KW 09:Shot on Location (16 page)

40.

At Ciaobella, the Vermentino was almost gone but neither Jake nor Claire was quite ready to have their time together end. They nursed their last half-glasses. Conversation came in scraps, sometimes comfortable, sometimes a little awkward. At some point Claire said, “Are you hungry at all? I feel like something sweet. They do an amazing
tiramisu
here. With mango slices.”

“Share one?” he suggested.

This turned out to be a significant suggestion, because while they were sitting there at the candlelit table with palms swaying and the stars and ocean twinkling, a tiny but galvanizing event took place. They reached into the dessert at the exact same moment. Their forks touched, the ping of the small collision muffled by the rich texture of the cream. For just an instant the tines of their implements intertwined and locked. Fleeting though it was, it was a vicarious embrace, and not entirely a gentle one, fueled as it was by shared appetite, acknowledged hunger. Jake and Claire both felt the electricity of the proxy touch travel through their hands and up their arms. They pulled back quickly but a hint of titillation remained, as did a certain embarrassment, as if they’d been caught checking each other out across a crowded party.

Covering up, Claire said, “This is delicious.”

“Really good,” said Jake. He ate a morsel then put down his fork and dabbed his lips on a napkin.

“Not having any more?”

“No, just wanted a taste.”

Claire took another bite. “Are you always so … so self-controlled?”

“No,” said Jake, “I’m usually a seething cauldron of untamed cravings.”

“Come on, I’m being serious. I want to know you better.”

“Ah, so it’s not about the
tiramisu
anymore?”

She moved some crumbs around on the plate. “Maybe, maybe not. But I was wondering if you’ve noticed that every time we’ve gotten together, I’ve called you. You’ve never called me. Not that I’m keeping score or anything. But are you always so … what’s the word? Elusive doesn’t quite describe it. Blasé, but that doesn’t really nail it either. Just sort of —”

“Chicken?”

“Not sure I’d say that.”

“I would. Chicken. When I really like someone, I’m sort of chicken.”

Claire was savoring one last bite of the sensuous dessert. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Absolutely.”

Her eyes seemed to go a shade greener at that. She interlaced her fingers so they lay there in a cozy bundle. “What’s to be chicken about? Me?”

“Not you. Not at all. Me.”

“Okay, you. Want to tell me about it? I’ll buy you a
grappa
.”

While she was signaling for the waiter, Jake said, “I’ll take the drink, but I’m not sure my story’s worth the money. It’s really pretty standard. I’m afraid I’ll let you down.”

“Let me down from what? We’re pretty much at sea level now, right?”

“Right. But if we ever aren’t … Look, this is just old stuff of mine. Not your problem at all.”

“It’s my problem if I like you,” Claire said. “Besides, I’ve got a round of drinks invested here. So tell me.”

Jake considered his
grappa
then took a small fiery swig. “Well,” he said, “I was married for a while.”

“Shocking revelation,” Claire teased.

“And the marriage, in my mind at least, had a lot to do with my being an earnest young writer, a novelist. There was a romance to it. A purity. Does that make any sense? My wife was an editor, passionate about books. She understood what I was trying to do. So for a while the pieces just fit together. I was committed to my work. I was committed to the marriage. And I loved being committed. I knew who I was, I was happy with the choices I’d made. Then it all went south. The work didn’t go so well, lots of rejection, and after a while my commitment to it had all been hammered out of me. I wish I could say I battled for years and years to be a real writer, but I didn’t. I found I had this ghosting knack, so I took the path of least resistance and ended up with a career instead. But the purity was gone, the romance was gone. And the good parts of the marriage were gone too. I couldn’t quite figure out how to be committed to something if I wasn’t committed to everything. Anyway, I ended up being a big disappointment to my wife.”

“She told you that?” Claire asked.

“She didn’t have to. I felt it. And I resented her for making me feel it. Even though I knew, sort of, that it wasn’t anything she was making me feel, it was something I was doing to myself. Which only made me feel worse, of course … And that’s a long answer to why I’m afraid of getting together with a woman I really like.”

He lifted his little
grappa
glass and they clinked. It was an odd statement to be toasting, but at least it was the truth. They looked at each other for a long moment. Though Jake didn’t quite grasp this at the time, he was searching Claire’s face for signs that she was giving up on him, writing him off after what she’d heard: being disappointed in advance. When those signs did not appear, he managed a smile and said, “Okay, now you show me yours. You’re beautiful, smart, accomplished. And, as far as I can tell, single. How come?”

She glanced off toward the ocean and her eyes went briefly out of focus. “Actually,” she said, “when I came down here and started working on the show, I wasn’t single. Or at least I didn’t think I was. I thought I had a boyfriend back in Santa Monica. But for some strange reason I didn’t miss him. And the longer I was here, I missed him even less.”

“Not a great sign,” said Jake.

“No, but an interesting one. Because it made me wonder what kind of half-hearted relationship it had been in the first place if I could basically forget about it just because I had a job somewhere else. That seemed really kind of sad. It wasn’t the guy’s fault. He was nice enough. It was my fault. I’d been kidding myself that I had room for a relationship. But I didn’t. I was too wrapped up in my work. Dealing with stuff 24/7, catering to everybody’s feelings except my own. So I let the half-assed relationship go, and of course what happened then is that work started seeming even more important, to fill the void. Occasionally, during the rare moments when I could actually think and breathe, I’d ask myself why I was doing this, what I really wanted from it. Driving myself crazy with this job just so I’d get hired for the
next
job? So I’d be successful and exhausted and alone for a few more years? Or forever? What was the point? Then all this weird stuff started happening with Donna getting hurt and people playing creepy games with the publicity, and it all seemed pretty ugly. And just in the midst of that you showed up, and I actually was surprised to remember that not everyone in the world is a creature of the entertainment business, and now I’m in a complete muddle, no idea what I want or what I’m doing, and that’s why I’m still single.”

Jake said, “Wow, that’s a lot of information for one glass of
grappa.”

“Yeah, I guess it is. You asked for it.”

“You asked for it first.”

“Yeah, I did,” said Claire. “And I’m glad. Aren’t you?”

Jake had to think about it for a moment. “Yeah. I’m glad.”

“And maybe just a little nervous?” Claire prompted.

“Yeah.”

“I’m a little nervous too,” said Claire. “But I think it’s nice to be a little nervous, don’t you? I mean, it’s a nice change from not really caring one way or the other, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Jake said again. “I do think that. I think it’s pretty nice.”

41.

Closing the door of his private office, Handsome Johnny also closed down the phony smile he no longer needed. He snarled, pulled his forehead into furrows, and said to Ace, “All right, you got five minutes. Fuck is this about?”

Only then did he seem to notice Bert and the chihuahua.

“And what the fuck are you doing here?” he added.

Bert said, “I’m his bodyguard. Thought he’d need one ’cause you’re such a tough guy.”

“Funny, Bert. Funny. And I guess your piece a shit mutt is a watchdog.” He turned back to Ace. “Now you got four and a half minutes. Talk.”

Uninvited, Ace had sat down on the edge of Johnny’s desk. That was part of the plan as well: claim territory, crowd the space like a fighter cutting off the ring. He said, “That script you had me steal.”

“What about it?”

“Ever since I brought it to you weird shit’s been going on, people getting hurt.”

Johnny shrugged. “Got nothing to do with me. I just passed it along.”

“Who’s the customer?”

“Privileged information,” Johnny said. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” said Ace. “It’s a crazy broad from L.A. whose brother killed himself and now she’s raising hell.”

Handsome Johnny flinched at that, just as Bert had predicted he would. It was often useful to surprise people with a piece of information they didn’t know you had. It made them wonder how much else you knew. Trying to regain his equilibrium, Johnny said, “Okay, smart guy. Here’s your gold star. Now what the hell you want from me?”

“You’re gonna tell me how to find her.”

At that Handsome Johnny smiled. It was a far different smile from the one he broadcast in the restaurant. This one was nasty, goading, provoking. His pissing contest smile. “And why would I do that?”

Ace leaned a few degrees closer to Johnny and squeezed the edge of the desk so that his knuckles changed color. He figured that would be enough. “I just have a feeling that you will.”

“You threatening me, Ace?”

Ace said nothing.

Johnny said, “You know, all I gotta do, I tell Ponte I got a beef with you, and —”

“Ponte ain’t here,” Bert put in. “You guys are. I respectfully suggest youse work it out between the two a ya.”

By that time Ace was leaning quite close to Handsome Johnny. Johnny, not wanting to give ground, was leaning gingerly toward Ace. Their chins were close enough together to smell each other’s after-shave when Johnny decided that he was not in a promising posture. He backed off an inch or two and said, “All right, all right. Tell me why you got such a fucking hard-on about the script.”

“My girlfriend got run over by a speedboat.”

This news came as a complete and flabbergasting surprise to Handsome Johnny. Haltingly, he said, “Your girlfriend?”

“Donna Alvarez. The stuntwoman.”

Johnny gave himself a quick beat to digest that. “Wait a second. You said you knew somebody on the show. You never said she was your girlfriend. You stole the script from your own girlfriend?”

Ace’s tough-guy act frayed a little in that moment. A bit sheepishly, he said, “She wasn’t my girlfriend then. We broke up. We’re back together now. For good.”

“Ah,” said Johnny. He paced a couple of steps around the office while he tried to reappraise the situation. “So all this fucking drama, it’s just a little personal matter?”

“Not so little. Very personal.”

Sounding relieved and suddenly almost friendly, Johnny said, “Well, Christ, why didn’t you say so? Personal I understand. Personal I respect. You want to track this nut-case down because she hurt your girlfriend, right?”

“If she did it. Yeah.”

“And if she did, what then?”

Ace bunched up the muscles in his back and shoulders. His neck got so taut that his ears moved. That was answer enough.

Johnny said, “Okay. Okay. If that’s how it is, I’ll help you find her. But I want something in return.”

“What a surprise,” said Bert the Shirt.

Handsome Johnny let that pass. “This broad, I don’t know where she is, but I know her boat and where she keeps it. But here’s the deal. You find her, you do what you want. Get your satisfaction, I don’t give a fuck. But the boat is mine. You grab it and bring it here. Okay?”

Johnny’s face was stone but his heart was singing as he waited for an answer. He’d found a way, a perfect way, to turn this unwanted and unpromising meeting to advantage. As was his custom, he’d get somebody else — in this case, this lumpy moron Ace--to do some dirty work on his behalf. Then he, Johnny, would present the stolen boat to Charlie Ponte, who’d fence it for six figures, thereby repaying him for the bum loan to the suicidal director and getting Ponte off his back. It was perfect.

But then Ace said, “No dice. I’m not stealin’ stuff no more.”

There was a pause. Actually, there was some awkward fraction of a pause before Bert jumped in with one of his off-the-beat remarks. “Except maybe a speedboat now and then. A speedboat, he’ll grab. Won’t ya grab a speedboat, Ace?”

He read the old man’s lifted eyebrow and said okay, he would.

Handsome Johnny smiled. “Good. The boat is at the Brigantine Marina, right in town. It’s called the
Quickie
. Can’t miss it. Iridescent blue-black, chrome pipes, custom everything. Grab the broad, grab the boat, everybody wins. Okay?”

Ace nodded, and Handsome Johnny, feeling like he’d got his way, like he’d outsmarted and outmaneuvered everybody, grew downright charming and affable. He offered cigars, which were declined. He looked kindly at Bert’s chihuahua and said, “Mutt’s actually kind of cute.”

He reached out to pet the dog. The dog growled and tried to bite his finger.

“And an excellent judge of character,” said Bert, as they headed for the door.

42.

At five a.m. West Coast time, Jacqueline Mayfield was already wide awake. Drinking coffee, padding around her apartment in very large and very fuzzy slippers, she was bracing herself to make a phone call she’d been dreading. She sat down on a sofa, propped her feet on an ottoman, and speed-dialed Candace McBride to tell her that her morning interview with
TV Insider
had been cancelled.

Until she’d heard the word, Candace, still in bed, had been groggy from last night’s booze and Xanax. Suddenly she wasn’t. “Cancelled? What do you mean, cancelled?”

“They changed their minds. They don’t want the segment.”

“Changed their minds? They begged for this interview. They promised us the lead slot, asked for clips from the show …”

Gently but not quite apologetically, Jacqueline said, “What can I tell you? They wanted it. Now they don’t. I can’t see inside their heads.”

The diva went silent for a moment. Even alone in her hotel bed she was acting. Her face ran through a number of expressions, from surprise to anger to resignation to a sort of droll rising above. “All right, all right,” she said. “Guess I’ll have to save the charm for the
Red Carpet
spot this evening.”

The publicist swallowed some coffee. “Actually you won’t. That one’s off too.”

“What?”

“It’s off. The whole week’s schedule is off. Sorry, but that’s how it is.”

Candace sat bolt upright in bed and swung her feet onto the floor. The quick movement made her head pound. She squinted past her drawn blinds and could just make out the silhouette of the security guard at her door. “How it
is
?” she hissed. “Jacqueline, what the fuck are you telling me?”

The big woman put her coffee down and indulged in an inaudible sigh. Like any good publicist she could bullshit with the best of them, but the easy flow of fibs and euphemisms and strategic exaggerations depended to a fair degree on a genuine enthusiasm for the message. The enthusiasm was in itself a kind of truth, if not the purest sort; but without it the stretches and evasions felt thick and dirty in her mouth and she just couldn’t sell them. “Honey, listen, you’re a lot more famous than you were a week ago. You’ve had the kind of exposure actors dream of. Enjoy that.”

The star was up and pacing now. “Enjoy it? Enjoy it … like, it’s over?”

The publicist said nothing.

“Why’s it over, Jacqueline? Why’s it suddenly over? Everyone cancels on the same day? That makes no sense to me. I don’t believe it. They didn’t cancel. You cancelled. Didn’t you?”

“Candace —”

Crouching low, tugging at her hair, the actress said, “Just tell me the fucking truth. You cancelled my appearances, didn’t you?”

Softly, evenly, Jacqueline said, “Yes. I did.”

“You fucking bitch.”

“It’s a brutal business, Candace. The way decisions get made, it isn’t always —”

“You fucking bitch,” the diva said again, and broke off the connection.

Jacqueline Mayfield stared at her silent phone for just a moment, then finished her coffee and padded off to the shower to get ready for the rest of her day’s work.

---

Jake was dreaming of bacon.

Gradually he realized that he wasn’t dreaming, that someone was cooking breakfast on the communal gas grill right in front of his cottage. He got out of bed and peeked through a gap in the shutters to see Ace cracking eggs into a skillet. The eggs looked tiny in his enormous hands but he cracked them with finesse and tenderness, as if he hoped to put the shells together again after he had drained them.

Jake threw some water on his face and joined him on the patio. Ace asked him if he wanted some food. He waved the offer away. “Too early for me. How’d it go last night?”

Checking the doneness of the bacon with a pair of tongs, Ace said, “Went good. The crazy sister, I know the name of her boat. I know where she keeps it. Couldn’t find it though.”

“You went looking?”

“Me and Bert, we got back to town, it was pretty early yet, we figured we’d check out the marina. But it’s gated on the land side. Couldn’t see much. Couldn’t get onto the docks. Need to scope it out in daylight. From the water side.”

Jake nodded but he was still a little drowsy, a little fuzzy from the Vermentino and the
grappa,
and the nod referred to nothing in particular.

With a feathery touch Ace flipped a couple eggs, keeping the yolks perfectly intact. His eyes still on the skillet, he said, “Bert says Joey has a boat, a little fishing skiff. We’ll take a cruise around a little later.”

The
we
was vague and Jake wasn’t quite sure if it meant he was invited. But he knew he didn’t want to be left behind again. He said, “I want to go along.”

Ace seemed surprised by the remark. “Of course you’re going along. You’re the one that’s gotta tell us if that’s the boat that almost killed Donna.”

---

Quentin Dole had worked through the night, had worked with a relentless energy that banished fatigue and obliterated the usual sense of the passage of time. He was by nature a spasmodic writer, someone who might stare into space for twenty minutes then put his head down over the keyboard and type non-stop for an hour. But with this script the rhythm was very different. The words flowed forth not in bursts but with a not quite human steadiness. There was something automatic, inexorable in the way that speech followed speech and scene followed scene. It was almost as if Dole was not creating the script but hearing it, not inventing but taking down dictation. When he’d finished the episode and held the printed pages in his hand, he didn’t quite remember having written them. But he knew they were right; he knew they told the story of what had to happen next in the universe of
Adrift.

He slept for a fitful hour before booking a flight to Miami. Then he called his newly found and newly solicitous father and asked or rather commanded him to meet him at the airport.