The Remake (11 page)

“What? Christ, you don’t owe me anything.”

She pulled out a slim leather checkbook with gold letters on the front. “I hired you to do a job and you did it. How much?”

“Listen, Mary, I didn’t even break a sweat on this. Forget
it.”

“All right,” she said. “Is five hundred enough?”

“Don’t make me get tough,” he told her. “I made two
phone calls. Give me a buck for the tolls and we’ll call it square.”

“But it’s not like I’m even paying for it,” Mary said. “It’s my mother’s money.”

“That’s the problem,” R.J. told her. “I don’t want to take her money. Not even for you, kitten.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.”

R.J. leaned over the table, accidentally knocking over the bread sticks. “Listen, doll. Don’t try the Hollywood Power Kitten act on me. I’ve seen that game, and I’ve played it out, a long time before you were born.”

She blushed. “All right, R.J., but I—”

“No.” He took her hand and patted it. “Not another word. Part of growing out of that West Coast spoiled movie-kid crap we both came from is learning to accept a favor. So learn.” R.J. put her hand down and leaned back, smiling at Mary. “Anyway, I made two phone calls to find your old man, and I got to watch you make a fool out of two Italian waiters. That’s payment in full.”

She smiled back. “And you got to do something that might piss off my mother?”

He nodded. “You’re learning, Mary. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”

Coffee came, elegant little bone china cups filled with rich dark espresso. Perfect ribbons of lemon peel curled on one side of the saucer, and tiny silver spoons balanced them on the other side. Giancarlo placed a small plate of
biscotti
in the center of the table with six bows and one smug grin.

“Oh,” Mary said. “But we didn’t—I mean, I’m not sure I want any dessert.”

“Relax, kid,” R.J. told her. “You sure don’t need to worry about calories.” As she blushed, he added, “Besides, I think it’s on the house. Their lovebird special.”

“Their—Oh, you mean they think—Oh.” She turned even redder and R.J. had to laugh. “I just feel funny taking advantage,” she said, not looking at him.

“You want me to tell them we’re not lovebirds?” he said, crunching into a
biscotti.

Mary couldn’t even answer; too busy blushing. She picked up one of the cookies to give herself something to do. It seemed to calm her down. After a minute or so she was back to normal.

R.J. admired her control. A lot. They had similar roots, coming from the same strange background. He had fought long and hard to break away from the life he had been born into, had come about as far away from it as a guy could. Now she was trying to take the same trip, showing the same stubborn pride, and he was glad to help her.

As he realized where his thoughts were taking him, he thought of Casey. She hadn’t called him all weekend. Probably apartment hunting, too busy. He missed her a lot, but not as much while Mary was with him.

He shook it off. Christ, what was he thinking? Mary was just a kid. And he sure didn’t want to trade Casey for Mary, no matter how cute the kid was.

Luckily, the headwaiter brought the bill over and knocked R.J. out of chasing down any of those thoughts. The guy gave a more formal bow this time and stuck his hand out toward R J. He was holding a little hammered silver tray. The bill sat face down on the tray, on top of a doily.

“Oh,” said Mary. “Wait, I’m paying for this.”

The headwaiter ignored her, and so did R.J. One of the advantages of old-fashioned Italian elegance, R.J. thought as he handed the headwaiter his credit card. They’re completely unliberated. Totally sexist piggy. I like this place.

The headwaiter marched back to the cash register with his nose in the air, after giving R.J. another massive wink.

“Damn it, R.J., I wanted to pay for this.”

He leaned back and gave her a smug, well-fed shark smile. “Part of breaking away from your roots, Mary. You can’t always get what you want.”

“And part of it is learning to pay for what you get. I can pay my own way—”

“Forget it.”

She licked her lips. “There must be some way I can thank you.”

R.J. grinned. “You can get together with your father and enjoy it. That’ll piss off your mother so much I’m bound to be happy.”

CHAPTER 13

Casey called late that night. The phone ringing woke R.J. from a sleep so deep he didn’t know where he was for a minute. There was the phone receiver held up to his face, but he couldn’t be sure what that meant. Then he heard the voice humming down the wire.

“Wake up, R.J.,” Casey said, with a voice like she was holding back a chuckle.

“Casey,” he managed to croak.

“Did I catch you at a bad time? I can call back.”

R.J. shoved the fog away. “No, damn it, wait a minute.”

He could hear her chuckle softly. “That’s my boy,” she said. “As long as you’re swearing, I know I have your attention.”

“Have you found a place yet?”

“Yes. They’ve been very helpful at the studio. I saw five or six places today and I think I’ll take one of them. It’s nice.”

“Where is it?”

She snorted a little. “You want to make sure it’s in a safe
neighborhood? Relax. You have to drive way up this tiny road and then climb all these steps. There’s not a mugger in the world in good enough shape to make it to the door.”

“They don’t have muggers in L.A., Casey. They have serial killers, and they all teach aerobics.”

“Well,” Casey said, “you’d like it anyway. It’s got a great view. It’s up at the top of, what is it called? Beechnut Canyon?”

“Beechwood,” R.J. corrected. “You’re right near the Hollywood sign.”

“I can see it from the shower,” she said. Then she laughed and R.J. felt his whole insides shift around at the sound. He tried to think of something to say to make her laugh again, but she didn’t wait.

“Anyway,” she said. “I’ll probably move in tomorrow.”

“You have a car?”

She didn’t quite laugh this time, but it was close enough. “R.J., for God’s sake, this is L.A. They won’t let you off the airplane without a car.” She paused, as if afraid to tell him. “It’s a convertible,” she finally admitted.

“For Christ’s sake, Casey.”

“I know,” she said. “But I thought I should try for the full experience. I’m really going to
do
L.A.”

“You want me to recommend a personal trainer, Casey? Send you a tanning machine?”

“I’ll manage without,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll have time. They’re keeping me pretty busy.”

R.J. went tight at the thought of what she was going to be busy doing—the remake. He didn’t say anything.

“We start shooting next week,” Casey went on. “And, oh my God.”

R.J. struggled for control and won. “What?”

“R.J., you wouldn’t believe these people.”

“Yes, I would. I told you.”

She laughed. “I always thought you were exaggerating, but good lord. It’s like a cartoon, like some kind of wild parody about Hollywood.”

“It’s always like that,” he told her.

“Anyway, maybe it’ll settle down when we start shooting.”

“No, it won’t. It gets worse, and so do the people. And don’t go in to any of the star’s trailers when you’re on the set.”

She laughed again. R.J.’s heart pounded. “I was on the set today, R.J. I saw those trailers.” A long pause. “Oh. My. God,” she said.

“You liked ’em, huh?”

“R.J., if you take a wicked, spoiled-rotten Cub Scout and show him a copy of
Playboy
from 1964 he might come up with one of these trailers.”

“That’s a pretty good description of a star actor,” R.J. said. “A wicked, spoiled-rotten Cub Scout.”

“Yes,” Casey said, suddenly sounding cool again. “I met the star today. Alec Harris.”

“Who?”

“You’ve never heard of Alec Harris, R.J.? Good lord, he was on TV practically forever, that lifeguard show.”

“Holy shit,” R.J. said. “That guy with no shirt?
He’s
the fucking star?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit.”

“It gets worse,” she said. “The female lead is Maggie DeSoto.”

R.J. had heard of her. He was stunned into silence. Maggie DeSoto had been a porn star. She crossed over into singing punk rock, and parlayed a couple of rock videos into a movie career. But her assets had stayed the same since the beginning. She could only act with her clothes off.

“They’re—not exactly, um, anything like your parents, R.J.,” Casey said apologetically.

“They’re not even my species. Jesus Christ, Casey.” It was worse than he had even imagined.

“And of course they hate each other,” Casey said. The hidden laugh was back in her voice.

But all R.J. could manage was another feeble, “Jesus Christ.”

As if she could tell how much R.J. was bothered, Casey let the conversation drift to an end. “Anyway, you need your beauty sleep. I’ll call you when I have a phone. When I can,” she said. “I guess it gets pretty busy now.”

“Yeah,” R.J. said. “It sure does.” He felt drained, completely depressed—by her news of the casting and now by the fact that she was about to hang up. He wanted her more than ever, could almost feel her velvet skin under his hand, almost smell her hair. “Casey—”

“You take care of yourself, R.J. Keep your skirts dry.”

“I will. And listen—”

“Bye,” she said with a kissing sound. And she was gone.

R.J. found it impossible to get back to sleep. He didn’t even try. He sat in bed for a long time, just staring into the darkness.

He missed her terribly. It was bad enough to lose Casey to the movies, to his new archenemy, Janine Wright. It was even worse when that movie happened to be this one, the brainless remake of the only movie he really cared about. But now it looked like it was going far beyond worse. With those two actors in the parts, there was no way in the world this could turn out to be anything but the biggest stinker of all time.

Jesus H. Christ. That lifeguard guy playing his father’s role? And a porn star in Belle’s part? If Janine Wright had spent a year trying to come up with the two actors that would rip out R.J.’s guts in the worst way, she couldn’t have done any better than those two.

R.J. was so mad he couldn’t stay in bed. He flung off the covers and padded into the kitchen. Ilsa followed him, hoping for an early breakfast, but he ignored her.

R.J. poured himself a glass of orange juice and sat at the kitchen table, but the juice didn’t taste right. After one sip he let it sit on the table.

A guy nobody would watch if he wore a shirt. A woman who could only act on her back.

Sure. This was going to be a deathless classic, all right. People would talk about it for fifty years. As the worst piece of garbage ever to come out of Hollywood. It would completely erase the original, cover it in sewage so nobody could look at his parents ever again without thinking of the lifeguard and the porn star.

And worst of all, R.J. had a sinking suspicion that Janine Wright knew what she was doing. That she was deliberately making the most malodorous piece of crap she could make, because she knew that would sell tickets. He was scared to death that this thing was going to be a hit, for all the same reasons that were making him sick to his stomach.

It explained why she was so pleased to have any negative publicity he might give her. Janine Wright’s message was simple. People were stupid, pathetic jerks. Give them something awful and—if you
tell
them it’s awful—they’ll lap it up like ice cream.

R J. would have given almost anything to prove her wrong, but he was pretty sure she was right.

R.J. went to work in the morning without any more sleep. He felt exhausted, without energy, but had been unable even to close his eyes. He walked all the way down to his office, stopping often along the way to stare at things for no apparent reason. A kid sitting on a bus bench, clearly stoned out of his skull. An old man leading an imaginary parade down the center of Broadway, traffic moving around him. Two hot-dog vendors in a fist fight, clobbering each other with mustard. A middle-aged matron yelling obscenities at a cop.

On a normal day these common sights and sounds of his city would have cheered R.J. This morning they just made him feel even more depressed. He saw all these people as future ticket-buyers to the remake and he knew they outnumbered the sane, rational people who would stay away from something they knew was awful and stupid and pointless.

So when he finally trudged into his office—past the completely innocent smirk on Wanda’s face, which he barely noticed—he was so dazed and depressed and tired that he had to stare for three or four long seconds before he recognized the man sitting in his chair.

The man was in his fifties, very good-looking in a hard-boiled way. His black hair was shot through with silver, a sharp contrast to his jet black mustache and dark, weathered skin. He wore a turquoise and hammered-silver belt buckle and had one foot in a hand-tooled boot crossed over his other leg.