I fall apart. Can't sing. Can't talk. No voice. Whatcha gonna do about that, old buddy?"

Paul was silent. He didn't know if it was true or not.

Judith Michael

"What difference does it make?" Louie asked. "If the IRS puts us outa business— **

'Tell you what," Farley went on. "Louie can stay with me. He's made me cut down other times; it only woiks if I ask him. It worked in Salt Lake; you remember how good I was there? So you don't have to worry; you'll have your concert. And we'll have a movie, too. Right? Louie'll take care of the money—he has these contacts who know their way arounc the government, they get lots of favors—and he'll take cj of me, too; I gotta have somebody take care of me, y'know; don't like being alone. But there's one thing. Listen, I don't have the money, you know, to pay it back? And I don't kno\ just when I will. You never know how long a series takes to get off the ground. So I can't do it. I'll give you a hell of a show in D.C., but I can't do the money. Okay? I can't handle it."

Paul contemplated him. Our American hero, he thought caustically. A frightened httle boy, weak and going downhill fast, on his way out of a career. "I'll handle it," he said at last. "I'll put the money in if you give me your word— **

"What money? In where?"

"Sorry, I didn't make that clear. I'm putting two hundred twenty thousand dollars into the fund. Nothing will be missing when the books are audited."

A strangled sound came from Louie. He stared at Paul, his eyes bulging.

"Where you gonna get that kind of money?" Farley demanded.

"I'll get it," Paul said briefly. "Your problem is keeping quiet about it. Can you? Can you keep your mouth shut so this whole thing doesn't blow up in your face?"

"Hey, shithead, this is Britt Farley you're talking to— ''

"I didn't hear you say that," Paul said, his v^ce like steel.

Farley reddened. "Fuck it. Okay. Yeah. I can keep it quiet."

"You'll give me your word you'll keep it quiet."

Farley looked at him for a long moment. "For what it's worth," he said in one moment of honesty. "On my word."

Paul stood and put his hand briefly on Farley's shoulder. He had an odd liking for him, part pity and part sorrow over the

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waste of what he had been, and could have been again. "I have to make a phone call. I'll see you later."

"Sure. Hey, buddy," he said as Paul turned away, "if you're gonna ask somebody for that money, ask real nice."