Innuendo (21 page)

The gate vibrated with a deep electric buzz, and Todd pushed it open.

He'd spent a lot of time thinking about how he would dress. While a suit had been appropriate for his interview with someone like Congressman Johnny Clariton, it was definitely out for tonight as too uptight, too conservative. Todd likewise nixed a sport coat and tie as too nerdy, too unhip. He thought about jeans but didn't want to appear too informal or unprofessional. In the end, he opted for his most casual but hippest-looking shirt—and also his most expensive—that some New York designer had conceived of in green and brown and black, a black leather belt, and fine black wool pants that made Todd look as slim as a model. He topped it all off with his black leather jacket, the most expensive article of clothing he'd ever bought, which hung perfectly from his broad shoulders.

As he followed a brick walk straight up to the house, he saw the massive door in the center and two large rooms symmetrically positioned on either side of the house. Everything was lit up, the tasteful lights along the walk, all the rooms downstairs, and every single window on the second floor. How many people were staying here, just Tim Chase, or an entire entourage? Was he going to be one of those stars who moved around the world in larger-than-life style, or would he be one of those whom you occasionally heard about, someone who was as real as he was down-to-earth? The power that the American public gave over to the stars of Hollywood had always amazed Todd. They were our de facto aristocracy, as American as anything could possibly be because their positions were made, not created, and their titles lasted only as long as they curried favor.

So was Todd going to do it? Was he really going to ask Tim Chase if he was gay? Perhaps, but definitely not in so many words.

He climbed the front steps and approached a huge front door filled with stained glass in a rich pattern of red, green, and yellow leaves and flowers. Todd didn't know much about these things, but he wouldn't have been surprised if it was the work of Tiffany or some other East Coast artisan. After all, the wealthy of the Midwest had always been eager to deny the corn and the forests and the coal that had made them rich, relying on more worldly acquisitions to prove their class and sophistication.

When Todd was only some four feet away the door began to pull open.

“Come in, please,” said a large man with a shaved head.

“Thank you.”

Todd quickly looked him up and down, saw that he was wearing black leather boots, black jeans, and a simple white shirt that was perfectly pressed. This guy was no butler, no personal valet. No, he was Tim Chase's bodyguard, for the life of the rich and famous didn't come without its ball and chain, namely life in a gilded cage and with hired muscle always at hand. No matter the wealth and the toys it bought, Todd didn't know how they could stand it, living under such constant scrutiny.

“This way, Mr. Mills,” said the man in a deep, courteous voice.

Todd followed the guy through an enormous center hall that alone was the size of many smaller houses and lined with deep, rich mahogany paneling. They turned immediately left into a living room that was borderline gaudy and by no means whatsoever cozy; Todd's friend Jeff, a banker and a drag queen, would have called it early whorehouse. The ceiling soared a good fourteen feet and a huge, ornate marble fireplace and mantel—definitely not from Minnesota, Wisconsin, or Iowa, but surely cut out of some French castle—dominated the center wall. Three expansive couches covered in dark, heavy floral fabric were placed in a U around the fireplace and a glass coffee table the size of a small billiard table sat in the middle. Huge old oil paintings, over a half-dozen and each of them perfectly lit, hung in strategic locations. Looking at them, Todd guessed they'd been chosen perhaps not because of their artistic merit but, like the old books interior designers bought by the yard, because the meadows and the mountains and the chateaux they portrayed looked so very old, so
tr?s riche.

“It'll be just a moment,” said the bodyguard, who stood against one wall.

“Thank you.”

Suddenly Todd realized what was missing: people. If nothing else he'd been expecting to walk into a group of people. Melissa, the Tim Chase publicist. Some young guy, the Tim Chase assistant. Someone else, the Tim Chase manager. For hours Todd had been imagining some kind of committee that would, very L.A. style, hand him a glass of wine, smile and laugh, tell him all sorts of wonderful things, pretend that they loved Todd, all the while silently judging him, wondering if he would do, if in fact he suited their purposes. Yes, he expected to be greeted not by a bunch of fake people, but by a group of extraordinarily casual-appearing people who were in all actuality vicious guards, the Hollywood variety, with one job and one job only: the protection of the Tim Chase franchise. Yes, he expected the: I love you, you're great, this is wonderful, fabulous, now read my smile: You dumb fuck, you're nothing.

Instead there was no one except Mr. Muscle.

At a loss, Todd stood in the middle of the enormous room, looking at the furniture that was too new to be old money and the paintings that were too safe to be masterpieces, when he heard steps from somewhere else in the house. Todd turned and looked at the hired thug, who was undoubtedly good at tossing out people but who needed a few quarters of finishing school. From the quick, light steps Todd presumed it had to be her, Melissa. Looking past the massive guy, Todd stared into the entry hall that was the size of a ballroom.

And suddenly there he was.

It wasn't her. It wasn't Melissa or any other young woman. It was him. At first Todd thought his eyes were failing. He just looked so… so small. He came racing around a corner, sliding on the oak floor in white athletic socks as if this weren't some huge mansion and he weren't one of the most well known stars in the whole universe. Wearing faded blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and an untucked and unbuttoned denim shirt, Tim Chase just looked like he was in any old home and he was just any old regular guy. No, wait. Hell, thought Todd. Look at that smile. Those teeth. That electrifying grin that could and had charmed gazillions, both male and female.

“Thanks for letting him in, Vic,” he said to Mr. Muscle. And then approaching Todd, he held out his hand. “Hi, I'm Tim Chase.”

Much later, Todd would kick himself for not saying something like, No shit. Or, Gee, I thought you were John Travolta. Or, And I'm Bill Clinton.

Instead he was barely able to mumble, “Nice to meet you. I'm Todd Mills.”

When their hands met in a formal handshake, Todd was surprised by more than a couple of things. First, he was surprised at how short and fast his own breathing had become. Second, he was impressed by the firmness of Tim Chase's grasp, how he squeezed Todd's hand so hard, so very guylike. Third and most important, the eyes. Oh, my God, thought Todd. What gorgeous brown eyes. And they were looking right at him. No, he realized, they were peering deep into him, fishing for some kind of truth, and Todd was staring right back. It lasted for just a second or two, but it was a moment much too long. Simultaneously and inexplicably, Todd's stomach tightened and his heart seemed to skip a beat. And it scared the hell out of Todd, that rush, that jolt. He knew what that was—his “gaydar” flashing “alert, alert.” It was, however, more profound than a simple feeling or a mere sense. It was in fact a physical reaction. Holy shit.

The star asked, “Are you hungry?”

Todd just stared at him.

“God, why do I have this effect on people?” He lifted his right hand in front of Todd's face and snapped his fingers. “Sushi? Do you like sushi?”

Effect? No, thought Todd. He doesn't understand just what he's exuding.

Todd cleared his throat, forced himself to say, “Sushi's great.”

“Vic,” he said, turning to the large man, who still stood on the edge of the living room. “Would you mind playing meals on wheels again?”

“Of course.”

“Get the same combination plate you did last night, okay? Oh, and their eel's great, so get some extra.”

“Extra pickled ginger too?”

“That's my man.”

As Vic left the room, Chase turned back to Todd, and said, “And here you've still got your coat on. Vic's almost perfect, but he's never been to butler camp.”

Slipping off his leather jacket, Todd couldn't help but grin.

“Oh, this is nice. Very soft,” said Chase as he took Todd's coat and carefully laid it on the back of one of the sofas. “Who would have thought you could get good sushi in the Midwest, huh? I mean, when I grew up in Milwaukee the exotic foods were chili and Reuben sandwiches.”

“Just like it was in Chicago.”

“You from there? Great place. Lots of fun.”

Todd shrugged and didn't know why he said it, why he would divulge anything so quickly. “Yeah, but too many memories, and not enough of ’em good.”

“Hey, that's exactly how I feel about Milwaukee.” He took a deep breath and then sighed. “Some hard shit, I'll tell you that much.”

He was talking family dirt. Divorce. Poverty. His mother's treatment and his taking all the jobs. Todd had read all about the hard times of Tim Chase, the stuff that made him tough and resilient, the stuff that made for good publicity copy And there it now was, lying both on the surface of his soul and the surface of their conversation. Todd didn't know why, but it suddenly struck him that he liked this guy. He just seemed very real.

“So Melissa made me promise I'd get the formal stuff right on the table,” continued Chase with one of those smiles that could disarm a nuclear warhead. “Namely, all this tonight is completely off the record. Nothing recorded, nothing quoted. No stories repeated. This is just a chance, you know, to talk. A chance for us to get to know each other.”

“Sure,” replied Todd, at the same time wondering why in the world Tim Chase would want to get to know him.

“And then… then we'll see.”

“She won't be here tonight?”

“Melissa? No.”

“What about an assistant or…”

“I can take care of myself, if that's what you mean, and they sure as hell know it. I mean, after all, I do pay them.”

“Sorry, I just didn't know what to expect. She didn't really tell me.”

“That's my Melissa, Miss Control herself.” Tim rubbed his hands together, and said, “How about something to drink? A beer? Some wine?”

“Wine would be great.”

“Come on.”

Tim turned, spinning quickly on his stocking feet, and starting off. As Todd followed him from the living room and back through the entry, Todd thought, yes, this guy is gorgeous. Actually, more cute than gorgeous, with that perfect brown hair that flopped about, that smile that glowed. He was a real star; Todd felt that, already sensed that he was in the presence of one. He was normal size, not larger than life. Actually about the same height as Todd. And he was a bit stockier than Todd had imagined. But he looked to be in perfect shape, the shoulders broad and muscular, the legs in those tight jeans strong and athletic.

“How about this joint, huh?” said Tim as he led the way into the dining room. “We're renting it from some cosmetics queen and she's got it all dolled up.”

“It's huge.”

“No shit. I had to use my cell phone to find Gwen a couple of hours ago,” he said with an easy laugh. “She was in the den.”

“I heard there was a swimming pool in the basement. Is that true?”

“Yep. All tiled and everything. And there's a billiard room up here. You like pool?”

“Sure.”

“Good, we'll shoot some.”

The dining room was a tad more intimate, a smaller room with a long wooden table for a crowd, a carved plaster ceiling, another stolen marble fireplace, and a Venetian chandelier that had blue and pink baubles protruding every which way. From there they passed into a breakfast room with a tiled floor and lots of leaded glass windows; Todd easily imagined the robber baron who'd built this place taking his morning coffee out here. And then they turned left into an enormous modern kitchen that stretched all the way along the side of the house.

Immediately a small voice shouted, “Daddy!”

“Jack!”

Clutching the remnants of a chocolate chip cookie, a young boy, perhaps no older than three, came charging across the white floor. Tim scooped him up and kissed him on the neck.

“How's my best boy?”

“Good!”

“Well, there you are,” said a woman who stood at the sink, her goldish-brown hair put up in a lazy bun. “He wants to say good night.”

This was his boy, Todd understood. And that was his wife. That beautiful young woman in the jeans and oversized sweatshirt was
the
Gwen Owens. When he'd seen her accepting her Oscar her hair had been professionally done, her makeup perfectly applied, and she'd worn a designer gown that had made her look like a goddess, but there was no mistaking her pale complexion, her small mouth, and the gentle eyes. Standing at the sink like any ordinary slob, that was she, one of the hottest female stars in moviedom. And here they both were, Tim and Gwen, the legendary couple.

Looking past her, Todd saw a trim, handsome woman with the short brown hair sitting on the countertop. So who was she?

“Well, it's that time, is it, little man?” said Chase, hugging his son. “Give me a big kiss and a big hug. I'll see you in the morning. I love you.”