The Bones (23 page)

After persuading Mike they'd be more comfortable if he didn't come along for the ride, the salesman, who recognizes Frank
from
Hollywood Squares,
gives him the celebrity pass, and Frank and Sparky roil off the lot for a test-drive. They smoke a joint heading east on Wilshire,
making sure not to dirty the ashtray, then head south on La Brea to Olympic, east on Olympic, up Robertson, and then back
to Mike and the lease documents. Frank leaves the Caddy with Mike, who informs him he can get him a good deal on storage since
Frank can't bring himself to permanently part with it. Then the great comedy hope of the Lynx Network drives home in a bright
yellow marvel of military engineering. He wants to take Honey for a ride but she's not there.

***

Happy Endings
was shot later that week, and all concerned professed great happiness with the results. Lloyd spent the ensuing days in the
editing suite choosing the best takes, laying in music, and generally buffing the piece to a fine sheen. He delivered it to
the network confident in its mediocrity but secretly concerned he had not done an effective enough job of sabotage. Bart Pimento
was famous, Jacy Pingree was sexy, Lynx could confound him by picking the thing up.

While Lloyd was torturing himself with these worries, Stacy supervised the ongoing furnishing of Chateau Melnick. More plasma
televisions were loaded in and wired with TiVo. Chaises and chairs and sofas covered in damask and silk were arrayed around
the airy house. Precious antiques purchased at full retail from auction houses in Beverly Hills strategically accented various
corners, lending the new home a burnished sophistication.

But Stacy's pièce de résistance was the living room, or "great room" as she had taken to calling it—somewhat pretentiously,
Lloyd thought. He insisted on referring to it as the living-great room, and Stacy, who scented satiric intent, couldn't get
him to stop. The house faced west and in the late afternoon of a cloudless Southern California day shafts of rich butterscotch
sunlight poured through French windows, creating shimmering squares of shadows that played gently over exquisitely woven Persian
rugs purchased at great cost from the Mardosian Brothers Emporium on La Cienega Boulevard. Two Italian leather sofas whose
supple surfaces were a murmured invitation to sensual abandon had been arranged in an L-shape and separated by a marble-topped
side table. Arrayed opposite were wing chairs embroidered in swirling floral patterns of softest Thai silk. In the middle
of the sofas and chairs was a sleek circular, silver coffee table, six feet across, which looked like a huge, smooth-surfaced
Eisenhower dollar. A large hearth crowned with an oak mantel piece shipped from southern England anchored one side of the
room. At the opposite end stood a new baby grand piano patiently waiting for young Dustin's lessons to begin, since neither
of the senior Melnicks was musically inclined.

Months earlier Stacy had decreed they must adorn the walls with art, and after carefully perusing the works of a group of
local artists introduced to her by a toadying dealer who treated her royally from the moment he learned the Mar Vista address
was temporary, she had chosen several large abstract canvases whose colors matched those of her decorating scheme. And all
of it had been feng shuied to perfection by Cam Rousseau, who assured Stacy the energy flow of her great room could not be
improved upon.

In the first few days they occupied the new house, after putting Dustin to bed, Stacy would often sit alone in the great room
in one of the Thai silk chairs and sip decaf, looking out the window and reflecting on the joyful abundance that had come
to be hers.

While Stacy was reflecting on her joyful abundance, Lloyd was in the guesthouse, a freestanding structure out back that he
had claimed for his home office, a place he had come to refer to internally as the Bitter Barn. Ensconced there in the evenings,
he would stare out the window at the rock-bordered swimming pool with its raised Jacuzzi and gurgling waterfalls, watching
as the lights from the house projected shifting patterns on the dark water and wondering how he could possibly escape. You
can only guess at the inner turbulence Lloyd was suffering, given the inability of his plush surroundings to ameliorate it.
Kitted out to his exact specifications, his personal environment was a high-end adult playpen. The distressed-wood flooring
lent it a country ambience (the country of which Ralph Lauren was president), accentuated by an oak credenza that had cost
Lloyd's entire income for 1983. There was a plasma television set, a pinball machine, and several original vintage movie posters
on the wall (including one for
Double Indemnity,
whose spouse-murdering plot was not without a certain wish-fulfillment angle for Lloyd), and a small refrigerator kept stocked
with low-calorie snacks. Lloyd's books had been unpacked in here and filled the new shelves, warmly welcoming him whenever
he sought sanctuary, which was increasingly often as he grew less and less interested in engaging with Stacy, who didn't seem
to notice or care.

The next few months crawl by for both Lloyd and Frank as they wait for the people at the Lynx Network to determine their respective
fates. Lloyd splits his time between his office on the lot and the Bitter Barn in the backyard. In the Barn he would eat sushi,
listen to alt rock music by bands far younger than he, and ruminate on various ideas for his book, none of which gained traction
in his increasingly febrile mind for more than a few minutes at a time. In his office on the lot he would read the trades,
drink coffee, and talk to Tai Chi, who, it turned out, had been cohabitating with a stuntman for the past year.

One day, when Tai Chi wore something particularly provocative, he locked the door to his office and masturbated, but when
he had finished and cleaned himself up, he was so repulsed by his behavior he waited a full twenty-four hours before doing
it again.

Frank was at the Comedy Shop every night working on new material for his CD. The surprisingly positive
Kirkuk
experience seemed to revivify him, and the news passed along by Robert that the show had "heat" at the network further boosted
his creative metabolism, resulting in several new bits that he was pleased with, including one about former members of the
Taliban opening a strip club in Kabul called the Satanic Pussycat where burka-clad women would show their toes. Near the time
the network was getting ready for their "upfronts," when they all fly to New York to announce their fall schedules to the
cash-fat advertising community, Frank did a gig at the Sun Theater in Ventura that was recorded for release on CD by Razor
Records, a division of a huge German conglomerate that owned everything from amusement parks to publishing houses to movie
studios. During this time he carried on a desultory affair with Candi Wyatt, usually having sex in the back of the Hummer
since going to his place was not a viable option and he didn't want to risk being attacked by one of her cats again.

***

The electric effect the
Kirkuk
pilot had on Honey seemed to build with each passing day. She got her hair tint redone to make the blond a little less brassy
for the new head shots she ordered, which she now took to calling "publicity photos," because she assumed her auditioning
days were over. She didn't hear from Bart again, which saddened her, and she sensed Frank was engaged in his usual infelicitous
behavior; he seemed in need of far less sex than usual. But the renaissance of her career prospects clouded her vision, and
a combination of willful delusion and optimism conspired in Honey to assure life on the home front remained peaceful.

Stacy occupied her time putting the finishing touches on their new home and helping Daryl Hyler with the benefit for Save
Our Aching Planet. The aquatically themed menu, which featured six different varieties of edible seaweed alone, bore the unmistakable
mark of Stacy's professional handiwork, and she and Daryl would discuss future projects on the weekly hikes they were taking
on the fire roads in the Santa Monica Mountains. Daryl even hinted that Stacy and Lloyd might be invited to spend precious
vacation time at the Hyler beach house on Ibiza, where they were currently engaged in suing the zoning board to be allowed
to tear down three one-hundred-year-old homes so they could build the Spanish equivalent of Mar-A-Lago on the windswept island
dunes. The day after Stacy heard this, she sent Daryl a gift of beach towels with a note reading,
Buena suerte.

This brief period during which Lloyd and Stacy and Frank and Honey went about their lives as if in suspended animation while
awaiting the phone calls that would tell them whether the gods were going to program warm, golden sunshine or cold, driving
rain came to an end one morning in early May. The panjandrums at Lynx had been deliberating the last several weeks in the
secretive mode of the College of Cardinals choosing a new pope. Lloyd received a call from his agent on a Friday telling him
Lynx was dragging it out to the last moment, try to stay optimistic. Over dinner, Lloyd relates this to Stacy, who needed
a cup of chamomile tea to go to sleep that night (the equivalent of three Ativan for her), such was her anxiety.

Saturday morning finds the normally chatty Stacy unusually quiet. It as almost as if she believes her voice might drown out
the ringing of the telephone, causing them to miss the call that will change their lives forever. The Melnicks are in their
kitchen and she is putting peanut butter on wheat toast for Dustin while Lloyd stands in front of the pantry, squinting at
the back of a box of oatmeal, trying to locate the caloric content and wondering if he needs reading glasses. They've been
up for an hour and hardly exchanged a word, which Lloyd does not mind. Then it happens. The phone rings. Stacy tenses like
a penurious immigrant hearing a landlord's knock, knowing something momentous is going to happen in the next minute. Whether
she will be allowed to stay in the tenement apartment for another month or be tossed on the sidewalk with her family and possessions,
she doesn't know. She knows only that her immediate future rests in the long-fingered hands of the powerful person on the
other side of the door, for although Stacy is three generations removed from the Lower East Side of Manhattan, her DNA is
wired directly to Rivington Street.

She doesn't move.

The order to do a network series is double-edged, because while a creator craves the approbation the pickup reflects, the
price he pays is the sacrifice of his life for the foreseeable future, since the shows usually require eighteen-hour working
days for the better part of a year. And Lloyd, as we have seen, is already more than ambivalent about the prospect of devoting
himself to these endeavors. Having learned long ago never to answer the phone before the third ring, since it implies an unseemly
eagerness, he waits two rings. As the third one begins, he lifts the receiver.

"Hello?" He frowns, then says "Uh-huh. No," as he looks over at Stacy, who is trying to keep from levitating. She's mouthing,
Who is it?

"This isn't a good time right now. Thanks for calling." He hangs up. "Sales call," he says to Stacy, who almost visibly deflates
as she refocuses on feeding her son. Having accomplished this, she turns to Lloyd and asks him if he wants pancakes. This
comes as something of a surprise to Lloyd, since Stacy has shown little interest in carbohydrates since she has crossed the
threshold of forty, but sensing her need to occupy herself, he answers in the affirmative.

She gets out the batter and a one-quart Pyrex measuring cup and begins breaking eggs. One, two, three eggs. She wills the
phone to sing to her, a ringing song of possibility and hope, of swollen investment portfolios and vacation homes, of private
jets and famous friends, of . . .

Nothing.

Four, five, six eggs. Now she's really concentrating.
Ring, dammit!
Still nothing. She looks over at Lloyd reading the paper.
How can he be so cool?

After breaking six eggs and stirring them together in the Pyrex measuring cup, she pours them into a metal mixing bowl. Now
she's stirring the viscous goo with a wooden spoon in a hard, clockwise motion, completely unaware that she is gripping the
utensil with a force that would choke a snake.

Then it happens again. The
riiiinnngg
cleaves the air like a hatchet. Stacy looks up from the pancake batter she is wrestling with at Lloyd, who is waiting the
requisite two rings before answering. On the third ring he lifts the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Lloyd?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Harvey Gornish. How are ya?"

All right,
Lloyd thinks.
Game over. The head guy doesn't call to tell you you're a loser.

"Fine, thanks," he says wearily.

"You're flying to New York for the upfronts tomorrow." Harvey pauses here, awaiting the anticipated whoop of surprised enthusiasm
or the obsequious whimpering of thanks everyone who receives these calls immediately performs. When neither is forthcoming,
Harvey continues, slightly confused.
Is this Melnick hard of hearing or something?
"Congratulations, you're on the schedule." Lloyd feels as if he were a giant coffee press and someone were pushing down from
the top, causing all his energy to be forced from his head, shoulders, torso, arms, stomach, groin, thighs, calves, and out
through his toes, where it puddles on the floor around him. "Lloyd? You there?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"I'm here?" Clearly this is not the reaction Harvey expects from the supplicants he deigns to personally call and apprise
of their ascension above the striving hordes who have spent years crawling blindly on top of each other like frightened mice
in a shoe box awaiting the wide gullet of a pet iguana. Lloyd was being removed from the mouse house, his life spared, Harvey's
thinking, and all he can say is "Yeah, I'm here"?

Stacy, meanwhile, in barely controlled hysteria, is looking at Lloyd's torpid expression and mouthing,
What? What?