21

After the riot I spent some time in The Tombs.  I’d done research on the New York jail system for one of my novels, seen photos, heard accounts, but nothing came close to actually being in there.  The mood was murderous.  The air felt poisoned by hopelessness.  I had two broken fingers on my right hand, a dislocated left shoulder, and my nose felt like a split tomato mashed into the center of my face.

My question didn’t go over well.  There were gasps, groans, and one outright mini-shriek from the audience.  The director looked like I’d just gut-shot him.  A couple of his friends or fans rushed up the aisle and tried to grab me by the elbows and escort me out.  You could tell these people had been raised in a life of on-screen melodrama.  Someone shoved me.  I turned and threw an uppercut.

I didn’t remember much after that, except for seven or eight guys dog-piling me, some women screaming, and the sound of my own low, growling laughter.  It was my father’s laugh.  It was my laugh.

I shared the cell with fifteen other guys, most of whom looked like they were heading back to Riker’s for life.  They were hardcore, covered in prison tats, with dead eyes that told the world they had nothing left to lose.  A couple of junkies were already coming apart at the seams.  I stood propped against the bars in my new blood-covered, torn suit.

I waited for someone to make a move on me.  I managed to push my bad arm through the bars, tighten my grip, and then wrench my shoulder back into place.  It popped as loudly as a burst balloon.  I swallowed my scream and my vision ignited into a white solar flare.  I went blind and deaf for ten or fifteen seconds.  I didn’t make a sound.  When my eyesight returned I watched the others.  They watched me.

I got my one phone call and dialed Monty.  I told him what happened and he said, “You are such a fucking asshole!  And speaking of fucked assholes, do I have to tell you to get ready for that to happen to yours any second?”  He hung up on me.

I thought, There it is.

That’s done it.

That’s ruined my Hollywood career. Killjoy is a bust now.  I’m walking poison.  Not because the cult of personality didn’t forgive your sins, but your sins had to at least be interesting.  You couldn’t just be a shithead and do something small and stupid and petty.  That’s how it would be perceived.  Like I was a jealous moron with a shallow heart who couldn’t be gracious for a single night. Vince would show up and give me a what the fuck look and go back to LA and forget about his personal projects and go on to his next mayhem ensues blockbuster.  He’d marry Christina and I wouldn’t even be a footnote in his memoirs.

After three hours a cop told me my bail had been posted and I could go.  I picked up my personal effects and signed some paperwork.  I expected Monty to meet me in the lobby but instead it was Vince Schreiber.

Beneath the harsh lighting even more of Vince’s scalp showed through his thinning silver hair.  He walked up to me and his face was stern and filled with a little awe.  He gently gripped my chin between thumb and forefinger and turned my face aside so he could check out my nose from a different angle.  “Jesus, they worked you over pretty good.”

“I’m okay.”

“We’ll get you to the emergency room.”

“I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not,” he said.  And then his expression shifted from concern into something else as a grin creased his face.  He started chuckling as he led me out of the Tombs and into a waiting limo.  “You’re incredible.”

“Sorry I fucked things so badly.”

“Are you kidding?” His brow lifted in puzzlement.  “You were sensational.  Everyone wants to know who you are.”

“Who I am?”

“Yeah.  The boy in the back row who pointed out that the emperor has no clothes.  You’re a star. I’ve been fielding calls from the New York Times, the LA Times, everybody.  I knew you were the type who wouldn’t grease anyone, but hell, now they’re looking to you like you’re the new sheriff of Hollywood who’s going to clean out the bad element and make it safe for the rest of us.”

“Why does anyone give a shit?”

He couldn’t stop layering everything he said with his own laughter.  “Because we all love to see some self-righteous, pretentious, pompous fatass put in his place, but we’re all too worried about the blowback to do anything about it.  You showed you had guts.  People love people with guts. I told you that the best fiction, the best drama, comes from catharsis and human truth.  What do you think you just gave everyone in that room tonight?  They live for that kind of action. You think any of those people liked that self-centered pile of garbage they were forced to endure?  You only said what they were all thinking.  You’re their hero.  None of us will ever have to put up with another one of that bastard’s films.  They’re thankful.  Hell, I’m thankful.  You think I wanted to sit there and clap politely for a movie that made me want to claw my eyes out?”

I stared at him in confusion and disgust.  A few hours ago he’d been rooting for his friend, praising him, celebrating his craft.  Now Vince stood a little higher because he’d stepped up onto a man who I’d knocked down.  I had a lot more respect for the guys who’d dog-piled me.  I had more respect for the detritus in The Tombs, who wore their hearts on their sleeves and their murderous intentions in their eyes.

The limo cruised through traffic towards the hospital.  My nose and arm and hand started to hurt.  The pain hit me all at once and I gasped.  I could feel the blood drain from my face.  Vince mixed me a drink from the bar and pushed it into my bad hand.  I squawked like a dying crow.  He wound up having to lift the glass to my lips while I swallowed deeply.

“I knew you were going to help me with a fresh start,” he said, and he drew me into a gentle half-clench.  We drew up to the emergency room and Vince opened the car door for me like a chauffeur.  “You and Christina.”