The Bones (25 page)

Dear Sweet Honeylicious,

If the pix of these poor critters don't break your heart, you don't have one. But I know you do. Send a check, come to a meeting,
get involved!

Love, Bart

Honeylicious? Love, Bart?

Clearly this is not a form note. She has seen those. They appear in fund-raising mailings aping real handwritten notes, truly
personal pleas, but never fooling anyone. Honey examines the ink closely to be sure it isn't one of these misleading missives.
A cursory look confirms that Bart Pimento himself has indeed written her. Flipping it over, Honey looks for a phone number,
an addendum, some kind of RSVP that will allow her to take this flirtation to the next level, but finds nothing. Bart Pimento,
apparently, works slowly. Honey ignores her disappointment. Instead she smiles to herself (after all, he had taken the time
to write her a note after having given her the wrong phone number) and braces for the grim task—the actual perusal of the
solicitation.

Within sixty seconds of looking at the photographs of cruel mink farms and entire cities of caged chickens who never see sunlight
and reading about a pig who was taught to play checkers, Honey is so appalled she has almost forgotten where she is going
tonight. Normally, when she is affected by a PETA-style plea, she asks Frank to send a check. Iraqi orphans, African AIDS
sufferers, and Nicaraguan earthquake victims had all been recipients of Honey's financial largesse. But the enclosed form
letter (the one everyone got, the one that was not addressed to
Dear Sweet Honeylicious
and did not conclude with
Love, Bart)
signed by Bart Pimento detailing the hellish cruelties endured by the innocent animal community at the hands of devious humans
makes her think perhaps she needs to take more of an interest.

The PETA mailing actually made her nauseous, so after downing an Alka-Seltzer, Honey goes about getting ready for the benefit
as if it were her professional debut, which, in a sense, it is for she will not be attending this event as a Bones moon late
of the cheapie naked-action-flick universe but as a legitimate planet in her own right, about to launch into a radiant orbit
all her own. At least that's what she thinks as she bustles about the modest bungalow dreaming of more square footage, a larger
pool, and what she can possibly do to help those unfortunate minks and chickens.

***

Having waited for Frank for the better part of the increasingly soggy afternoon and early evening, Honey puts the finishing
touches on her toilette, anoints herself with Fixation, a new perfume she'd seen advertised in
W,
slips into a black sheath dress that barely contains her subtly undulating flesh, and totters on new Jimmy Choo shoes out
to her Honda Accord. Sliding behind the wheel of this quaint illustration of what she considers her soon-to-be-former life,
she silently curses Frank for making her arrive at the ball in a metal pumpkin when she had planned on descending from her
carriage, a Beverly Boulevard Botticelli, Venus Alighting from a Hummer.
Well,
she thinks, putting her Honda into gear,
there's going to be plenty of time for that.

The Hummer weaves between lanes on the 405 freeway headed south. Frank has decided he doesn't like his large new toy after
all. The torque of the suspension makes it ride with the all the smoothness of a tractor plowing a field, and given Frank's
slender physique and resulting lack of natural buttocks padding, the vehicle gives him what amounts to a continuous Swedish
massage. Then there is the placement of the front seat, which feels as if it is ten inches from the windshield, good for its
original intention of spotting land mines in the road but not much else. The noise emitted by the powerful engine is too much
for any muffler to stifle, which leaves Frank cranking the CD player to untenable levels to hear Sinatra's crooning on
Songs for Swinging Lovers.
Unfortunately, he reflects, driving in the increasing precipitation, the Hummer is the least of his problems.

After going on a shopping spree at Sparky's house, Frank has spent the past five hours driving the freeways under darkening
skies. He started out going east on the 10 past the forest of glass buildings that comprised downtown Los Angles, finding
his way to Fontana, a redneck town on the edge of the Mojave, before cutting north on the 15, where he connected with the
Foothill Freeway and then headed back in a westerly direction through Pasadena, merging into the 170 south aiming for the
Studio City hills, today a fulcrum of swollen thunderclouds, and then to the 101 west, from which he was able to connect to
the 405, roiling south in the shadow of the looming white Getty Center, citadel of lost worlds, and toward Los Angeles International
Airport, with the idea that perhaps he will get on a plane and fly somewhere.

He's pleased the rock he's smoking helps him concentrate on his driving, while the whiskey chasers balance the drug and ease
him toward what he considers a mellow equilibrium. Gliding off the 405 at the La Tijera exit, Frank ruminates on the remarks
he will make at the benefit this evening but struggles to get them to gel into something coherent, something he can perform,
something with which he can kill, since, given his current situation, tonight's event is going to serve as a massive audition.
Robert has told him Harvey Gornish will be there, and Frank ponders tweaking the executive for passing on his show, wondering
how far he can go in making the reptilian Gornish squirm without scaring off potential employers. He supposes he can fillet
Daryl Hyler, but his lack of strong feelings for her one way or the other does not bode well for comedy. As he considers his
options in the liquid twilight, he senses the evening slipping out of his control like a wet glass from the hand of an inebriated
reveler making a drunken attempt to clean the kitchen after a party and regrets having agreed to perform tonight.

Lloyd pulls the Sunsation up to the valet station at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, gets out, and waits for Stacy to circumnavigate
the tiny auto-mobile and join him. In the roughly two seconds it takes for her to arrive by his side, he looks around at the
other vehicles driving up and notices most of them are also tiny and electric. When he points this out to Stacy, she tells
him Daryl has arranged for everyone who didn't already own an electric car to have use of one for the evening. Did this woman's
goodness know no bounds? The Melnicks walk into the hotel behind the host of a politically themed talk show and his date,
a well-dressed hooker.

The anteroom of the ballroom has been set up for cocktails, and Lloyd and Stacy linger in a corner over glasses of chilled
chardonnay watching the heaving mass of people. There's a movie star talking to a senator near a studio head having a pleasant
discussion with a lawyer suing the studio for a nine-figure sum. An exercise guru is having an animated exchange with an attractive
young woman who has been convicted of running a prostitution ring and is now marketing a successful line of lingerie from
a store on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. And there is Daryl, who, upon seeing Robert (he had arrived separately, having flown
to Las Vegas that day to play a round of golf with a potential client who was shooting a movie there), tears herself away
from the real estate developer promising her a huge contribution tonight.

Grabbing her husband, she says, "Where's Frank?"

"Don't worry, he'll be here," Robert answers reassuringly, wondering where exactly the hell
is
Frank. Temporarily moilified, Daryl goes back to find her contributor as Robert spots Honey standing alone sipping from a
wineglass, her steel-eyed gaze sweeping the room like a searchlight. Seeing Robert walking toward her, she brightens and waves.
Robert chastely kisses her hello, compliments the way she looks, and upon learning Frank has not informed her of the fate
of
Kirkuk
tells her he has good news and bad news. The bad news is obvious and her face falls along with her stomach, which feels to
her as if it dropped six inches. Robert quickly says, "But the good news could be very good."

"What is it?" Honey asks, seeming as if she might actually start to cry. From her expression anyone watching the two of them
could be forgiven for thinking Robert is ending an affair with her.

"Harvey told me he wants to do a show with you."

Honey's face and stomach instantly reverse their course and an incredulous smile bursts forth.

"Are you kidding?"

"He wants to make a holding deal."

"With me?"

"Next week."

"Robert . . . I'm . . . I'm . . . " Honey is so overwhelmed that this could be happening her power of speech deserts her momentarily.
It returns when she realizes she doesn't actually understand her good fortune. "What's a holding deal?"

"They want to pay you not to take a job somewhere else while they try to find a show for you."

"They want to give me a show?"

"You tested very well. Particularly with males between the ages of fourteen and thirty-five."

At this news, Honey actually feels faint. Eventually she recovers, and when Robert asks where Frank is, she tells him she
doesn't know before happily going to get her glass refilled.

"Schmelnick!"

Lloyd looks up from his conversation with Stacy to see Phil Sheldon approaching him, hand outstretched. This middle-aged comedy
deity has remarkable posture, which brings him to just over six feet tall. His features are highlighted by a prominent nose
and widely spaced green eyes. A thatch of dark brown hair creates a nimbus effect around his head. "What are you doing here?"
Phil nods to Stacy. "Mrs. Schmelnick."

"Hello, Phil," she says, smiling. She hadn't seen him since Lloyd signed his deal and swears not to feel belittled by his
presence.

"Same as you," Lloyd says. "My wife dragged me."

"I can't stand these things. I don't know why I can't just write the check. Why do they have to give you dinner? What's the
point of dinner?"

"I chose the menu," Stacy says, slightly offended.

"Excuse me!" Phil says, chaffing his own apology. "I'll make sure I take home what I don't eat and have it for breakfast.
So, Schmel­nick . . . " Stacy takes this opportunity to excuse herself. Phil always ignores her after saying hello and she
wants to talk to Daryl anyway. "I heard about your megadeal. Very nice."

"I feel like I should give you a percentage," Lloyd says.

"Nah, forget it." Phil waves his hand, dismissing what is actually a perfectly reasonable notion. "Schmelnick, let me tell
you something," he says in a mock-stentorian tone. "It's all a shiny penny, my friend. A very shiny penny." Phil looks out
over the room of well-heeled Angelenos, and before Lloyd can ask what this Zen pronouncement means—and didn't he say the same
thing the night they met?—Phil mumbles, "Okay, bye. I need to keep moving or my wife'll find me."

The ballroom being used for the Save Our Aching Planet dinner is set up to accommodate a thousand people, testimony to the
prodigious arm-twisting ability of Daryl Hyler. The tables are filled, and although many of the attendees are slightly puzzled
by Stacy's menu, which is deemed perhaps too heavy on the sea vegetation, the evening proceeds smoothly with only one slight
problem: after a determined and increasingly agitated hunt it is concluded the master of ceremonies is AWOL.

But Phil Sheldon, after being aggressively beseeched by Daryl in a display that verges on groveling, agrees to step into the
breach. His curmudgeonly persona and hostile self-deprecation go over well with the crowd, most of whom do not appreciate
his subtle drollery but are most respectful of anyone who can generate a billion dollars with one television show, and as
they drift out of the hotel casually examining the contents of their bulging goody bags (chocolate truffles, DVDs, perfumes,
skin cream, CDs), the evening is pronounced a grand success.

The steady rain joins with a violent wind blowing from the Pacific Ocean, both increasing in intensity until a drenching downpour
lashes against the windows of the Hummer. Frank has parked on Sepulveda Boulevard near the airport and has sat for several
hours watching the planes take off and land beneath the wet, moonless sky. Looking at his cell phone, he checks the messages.
There are twelve of them, probably all about the fund-raiser, wanting to know where he is and why he's not there and how he
could possibly be such a self-destructive fuckup.

Bobby is not going to be happy,
Frank thinks, feeling slightly guilty. Bobby, after all, has treated him well.

It's over, he realizes; not just the evening, but also any chance Frank has at getting off the road. All he has to look forward
to now is two nights at a club in Phoenix next week and a college booking up in Santa Cruz.

He wonders what his father was thinking about the day he topped himself. He was beset by the financial problems that dog the
middle class, certainly, but his difficulties in that area were nothing out of the ordinary. There was always enough to eat;
their lights were never turned off. He and Frank's mother, a bitter woman who dreamed of a singing career, would have voluble
fights, but those, too, seemed commonplace. Frank knew they were still having sex because he could hear them when they retreated
to their bedroom every week after Sunday lunch for a one-hour "nap."

Frank's father was forty-nine, the same age Frank is now, when he put the gun to his head and foreclosed his future, and Frank
has never been able to pinpoint a single overriding reason for the act of self-nullification that took place in their basement
that day. Perhaps it was simply the realization that he had already seen all he needed to see, done all he could do, and the
limited pleasures life afforded him were not going to be enough to sustain his interest.

He and Frank had not been close, but still Frank was deeply affected by his death. Frank was only fourteen, a callow and unformed
age, and a parent's suicide, devastating at any time, is particularly difficult for an adolescent to understand. Frank carried
a simmering antagonism toward his father from that day forward, a burning sense of rage at the abandonment that had occurred,
for how is a boy to regard it when his guide, his role model, his shining example, decides he doesn't want the job?