Little Known Facts: A Novel (13 page)

RI:
Whatever Lucy’s faults might be, she doesn’t kiss and tell.

JM:
What are her faults?

RI:
I don’t really want to talk about her. Water under the bridge.

JM:
Of course it is. But it would still be interesting to hear what you think of her.

RI:
I almost never talk about my exes, but I will say that she’s a decent person, very smart, and I know that my work schedule was pretty hard on her while we were together, especially during the last seven or eight years. She also has a short temper. She’s impatient and holds grudges much too long, and while we were married, she was prone to believing the worst. She still is, I think.

JM:
You left her for Melinda. I suppose in that case, she was right to assume the worst.

RI:
I’d really rather not talk about this. As I said, it’s water under the bridge.

JM:
How would you describe your relationship with your children?

RI:
We’re good friends. I love them, and I’m pretty sure that they love me.

JM:
I read somewhere that your daughter is about to finish med school. You must be really proud of her. What does your son do for a living? I looked him up online, but there wasn’t much information about what he’s doing right now.

RI:
He’s thinking about going to law school. I think he’s doing some online trading too.

JM:
I’ve always wondered how he reacted when you made
Parachute Point
and played Wickley Ryerson’s father, who I think was probably the same age as Will at the time. Was your son jealous when he saw it and he had to watch you doing all of the fun things fathers sometimes do with their sons, like when you took Wickley to the park to fly a kite or when you taught him to swim the front crawl or gave him advice about how to talk to girls? Did he think you meant it when your character said “I love you” to Wickley’s character?

RI
(long pause):
I think Will has always been pretty good at separating fantasy from reality.

JM:
You hesitated before answering. What’s the real story?

RI:
That is the real story. Will and I have a complex, constantly evolving relationship. Believe it or not, we’re not very much alike. And that’s just fine. He should be his own person.

JM:
Just a couple of more questions. What’s Renn short for?

RI:
Renaldo, but I’ve gone by Renn since I was about thirteen.

JM:
Why not just one “n”?

RI:
I don’t know. I like two.

JM:
Okay, now for one more: what’s the story with you and Elise Connor?

RI
(hesitates):
We’re close friends. She did a stunning job in
Bourbon at Dusk.
I think she’ll be remembered when the awards season starts.

JM:
I’ve heard that you two are a couple and that it’s serious.

RI:
She’s important to me.

JM:
She’s a lot younger than you are.

RI:
Yes, I’m aware of that. What’s your point?

JM:
No point. I suppose I’m just stating the obvious.

RI:
That’s not necessary.

As you can see, I’ve given him a few quills. He’s not without his defenses—to get to where he is, you have to be tough, but I think he keeps the darker side of his personality, which I know is there, pretty well under wraps most of the time. I’ve only seen him have one real temper tantrum, and that was when a sound guy kept hitting the top of his head with a boom mic. I think the sound guy might have been stoned, or else he was just sleep-deprived. Some of the crew couldn’t stifle their laughter when they saw Renn getting bonked again and again, and the guffaws, no surprise, made him angrier. The sound guy was told to leave the set, but they let him come back the next day. He was union, so that was part of it, I’m sure. Renn has sometimes gotten a little grouchy about the catering, and he also complains if there’s even the smallest chance he’ll look fat onscreen—this is one thing he’s pretty adamant about with the wardrobe people, unless the role requires him to look paunchy, but I can’t think of more than one or two movies where this was the case. I don’t think he takes roles where he’s required to look bad, unless there’s a huge transformation somewhere in the script where he ends up looking like himself again by the middle or end.

He’s going to be releasing
Bourbon at Dusk
soon, a film that he directed and co-wrote. I’ve heard it could win a little (or a lot) of everything—Golden Globes, Oscars, BAFTAs, SAGs. It was only a finalist at Cannes, but that is still a solid accomplishment. After his big trip to France, however, he has had to come back down to earth very fast because he agreed to do a cameo in the film I’m working on right now,
More Liar’s Poker,
which isn’t about poker, instead, two rival hitmen organizations that are hired to kill each other. Ivins is playing a retired hitman who is like a hitman guru. It’s a nothing movie (which is a sequel to, yes,
Liar’s Poker),
but he’s got one of the few slightly less dull roles because the director is his friend, as is one of the two stars, Wells Bradford, which is a fake name, but his real one, Hubert Smids, isn’t exactly marquee material.

Ivins is only in one scene, but it’s an important one—five minutes, which is long in movie time. Many scenes only last a couple of minutes, and quite a few are shorter, which means that the crew work their asses off with all of the setups and teardowns for these two-bit scenes, though some can be unforgettable when you see them in finished form, spliced into exactly the right place. They’re like the one card that causes the house to collapse if it’s pulled out.

In his scene, which is with Wells Bradford and some guy named Billy Pistol or Billy Pirate who is at least a few years younger than I am—I’d be lying if I said that this doesn’t make me bitter (though it’s not like I could ever be an actor—I get too nervous if too many people are looking at me)—Renn is wearing a glued-on goatee and a black silk shirt with gray pants and these very cool Ray-Bans I want so badly that I’ll have to find a way to get them on the Loss/Damage report when we wrap.

For four hours, between errands and phone calls to track down two Depression-era ebony walking sticks, I keep checking to see if they’re done with the scene. When they finally are, I know that I’ll have to wait some more before I have a chance at those sunglasses. Ivins heads straight for his dressing room, which isn’t far from the sound stage where we filmed his scene. I hang around in the hall outside, making more calls about ebony canes, until Ivins comes out about fifteen minutes later and nods at me and I nod back and smile as if the person on the other end of the line is testing my tolerance for stupidity. I don’t hear the click of the lock when he shuts the door of his dressing room.

After he disappears down the hall, I try the door and it opens. I slip inside, already sweating, and close the door behind me without turning on the light. I have trouble finding the sunglasses. What look like manila folders and unopened mail are scattered across a small table and the sofa next to it, and there are also several pairs of shoes in a pile by the door. I trip over one of the shoes, almost falling, and it isn’t until I start to look for a case rather than the glasses themselves that I find them. I grab the case, along with a couple of cheap pens, and these three things are in my hands when the door opens. The lights come on, and my heart almost stops dead. Despite all the studio property I’ve removed from the set over the past couple of years, I’ve never been caught. Even before I turn around, I know it’s him. It occurs to me then that he left the door unlocked because he was planning to come back, and he must have trusted me, the peon out in the hall, to keep an eye on the place for him.

Framed by the doorway, he looks very tall and burly, menacing too, but it’s probably because of the fake goatee that he hasn’t yet ripped from his face. He says nothing, only sighs when he sees me drop the pens and sunglasses on the table I’ve just taken them from. I can’t meet his eyes, my shame worse than the afternoon fifteen years ago when my friend Cal’s mother caught me shoplifting a Snickers bar from a gas station near our school.

“Is there something I can help you with in here, John?” Renn Ivins asks in a calm, weary voice.

“Actually, it’s Jim,” I say, realizing too late that this probably isn’t the best time to correct him.

“Jim,” he says flatly. “Was there something in particular you were looking for?”

“No, I was just checking to see if you had enough bottled water in your fridge.” The words come so easily that it’s as if someone else is speaking for me.

“And my sunglasses were helping you accomplish that task?”

I force myself to hold his gaze. “I was just going to try them on.”

“Everyone likes those Ray-Bans,” he says. “They were a birthday present from my son. I’d let you borrow them, but I wear them every day. We’re burning through the ozone layer pretty fast, and you know what that means, don’t you?”

“I think so.”

He ignores this. “Wrinkles,” he says, laughing in a hard burst. “Eye damage too. The sun has one mission: seek and destroy.”

“I was just going to try them on,” I repeat lamely. “I’m sorry.”

“As long as you weren’t going to steal them, Jim. Some of my things here seem to grow legs and walk off. I know it’s best not to get too attached to your possessions, but I can’t help but feel fond of a few of them. I’m sure you understand.”

I nod, wanting very badly to leave but not sure how to manage it. Ivins is still in the doorway, and he has started to pry up the edges of his goatee, which makes him look both comical and sinister. “Tell me, do I need any water?” he asks. “Or is my fridge well stocked?”

Along with
yes
or
no
, I can only think of one other reply,
not really,
which means that I probably have a thirty-three percent chance of choosing the correct answer. I have no idea if Ivins knows what’s in the fridge; his face gives nothing away. I wonder if he recognizes that we’re playing our own game of liar’s poker.

My throat feels very dry. “You could use a few more bottles,” I manage to say.

He gives me a long, unblinking look. “Really? Why don’t you double-check?”

A horrifying urge to laugh seizes my chest. I take the few steps over to the fridge and am now even farther from the door. The refrigerator is almost empty. Inside are only two bottles of water, one very shiny Granny Smith, a few pieces of string cheese, and a bottle of O’Doul’s. O’Doul’s? Despite the fact that I’m in no position to judge him or anyone else, I can’t help but wonder. Does he really drink that swill? Or does he keep one on hand for his friends who are in AA? Would they even be allowed to drink O’Doul’s?

“Gotcha,” he says. He’s standing only a couple of feet behind me now. “You looked pretty nervous for a minute or two. I bet you weren’t too sure what you’d find in there.”

I turn around but can’t meet his eyes. “I’ll go get you some water,” I mumble. My stomach feels like it’s living in my shoes now. I shut the refrigerator and move toward the door. I have never in my life wanted so badly to leave a room.

“Hold on a second, Jim,” Ivins says.

It stings like a slap, but I force myself to look right into his tired, suntanned face.

“I’ll let you off this time,” he says, his eyes malice-hardened. “But I don’t want to catch you in here again.” He peels off his goatee and rubs his reddened chin for a few seconds. “There’s a reason you’re the person you are and I’m the person I am, no?”

“Yes, I guess so,” I say.

He finally steps aside and lets me go. I hear him shut the door behind me, the lock clicking into place.

He must know that I won’t have the guts to bring him the water. I wish that I could prove him wrong, but I can’t.
You’re the person you are and I’m the person I am.
I find one of the caterers and ask her to bring Ivins eight bottles of Evian, which she does without complaint, her pretty face blank, but I know she doesn’t mind.

Admittedly, he did me a favor. He could have had security throw me out, and I would promptly have been fired, possibly arrested. He could also have made it impossible for me to be hired anywhere else. Maybe he still will, but I don’t think so. It’s over now though—my side business, our friendly acquaintance, if that’s what it was. Yet as far as I know I’m still employed at the studio. I still have a decent place to live, a coach house that I rent in Topanga Canyon, a two-bedroom with a small garage that sits behind a bigger, nicer house. I have a car given to me by my parents when I graduated from UCLA. It’s a Honda, only six years old, and hasn’t needed any major repairs. Larissa, my girlfriend, who is a full-time preschool teacher and a part-time spinning instructor, seems genuinely to care about me and stays over three or four nights a week, if I don’t have to work too late. She doesn’t know about my side business, and I haven’t ever had the urge to tell her. She still thinks one of my screenplays will sell and be produced and I’ll win an Oscar or at least a Golden Globe and then I will finally be able to take her to Spain and France, the two countries she has most wanted to visit since high school. I don’t see us going there any time soon, even if I have a second bank account into which I’ve now deposited a couple of thousand dollars, most of it money from the things I’ve taken from Renn Ivins and a few of the other actors I’ve worked with. My plan has been to use it to get Binocular Spectacular started so I can film one of my screenplays if no one else will. Sometimes, to get ahead, to step out of the rapids that are rushing you toward nowhere but death, you have to do a thing or two that wouldn’t make your parents or the president or your therapist proud.

I learned in high school that character is fate, but I can’t remember who said it. At the time, I thought, Sure, whatever. Now, no surprise, it’s a little more complicated.
You’re the person you are.
I don’t like it at all that Renn said this. It might be the worst thing anyone has ever said to me. Especially because he must think he’s right.