The Remake (3 page)

“That’s all what matters,” Bertelli said. He stood up and threw the stogie at the waste basket. “Gotta go. This was supposed to be my lunch hour, and now I gotta find a present for Casey. I’ll see ya, R.J. Sorry ’bout the Knicks.”

“Me, too, Angelo. See you later.”

R.J. opened the windows wide. A cold wind blew in and took the cigar smoke out. He still had two hours before he was to pick up Casey at her office. He used the time to go over the books with Wanda and dictate a few quick letters.

He enjoyed the time with Wanda—they both did—and it never felt like they had to play any of the typical office games that plagued most boss-secretary relationships.

Besides, Wanda was so fast and efficient, with her shorthand, typing, filing, everything, that they could kid around, take it easy, and still get all the work done in record time.

Wanda was a real treasure, there was no doubt about it, and he felt lucky to have her. He let her know that by giving her unscheduled bonuses as often as he could. The money went to her kid in Buffalo. R.J. had never met the kid, who lived with Wanda’s mother. Wanda took long weekends twice a month to go visit and beyond that never said a word about the kid, the kid’s father, or how the whole situation had happened. She never said, and R.J. was smart enough not to ask.

He looked at her across his desk. She perched on the chair, relaxed but alert. He really was lucky.

“Okay,” he told her. “We’re ready to bill Reverend Lake.” He pushed a roll of film toward her. “Get that developed first thing tomorrow. Try not to peek; it’s ugly.”

“If I wanted to stay away from ugly I’d move to Vermont,” she told him. “I sure wouldn’t work for a seedy Manhattan gumshoe.”

“If it bothers you, try the florist on the corner. Maybe he’s hiring.”

“No good,” she said. “I’m heterosexual, and I’m not Korean. You want the bill to go out first, or you calling him in for show and tell?”

“Show and tell,” R.J. said, hating it. It was what they called the procedure when they had a case wrapped and the client came in to review the evidence. The evidence was generally very graphic pictures proving that a loved one didn’t return the tender sentiments. It could get very dicey. R.J. had a feeling that a Baptist minister looking at pictures of his young wife screwing a dwarf might turn just about as bad as it could get. “But like I said, it’s ugly. Have the Kleenex ready. The big box.”

“Sure, boss. You want the handcuffs, too? Or can you handle an aging preacher without them?”

“Quit needling me. One of these days I’ll get
you
in the cuffs.”

She stood up, gathering her steno book and the ledgers. “One of these days I’ll let you.” She spun away briskly, her short, dark red hair snapping, and was already into the outer office before R.J. could hit her with a comeback. He snorted. Not that he had one.

CHAPTER 4

Casey had an office in a midtown production company run by a Pillsbury doughboy look-alike named Pike. R.J. called him “the Slug” because he was pale, blubbery, and slimy. But this slug had teeth, and he liked chomping them onto R.J. Anytime he caught R.J. in the office he’d call for the security guard, a former heavyweight contender, who had stayed in shape. The guard liked R.J. and didn’t like Pike, but a job was a job and he’d given R.J. one or two rough trips down in the elevator.

So instead of taking the elevator up to Casey’s office, R.J. called up from the lobby. There was no place to sit in the lobby, so R.J. looked through the window at the people on the sidewalk outside. A man with a briefcase pushed a woman with her arms full of packages. The woman sat down in a slush heap. The man grabbed her cab and closed the door.

A young guy in shorts and a tank top started preaching and singing on the corner. An old lady walked slowly past, bundled up in so many coats and sweaters and scarves that she could barely move.

A large woman on roller blades whizzed by. She grabbed at the old woman’s purse, snapped the strap, and was gone. The old woman stood watching for a moment, then opened her mouth and started screeching. It was a high, thin, dry wail with no words that R.J. could make out. People walking by moved a small step further away from her as they passed. In case she was crazy, R.J. thought. And in case it was catching. Which it sometimes was in this city.

The elevator doors slid open behind R.J. and he turned. His eyes met Casey’s and she smiled. R.J. could feel it all the way down to his toes. Not that it was such a huge smile, but it was aimed at him, and that made it seem like it was bigger than Times Square.

“Hello, Grandma,” she greeted him, planting a small kiss on his cheek. “How’s the dirty picture trade?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” R.J. said, looking her over. She was dressed in a cool blue spring power suit with a ruffle showing at the throat and she looked like a million dollars. “You look great,” R.J. told her. He wanted to say she took his breath away, she made him hear music, just looking at her made him want to do handsprings, something like that. But she didn’t go for what she thought of as flowery compliments. Telling her she looked great was pushing the limit.

Still, she linked her arm with his and they stepped out onto the rush-hour-packed sidewalk to find a cab.

It took awhile. There were plenty of cabs, but there was even more competition. By the time they got a cab crosstown and pulled up in front of Tavern on the Green it was close to 7:00, which was the time R.J. had made the reservation for. There was the usual crowd in front of the restaurant, maybe a little bigger than normal.

“We’re on time. You may not have to wait for your table,” R.J. said.

“That’s too bad. I wanted the full experience.”

And maybe the crowd looked a little different, now that he thought of it. As they got out of the cab onto the sidewalk, R.J.
noticed a lot of cameras. “The newshounds are out,” he said to Casey.

Casey shrugged. “They all have someone on the payroll at these places, to let them know who’s eating there every night.”

“Well,” R.J. said. “Tonight there must be some—”

He was going to say “celebrity” but that was chopped off by the shout of “There he is!” and before he knew what was happening he was in the center of a mob. Pushing, elbowing, foot-stomping reporters clonked one another with microphones as they clawed their way toward him, bellowing his name and whinnying questions.

“What the hell—” R.J. managed to sputter.

Casey, clinging to his arm, seemed coolly amused by it all. “Quite a birthday surprise, R.J.,” she said, putting her head to his ear. “Did it take you long to work this up?”

“Mr. Brooks—!” yelled a woman with short blond hair and a long microphone.

She was shoved brutally out of the way by a guy with smarmy, blow-dried good looks. “R.J.!” the man yelled. “How about it? How do you feel?”

“Jesus Christ,” R.J. grunted as the crowd pushed them back. “What the hell is all this?”

“It must be the remake,” Casey got out between shoves. “I didn’t think they’d land on you like this.”

It made no sense to R.J. But for the next two minutes he was too busy to think about it, as he tried to get them into the restaurant alive. The reporters didn’t seem to care if they got their story, whatever it was, from a live person or roadkill.

About ten feet short of the door it began to look like they weren’t going to make it. R.J. put Casey behind him, with her back to a wall, and faced the mob.

“All right, goddammit,” he snarled. “What is this all about?”

The hysterical babble rose a notch as they all tried to get the first question.

“One at a time! You—with the mustache.” R.J. pointed to
a young black man with a mustache and gold-rimmed glasses.

“Mr. Brooks,” the man said with a smug glance at the others, “what were your feelings when you heard about the remake?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear. What remake?”

There was actually a moment of near silence.

“You haven’t heard?” asked the short-haired blond.

“For Christ’s sake, heard
what
?”

Almost in unison, R.J. could hear the TV people muttering “Move in tight” to their cameramen.

Blow-dry tried to shove a microphone up R.J.’s nose as he said, “Andromeda Pictures is making a remake of
As Time Goes By
.”

R.J. couldn’t think of a single word worth saying.

He tried to think of a cuss word strong enough, and couldn’t. He tried to believe that somebody was kidding him, and he couldn’t do that, either.

A remake of
As Time Goes By
?
It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t even thinkable. It was maybe the single greatest movie Hollywood had ever made—a remake of perfection? No way; how could anybody, even in Hollywood, think they could get away with that?

But R.J.’s feelings didn’t have a lot to do with his appreciation of good cinema.
As Time Goes By
had been the picture his parents had been working on when they first met. The script had been first-rate, the direction terrific, and the chemistry between the members of the cast—especially his parents—had been the stuff that acting dreams are made of.

The movie had turned his father from a star into
the
star. It had brought his mother, too, into the front rank of Hollywood’s starlets. And as he now knew from his mother’s diaries, he had been conceived on the set during the filming of the movie.

And some soulless, money-hungry, brain-dead baboon was making a
remake
?

Some greedy half-wit was trying to cash in on his father’s lifeblood? Trample on something that was almost sacred, just for a couple of cheesy fast dollars?

No. By God—

“How about it, Mr. Brooks? You have a comment?”

“I’ll say I do,” R.J. snarled.

The microphones hovered close, the lenses zoomed in, the jackals held their breath.

“I hope the goddamned animals responsible for this die a nasty death as soon as possible. Now get the hell out of my way.”

R.J. pushed through the reporters, holding Casey’s hand. They bleated for more, but he was too angry to talk. He was so mad he didn’t have any idea how he got to the table, but a few minutes later he was sitting there with a menu in his hands.

Casey was saying something, but he didn’t hear it. He looked up at her. She sat across from him, cool and amused.

“You knew about this?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “Sure. It’s been gossip around the industry for a while.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She just looked; not unfriendly, not mad at him, but not really registering how much this bothered him. She did not understand, would never understand, the turmoil this was making him feel. He wasn’t sure he understood it himself. All he knew was that he hadn’t been this mad in a long time.

“Honestly, R.J., what does this have to do with you?”

He couldn’t answer that, not without going deeper into himself than he wanted to. So he didn’t answer. He tried to shrug it off, tried to enjoy a birthday dinner with Casey.

But it was harder work than he could do on such short notice. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how good Casey looked in the carriage ride through the park, the wind in her hair and a rosy glow in her cheeks—no matter what, he couldn’t shake off the feeling.

R.J. was mad and didn’t really know why or what to do about it. But the dinner was spoiled, there was no question about that.

Somebody was spitting on his parents’ graves, and he didn’t like it.

CHAPTER 5

The morning
Post
had him on the front page. The
Times,
of course, had to play it low key and stuck him in the Arts section. R.J. didn’t dare turn on the TV. He knew he’d be all over the dial.

He hadn’t slept much. The final part of his birthday present to Casey had left him tired, but as she drifted off to sleep almost purring, R.J. remained wide awake. He looked at the gorgeous face pillowed on his shoulder and thought, What the hell have I got to complain about?

Casey’s face in sleep had taken on a softness that it never had when she was awake. All the defenses were gone; it was just pure Casey now, and that was amazingly good. As R.J. traced the lines of her face with a light fingertip, he had a quick vision of what their children would look like.

He thought about that and sat up. Casey grumphed once and rolled over.

Children, hell. Casey didn’t want children. She didn’t really even want a long-term relationship of any kind as far as
he could tell. And what the hell was he going to do with children? He couldn’t handle the son he already had. Hadn’t even seen the kid in a couple of years, and his mother was sending frantic letters that the boy was out of control. Well, that was her fault, and her problem. She’d made that choice when she had shut him out of raising the kid. He sent the checks and a present at Christmas and his son’s birthday. If that wasn’t enough, well, sorry. He’d done all he could.

R.J. was wide awake now. He realized his mind had spun him off onto other things that worried him because he couldn’t figure out why this business of the remake should bother him at all.