Shamus In The Green Room (21 page)

ing her head.

My second-best friend, Bridget, laughed so hard her turban

fell into the water.

Turned out Mrs. Choi knew her way around a camera. As I

was zipping up my gym bag, I asked her if by any chance she

did weddings.

The answer was no.

t

M o n d a y m o r n i n g . B a n k o f A m e r i c a , W e s t

Hollywood branch. I grabbed a complimentary cherry lollipop

out of the basket and popped off the cellophane wrapper.

There were lines even at this hour. People just loved to chat up

the tellers, and vice versa. How’s your uncle? Your sister? Your

brother? It was probably wrong of me to begrudge them this

simple, human pleasure. Still, I never found bank employees to

be particularly intriguing. But I was probably asking the wrong

questions: Can I order new checks at this window? What’s my

current balance? Boring.

The man in front of me groaned impatiently, then grabbed

three orange lollipops and shoved them in his pocket. Maybe a

$25,000 deposit would spark somebody’s interest. Easiest

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money I ever earned—sort of. It was done, at least. Twenty

thousand for Annie and Vincent, and the five thousand bonus

for me. I’d treated the girls to a day of beauty, and there was a

lot left over. Enough to pay for a honeymoon, even.

I was trying to think positive.

That worked until I got back home to discover that I’d

brewed a full pot of coffee without putting in the gold filter,

which meant the hot, watery grains had spilled down the sides

of the carafe instead of into it, dripped onto the counter, and

snaked into the open cutlery drawer—all over the serving

spoons, rolling pins, and spatulas—before puddling ignomin-

iously on the floor.

Upon surveying the mess, I thought briefly about moving.

I barricaded myself in the bedroom instead. My unmade

bed was calling out to me. What else was I going to do? It was

high time to get cracking on my new book, but I wasn’t ready

to face a blank screen. I checked my messages. One from the

director Steve Terrell, who was desperate to see me. Give me a

break. None from Gambino.

I picked the Rafe Simic scrapbook up from the floor. Time

to close that door. I carried it back to the closet where I’d

found it, but before putting it away, I flipped it open, to the

page with the collaged yearbook photo.

Annie.

My little girl.

I used to call her Moon Pie when she was little—not after

the graham-cracker treat, which we both loved, but because of

the shape of her face. Her face was perfectly round. No angles

anywhere. Her eyes were saucers. Even her curly hair fell into

ringlets. Moon Pie wasn’t her only nickname. Her Royal

Goodness was another one. Most of us have to struggle with it,

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but goodness came easily to Annie, which was why I was so

worried about her. She had no armor. No limits. She’d opened

herself up to Alexander, and he’d crawled into her arms. They

loved each other now, and love is a big responsibility.

Alexander’s mother. I had no words for her. A woman who

leaves her child. Gone, without a trace.

Like the dead woman.

The dead woman.

I felt my knees start to give.

Oh, god. Did the dead woman have children?

I sat down on the edge of the bed. I was shaking all over.

That possibility had never occurred to me before. I’d thought

about her parents, and that was bad enough, their not knowing

what had become of her. But this—this was worse. There

might be children out there who didn’t know what had hap-

pened to their mother. Children who dreamed about fires they

couldn’t put out. Children with no choice but to assume their

mother had just up and walked away.

And now I was walking away.

I stood up suddenly, closed the scrapbook, and put it back

in the closet, where it belonged. Then I went into the kitchen

and spent the next half hour cleaning up the mess I’d made.

The floor needed a good mopping anyway. Afterward, I put on

another pot of coffee.

My mind was made up.

I’d made many mistakes in my life, but I was not someone

who walked away.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FOUR

Aperson who lives in a trailer park probably has little use

for a set of twenty-four little tulip chairs. But let no one

accuse Steve Terrell of being the practical sort.

This was a man who dropped out of the University of

Nevada at Las Vegas one semester shy of graduation to be an

extra in Rambo: First Blood, Part II. A man who stomped off

the set of his directorial debut, a music video, when LL Cool J

demanded casting approval. A man who turned down a meet-

ing with the chairman of Universal because he was already

committed to a foie gras seminar in Sonoma. But by that time,

he’d earned the privilege—$200 million in privileges, if you

wanted to get technical about it. What did he care if he didn’t

have room for more chairs? Everyone in L.A. rents a storage

space.

Traffic was light today. During the spring rains, Pacific

Coast Highway can be impassable. I noted all varous artifacts

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from treacherous seasons past: sandbags, wire netting, plastic

trash bags, concrete drainage channels, wooden barricades—

anything to keep the hill from literally sliding into the ocean

and taking the road and the houses fronting the beach along

with it.

Just past the seedy Topanga Ranch Motel and Cabins,

which always struck me as something out of a film noir, I

started counting off the canyons: Las Virgenes, Malibu. Ac-

cording to MapQuest, it was another two miles after that. If I

hit Corral, I’d gone too far.

Just then I saw the sign, looming high above a cheesy-

looking seafood joint: Malibu Hills Trailer Park. There was an

arrow pointing right. I followed a green truck (bumper sticker

of the day: “If going to church makes you a Christian, does

going to the garage make you a car?”) up a windy path through

a grove of skinny palms and parked in the empty front lot.

The office reminded me of a gift shop in a high-end car

wash. I passed on the scented accessories and got a map and

visitor’s pass to stick on the dashboard. Before heading over to

number 31, I surreptitiously checked the rate sheet stashed be-

hind the front counter: $1,209.60 per month for a full hookup

with ocean view. You can’t beat that with a stick, I thought,

walking past the laundry room and pet run, not with the waves

cresting just outside your front door and the fluffy cumulus

clouds practically falling on your head. The only hitch was the

noise from the cars zooming by below, but you could talk your-

self into believing it was the roar of the crashing surf.

I tucked the bottom of my pleated Depression-era white

blouse into the waistband of my brown bias-cut tweed skirt

with the pink satin piping: Faye Dunaway in Bonnie and Clyde,

only with gold-sequined sandals. It was a vaguely professional

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look. But what did Steve Terrell want from me, professionally

speaking? I knew what I wanted from him. He had answers.

All I had to do was ask the right questions. Like why he lived in

a recreational vehicle.

I’d never given recreational vehicles much thought before.

These appeared to run the gamut, from ratty little Airstreams

propped up on concrete blocks, to “Dan and Betty’s Den,” a

camper from Casper, Wyoming, complete with plastic Christ-

mas wreath and barking poodle, to state-of-the-art luxury

coaches with landscaping. The front of Steve Terrell’s motor

home, for example, boasted half a dozen dwarf citrus trees in

fancy stone pots: Meyer lemon, Kaffir lime, satsuma tangerine.

And herbs galore. This man actually employed a gardener. In a

trailer park. I bent down to pluck some cilantro. Just then the

crimson-accented door swung open. I saw the white Nikes, and

sprang to my feet.

“I’m happy to give you some to take home,” said Steve Ter-

rell, “but use scissors, okay?” He wagged a small pair at me.

There were sweat stains under the arms of his silky black shirt.

“Sorry.”

“Come on in. I’d set up chairs out here, but it’s too windy.

I’ve ordered a heat lamp, but it’s not here yet. Fucking FedEx,

am I right?”

Inside, a sleek blonde was sitting on a sleek built-in couch

studying a sleek Palm Pilot. Everything in there was sleek: sil-

ver and/or black, like a spaceship. I suddenly experienced a de-

sire to sell all my possessions, in particular anything with

folkloric motifs or fringe. He gave me a quick tour, which con-

sisted of swinging various things in and out of various hidden

compartments. I was particularly enamored of the tiny galley

kitchen. In a space no more than six by six feet, he had all the

200

necessities, including a deep-fat fryer for his Thanksgiving

turkey, which descended from the ceiling with the push of a

button.

We went back out to the living room.

“Elsa was just leaving to run errands,” he announced.

Elsa picked up her silver-mesh handbag and slung it over

her bony shoulder. “Double meat, no cheese, right?”

Steve Terrell gave her the thumbs-up and shut the door be-

hind her. Then, he yanked up his droopy jeans.

“Now where were we?” he asked lasciviously. “Just kid-

ding.” He patted the spot Elsa had vacated. “I won’t bite.”

“You had something serious you wanted to talk about?” Let

him think my being here was for his benefit.

“Right.” He removed his thick, black glasses. “It’s Rafe, as

you might have guessed. He’s fucking up my movie big time.”

Now it was Steve Terrell’s movie. “How is that?”

“How is that? Look at him!” he exploded. “He’s skinny as

a fucking rail, his drinking is out of control, he can’t remem-

ber his fucking lines—where do you want me to start? The

nutritionist was the beginning, as far as I’m concerned. He

should’ve been at the gym getting buff, not running scared

from frigging cookies! He’s supposed to be an action hero, for

fuck’s sake!”

“Slow down, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, manically running his fingers through his

hair. “Sorry. I get too excited about this shit. It’s bad for me.

I’ve got to de-stress.”

“Excellent idea.”

“I’m calm now.”

“Good,” I said. “Listen, Rafe cares about this film. As much

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as you do—maybe more. But he’s done all this work because

he wants the character to be complex. A tough guy—”

“Yes!” he broke in hopefully. “That’s good! That’s perfect!”

“Who is also smart,” I continued. “Who lives the life of the

mind.”

“The life of the fucking mind?” Steve Terrell snatched a

Rubik’s cube off the table and started fussing with it. “Who

are we kidding here? Why the hell would anybody cast Rafe in

a role like that?” He bit his lip. “I didn’t say that, okay? But you

of all people, I thought you’d get it. Blood, guts, violence, re-

member? I am not doing tortured guy sitting at old-fashioned

typewriter. That was Eleanor’s take, but she’s fucking history

because IT’S NOT FUCKING CINEMATIC!” He started

whacking the Rubik’s cube against the side of the table. “Total,

un-fucking-mitigated disaster!”

Eleanor interested me. Someone else Will had fired. “Why

didn’t Eleanor work out?”

“She’s a great gal,” he said, taking deep breaths. “I’m seri-

ous. Great gal. Gorgeous, too. A real California blonde. Too

bad she’s a lesbian. For me, I mean.” He laughed. “I loved the

Amelia Earhart flick. Not my thing, but solid.” He attempted a

Black Panther salute. “Next up is a film about a cross-dressing

pirate. Yo-ho-ho, if you get my drift.”

The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter.

Sam Spade said that, but I could have.

“Then why did Will fire her?” I asked.

He laughed, then started to cough. “You see? You see? This

is making me sick. Don’t even get me started on Will. Will’s

useless. Rafe runs the show, which is the whole fucking prob-

lem. He’s the one who does the hiring and the firing. And he’s

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the one who needs the talking to, before he winds up doing

something stupid again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have to work on Rafe, Cece. You’ve got to get him to

pull himself together.”

“Me?”

“We all have a lot riding on this movie. It’s not just my ass

that’s on the line. People go see my movie, they go buy your

book. Nobody goes to see my movie, we’re both fried.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I have nothing riding on this

movie. I barely even have a career. And I certainly don’t have

any influence with Rafe.”

“The hell you don’t.”

“I am so out of the loop it’s pathetic. I don’t even know

what you’re talking about when you say he did something stu-

pid.” It was worth a try.

He cocked his head, which I think was his way of denoting