16

The limo picked me up at the hotel and brought me back to Vince’s mansion in the hills.  I didn’t know what to make of the place any more than I knew what to make of Beverly Hills.  There was simply too much to see, absorb, and appreciate.  It was all too amazing.  I couldn’t describe it, even to myself.  The wealth and grandeur and immensity of fortune.   It looked like a European villa large enough to employ hundreds.  There were fountains, guest houses, reflecting pools, swimming pools, fish ponds.  Ensuing mayhem had been good to Vince.  I forced myself to look at it all like I was bored with it, like this was no different than the house I grew up in.  I imagined my father here surrounded by all these riches, acting just as base as he always did.  It kept my head level but darkened my heart.

I watched the man mingling with the guests.  I studied his oil paintings, antique furniture, oriental carpets, ming vases, a fireplace large enough to burn a coven of witches.  Whenever there was a small group of people talking behind me, I heard Vince’s laughter, and the laughter of my father.  I fingered my cufflinks.  They were his cufflinks.  I tried to remember that he was dead.  It wasn’t helping much.

Even though it was a little too warm for it I wore the same suit to Schreiber’s engagement party as I had for our first meeting.  My cuffs were shot.  I looked like a typical east coaster who didn’t know how to dress for L.A. weather.  I also looked like someone who had respect for the old school.  The style was making a comeback in New York.  It wasn’t and never would work in L.A.  I felt more like my father than ever because I had rude and angry thoughts clawing through my skull, making me twitch.

Vince introduced me around.  I was very aware of the weak side of my face.  I smiled but not widely.  I had to enunciate especially clearly thanks to the numb half of my mouth.  I met well-known producers, other directors, second-rate actors and two major celebrities.  Most of them said that they wanted to be novelists.  I knew it wasn’t an empty claim.  Almost everyone thought they wanted to be novelists.  Writing didn’t stand out as the creative skill that other artistic endeavors did.  Unless they were illiterate everyone could, to some extent, write.  They had written papers in school, they had done book reports.  They knew how to read.  There wasn’t any magic to it.  Everyone thought they could crack the code.  All you had to do was find the time.  They told me repeatedly they were all going to write their novels when they found the time.  They were idea people.

None of them wanted to hear a word I said so I just stood back and drank a gin and tonic and listened to them hold court.  No one seemed to realize it was an engagement party.  No one mentioned the happy couple.  No one spoke about nuptials or asked about the wedding date.

While I stood next to him, Vince felt the need to keep reaching out with a free arm and wrapping it around my shoulder and giving me a semi-hug.  I went with it.  I didn’t see that I had much of a choice.  Eventually he had to take a piss break and I drifted off into a quiet corner.

Christina followed me.  “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

“Very much,” I said.

“For a man who makes his living off of lies you’re a bad liar.”

“No wonder why my books sell so poorly.”

“They won’t anymore.  Not after this film gets made.”

“That depends on how good a movie it is.”

“It’ll be wonderful.”

“So you’re not only in love with the man, you’re also a fan of his work.”

“I am.  His movies are spectacular.”

“And you call me a bad liar.”

Her smile slipped.  She didn’t like being found out.  No one does.

Those dark eyes considered me.  “All right, I don’t much enjoy big budget action thrillers with lots of guns and explosions and boat crashes.  But I do believe he’ll do right by Killjoy.  And even if it doesn’t go over with the public and doesn’t boost your novel sales, at least you’ll have the bloom on you for a short while.  The fact that he’s optioned your novel will lead to others doing the same for your other books.  They won’t show you nearly the respect that Vince does, but that won’t matter.  You’ll make out like a bandit.”

“You seem familiar with the process.”

“I ought to be after my time in the industry.”

I didn’t realize she was actually in the industry.  My noir sensibilities kept tugging my thoughts in the usual direction.  My brain burned in the usual cliched ways.  I imagined her a hooker on the streets, hired by Vince to do a private party, but she’s got a heart of gold and love wins the day.  Or she was a major player in porn flicks under the name Daisy Diamond.

I wanted to revel in my naughty fantasies for a little while but she said, “I co-produced his last three films.  I’m good at my job.  I know how to get things done on the set.  I leave the aesthetics to the filmmakers and the critics.  They live off each other’s blood.”

She kept stepping closer and closer to me.  She grinned sweetly.  It was the kind of grin that always did it to me, made my head reel.  Knowing and yet passive.  Her eyes were shadowed with an expression of curiosity and expectation.  As if she knew that this was the moment, this was the only moment, that had any real meaning.

I was a romantic in the worst sense of the word.  It had nothing to do with flowers or chocolates or even love.  It had to do with wanting the world to be something it wasn’t.  Hoping for the movie version of life with all the boring shit chopped out.  I wanted to live in a higher state, buzzing on the cool and hip, the gorgeous and lush, the heat and the gamble.  I was impressing my wants onto her.  I was going to do something stupid.  My body was going to make a jump before my mind was able to settle my electrified nerve-endings.  Christina smiled at me.  I took a step forward.

A morning talk show host walked past with her entourage, laughing loudly enough to shatter the moment.  She approached Christina and started in with some anecdote about a self-help guru who was found stoned on crack in a church confessional.  Christina threw back her head as if she might join in with the same kind of convulsive, drunken gaiety, but she merely grinned, held her drink to her lips, and took the slightest sip.  I looked at the ring of alcohol caught in the nearly invisible hairs circling her mouth.  A droplet slid over her bottom lip and down her chin.  I nearly lunged toward her.  The group continued talking, ignoring me completely.  After a while I slid away.  Vince was nowhere to be seen.

I walked out the front door past the hired valet parkers.  They asked me for my ticket and told them to get me a cab.  I headed back to my hotel room and spent an hour raiding the room bar.  I wanted to get blackout drunk but couldn’t do it.