Sleeping Beauty (22 page)

“What the hell was that all about?” Alex screams in my ear. “Was that his idea of asking for a date?”

Before I can answer she peeps through a crack between the doors. I throw my hip into hers. “Move,” I say, standing on tip-toes so I can see through the small square window. It’s hard to see individual faces through the black contacts from this far away, but I’m pretty sure it’s Officer Cawley staring at the door with a look of distaste.

A sudden eruption of blood-curdling screams and an explosion of camera flashes from outside the venue provide a welcome diversion. The cops turn in unison to train their stink eye on the club entrance.

“Jonathan’s here!” Alex and I shout in unison.

“Let’s get out of here before the hormonal Tweenies get us!” she says.

I follow her to a staircase at the back of the club. Once we’re upstairs and past the first vetting station, the music is muffled enough by the walls so that we can hear each other talk.

“I guess my autograph wasn’t good enough,” I say.

“I know, right? I’ve never seen a sadder Thin Blue Line. Maybe he realized that you had a raging case of doll lice.”

“Hey, picking nits out of red yarn isn’t for everyone.”

We come to a door with a sign reading “MOS EISLEY CANTINA.” A towering fellow dressed in a Wookiee costume holds up his two furry paws, his muzzle emitting a series of synthesized growls that sound like an Auto-Tuned bear.

His minder, a woman dressed in the uniform of a club employee, helpfully translates while waving us through the door. “He says: ‘No droids or blasters allowed!’”

“Blaster?” mutters Alex to me as the woman holds the door open. “Is that a mixed drink?”

I roll my eyes. “You know Andy. One big kid with a Star Wars fetish.”

True to the theme, the rooms inside have been decorated to look like the alien bar in
Star Wars
, complete with alien band. The latter all have the rounded heads and black, beady eyes of terrestrial octopi, and play instruments that resemble, variously, the tool used to snake a clogged toilet, and a high-end hookah.

Alex stops short. “What in the hell…?”

I spot Andy across the room and point. “Blame it on Raggedy Andy.”

Andy sees us and starts lurching unsteadily in our direction. “Raggedy Ann!”

“Uh-oh,” I say. “He’s definitely had a few more since I saw him downstairs.”

“You two leave your blasters outside?” he says, putting his arms around our shoulders and leading us towards the bar.

“Of course,” says Alex, “but one of these arms is holding on to my lightsaber just in case.”

He nods in drunken approval. “Nicely played!”

“I’m getting a drink,” she says, extricating herself from his arm. “Want one?”

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

His arm still around my shoulder, Andy gives me gentle shake as Alex walks away. “I just heard your good news,” no doubt trying for a discreet undertone. It comes out as a full-volume bellow behind a hand he’s uselessly cupped next to his mouth. Another shake. “Don’t worry…secret’s safe with me.”

I must look as shocked as I feel, because Andy takes his arm off my shoulder and gives me a quizzical look. I blink a few times, trying to compose myself. “What news?” I say, doing my best to sound casual, all the while looking around to make sure no one can overhear us.

Andy guffaws. “C’mon, Ann! It’s Raggedy Andy, your brother, remember?”

Ho boy
. Andy’s drink sloshes over the side of his glass onto my feet. I reach for the martini glass, hoping to talk him onto the wagon before he makes a fool of himself in front of half of Hollywood.

He lifts it above his head, way out of my reach. “No, no, no! Not until I make a toast!” His soulless black eyes widen, the paint around his mouth smeared into a disturbing frown, like an unhinged Ronald McDonald.

“Andy, please!” I look around us, hoping his speech is so incomprehensible that no one nearby has heard him, or would give it enough credence to repeat it. “Let me get you some water.”

“Brendan,” he says, bending down so we can exchange glassy-eye stares. “Now there’s a good guy for you.” He burps and thumps his chest. “I
love
him, your guy. A man you can count on, someone you can trust. Can’t think of anyone better for you. Works with kids, the tiniest babies…”

I watch, horrified, as Andy actually starts tearing up.
Oh, shit, are you kidding me?

“Somebody calls me, says they need set passes for sick kids, no way I say no!”

“Andy, let’s go over to—”

“Love you too, you know that?” He nods hard enough to throw off his balance and slop more of his martini onto me. “Love all my cast. Love all my crew! We’re family, you know that?”

“I do know that, Andy,” I say, patting him on the arm. I wave frantically at Alex at the bar, trying to get her attention. “We all know that. We all love you too.” I try to push him towards Alex, and the muscular key grip standing near her, but I might as well be pushing on an immoveable, drunk rock.

“Do anything for you guys, you remember that.”

“We know. Come over here with me and–”

“You don’t ask though, do you? Leave me to guess. Do it all alone.” His head bobs. “I admire that. But you’ve got to share with your family.” He lifts the glass in the air, nearly falling over backward with the effort. “Can I have everyone’s attention, please?” he calls out. “Everyone?”

“Andy!” I say, trying my hardest to pull his arm down, my mind racing.
Does Brendan know? Did Andy tell him?

“I have an announcement to make!” he says, bellowing loud enough to abruptly silence the Star Wars octopi band. He leans to the side to see around me lowering his voice a few decibels before yelling, “Brendan! Just in time!”

I spin around, terrified to see Brendan making his way through the crowd towards us. He’s holding his cell phone in one hand, his face a stony mask. He won’t even look at me.

Just found out,
I think to myself.
He must have just found out
.

There’s no time for long explanations when Andy is about to broadcast my next career move to half of the entertainment industry. “Help me!” I shout at Brendan. I lean into Andy’s incapacitated hulk with all my strength. “Before he–”

Glass still in the air, Andy says, “I just found out that our very own Claire Beau is–”

“Andy, no!” I scream.

Brendan grabs him by the shoulders. “Andy, listen!”

Andy freezes, watching Brendan with his bizarre eyes, black as stones.

“I was going to tell you,” I babble to Brendan. “I was going to tell you tomorrow, I swear I was!”

Brendan finally looks at me. His eyes are wild with–well, I don’t know exactly. He looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. I knew he would be upset when he heard, but it’s going to be worse than I ever imagined.

“You already knew about this?” he yells. “You already knew about this, and you–you just walked around like everything was fine? How the hell could you do that?”

Everyone starts talking at the same time.

“I’m sorry! I can explain…” I say.

“Claire,” he says, “it’s not what they’re saying, you have to believe me…”

“You didn’t tell him?” says Andy, looking back and forth between us.

“Tell me what?” says Brendan.

I look around frantically, desperate to find a place we can go so people will stop staring at us. “Let’s get him to the couches over there! I’ll get him some water.”

“Not sure what the hush-hush is about, Claire,” says Andy. “You’re talented. Of course you were going to be offered other parts.”

“It’s just a
coincidence
that Jonathan’s in the picture,” I say in a rush, hoping Brendan won’t storm out of the party over this. “I had no idea until I talked to the casting director yesterday. I was going to tell you, but–”

The look on his face stops me cold.

“What are you
talking
about?” he shouts at me. He turns away, like he couldn’t care less about my bit of news, like he has news of his own that’s going to top it–and then some. “Andy, man…” says Brendan, grabbing him by the shoulder. “I need your help. It’s an emergency.”

“Emergency” must be the magic word that breaks Andy’s inebriation spell, because he instantly hands me his empty martini glass, straightens his back, and gets as serious as a man-sized rag doll can get. Every word suddenly comes out clear as a bell. “What’s wrong? What can I do?”

A little extreme for getting a drunk director to sober up
, I think to myself, still awash in relief that Brendan doesn’t seem fazed at all by the news of my next co-star, same as the old co-star.
But whatever works.

Brendan lifts up his cell phone to eye level, re-reading something on the screen. “I–Jesus, Andy, I don’t know what to do.”

A supporting actor from
Evensong
approaches us with a smile, holding a fresh martini out to Andy. Andy shoos him away with a wave of his hand. He shoves Brendan towards a roped-off seating area at the corner of the room, leaving me to scramble after them.

Brendan is hyperventilating, his shoulders lifting and falling with the effort of it.

“Tell me what I can do, and it’s done,” Andy says. “What’s happening?”

Brendan closes his eyes. “I’m about to be arrested.”

Andy and I both freeze, staring at him with our wildly inappropriate, painted-on doll smiles.

I break the impasse with a half-hearted chuckle. “Oh, my god, Brendan! You had me scared to death.” I punch him in the arm. “Arrested.” I shake my head, glad the joke is over.

“The police downstairs…” says Brendan.

“Extra security,” says Andy.

Brendan shakes his head. “I think they’re looking for me. They knew I’d be with Claire, but they didn’t recognize her in her costume, and then you pulled us out of the line before we checked in.” He looks down at his white physician’s coat, the words “Brendan Charmant, MD” embroidered in dark blue above the breast pocket. “I guess they never suspected I’d dress so obviously.”

“Hey! This isn’t funny anymore!” I say, jabbing my finger into Brendan’s breast bone, wishing I could scrub off my absurd Raggedy Ann perma-smile so he could see how dead serious I am.

He looks at the floor. That’s when I feel them: little tendrils of disquiet, the first seeds of panic and doubt putting down roots.
Oh my god, the cop downstairs
, I think.
He didn’t want my autograph, he was looking for Brendan
.

The people outside of the cordons are starting to stare. I find Alex leaning over the rope, eyeing the three of us, and mouthing the word
what?
at me over and over again.

Brendan turns away from crowd, looking like a caged animal. “I don’t know how long–”

“Trent! Amy!” Andy bellows at the top of his lungs.

The key grip and the assistant director materialize like apparitions at a séance.

“Right here,” says Amy, the AD. A strange assortment of odds-and-ends are stuck to her white t-shirt: band-aids, an orange prescription drug bottle, a condom, an Alka-Seltzer packet.

Andy points at the grip. “Tell every vetter between the front door and this room that no else gets in. And I don’t care if they’re dressed like cops or Cabbage Patch Dolls. Got it?” He turns to Amy. “Get Ben McCarthy on the phone. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

She looks uneasily from Brendan to me, and back to Andy, clearly not wanting to question him in front of us, but also clearly not sure she heard him correctly. I can see the front of her shirt now, the words “MEDICINE CHEST” in big, black letters. Any other time I would fall into raptures over this rather simple, clever costume. Now I just want to rip the Alka-Seltzer off her shirt, chew it up like a baby aspirin, and ask her if she has any narcotics stapled on the back.

Amy pulls her cell phone from her pocket, her finger hovering over the screen, ready to dial. “Ben?” she says to Andy. “You want me to call Ben McCarthy, right?”

Andy’s response is to-the-point: “Dial.” He turns to Brendan. “What are you being charged with? Do you know?”

I grab Brendan’s arm. “What the hell are you doing?” I shout, not caring now who can hear. “Tell him it’s a joke! Tell him you’re kidding!”

Brendan is no actor. There are tears in his eyes, he’s pasty as hell, and he looks scared. Real-world
terrified
in fact.

He sighs, sagging so much as he exhales that he looks like he’s deflating. “I’m being charged with felony sexual battery of a medically incapacitated person.”

“Ben McCarthy’s on the line,” says Amy.

Andy nods once and takes the phone. “Ben, Andy Gordon here. Sorry to bother you at this hour. I have a good friend who could use your advice, and it’s an emergency. He has good reason to suspect that he’s about to be arrested.”

Just then, the alien band launches into a song, effectively drowning out all conversation. Andy plugs the ear not attached to the phone, and turns away from us.

I drop Brendan’s arm.
Not a joke, just a mistake.
“It’s a mistake, right?” I say when I can get any sounds to come out of my mouth at all. “I mean, you work with kids. How could you…?” I trail off as the ickiness of my question starts to take shape. I cover my mouth in disgust, unconsciously taking a step backwards.

“Claire, it’s not what you’re thinking! Let me explain! Please!”

“Did you hurt–” I can’t get the words out. My lips wrinkle in revulsion. “Do they think you hurt a
child
?”

Now he looks as horrified as I feel. “No! I didn’t hurt anyone! Claire, please listen, okay?”

“You said ‘felony sexual battery of a medically incapacitated person.’ What ‘person?’”

“It’s not true.”

Andy breaks in between us. “Here’s the plan: There’s a limo waiting at the back entrance that will take us directly to Ben’s office. He’ll meet us there. He’s calling the district attorney now so he can arrange for you to turn yourself in, no cameras, no reporters.”

I clench my hands into fists. “What ‘person?’ You tell me what person they’re talking about!”

“Claire,” he pleads.

“Guys, I think it’s best if we just wait until we’re in Ben’s office,” Andy says, putting his arm between the two of us.