1983
The Monterey airport was small and quiet. Right after the airplane landed, a man in a gray business suit who had been sitting across the aisle from Cee Cee helped her get her bag out of the compartment above her seat. He said, “I can’t wait to tell my kids I met Cee Cee Bloom,” and then blushed. A skycap smiled a huge smile when she passed him and said, “Now I can die happy, ’cause I seen you,” and the Hertz girl asked her for her autograph. But after that she was on her own. Driving this piece of tin, pain-in-the-ass rent-a-car.
The sign said Highway 1 South. Was that right or was it supposed to be north? Shit, she was lucky she’d even started this car, but now she had to find the goddamned place, too. Without a driver. That would be a miracle. Jesus, it was starting to rain. Where the fuck were the windshield wipers? There. Okay, now just take it slow, she told herself. You’ll get there.
Everyone back in L.A. would scream bloody murder when she called to tell them she wouldn’t be back for a few days. Well, fuck ’em.
The rain was falling so hard now she could hardly see the road, and she wasn’t sure how to put the windshield wipers on a higher speed. She was afraid to take her eyes away from what she could see of the road to try and figure it out, so she slapped around madly at the dashboard. No. That button was the lights. Maybe she’d turn them on just to be safe. No. That was the turn signal. Aha! There. Windshield wipers always sounded like drumbeats to Cee Cee, so when she twisted the end of the turn signal and the tempo of the wipers changed from “Way down upon the Swanee River” to “Everybody Loves My Baby,” she sighed with relief.
There it was. Ocean Avenue. Hoo-fuckin’-ray!
Cee Cee fumbled with her purse with her right hand while her left hand clutched the wheel. She was searching for the piece of paper with the directions. DOWN OCEAN AVENUE. LEFT ON CARMELO.
Carmelo. Carmelo. Come on, Carmelo. Left. Why weren’t there any addresses on the houses? Bertie said it would be easy to find. Third house on the right. An old Spanish one. The Frank House. There A sign. The Frank House. The Franks were the people Bertie was renting from. That’s what she’d explained on the phone. Cee Cee pulled the car over to the curb and turned off the engine. She sat for a minute just looking at the house, then she sighed a relieved sigh.
She pushed open the door of the Chevy and decided she would leave her suitcase in the trunk for now. Every house as far as she could see in either direction looked perfect. Surrounded by a hedge or rosebushes or a white picket fence. Cee Cee crossed the street and walked up to the little tile porch of the Frank House. There was a note taped to the door.
Jan
Door open.
Who was Jan? This had to be the place. But where was Bertie?
Cee Cee opened the door and had to smile as she walked into the house. Bertie had great taste, even in rentals. The little house was beautiful. Hardwood floors, beamed ceilings, and lots of windows so the sunlight could come pouring in. Cee Cee walked to the coffee table. There were some magazines, a few ashtrays, and a small framed picture of a little girl of about six or maybe seven, surrounded by sand piles she’d made with the bucket she was holding. She was sitting on a beach. It was Bertie. Her mother must have taken it the summer Cee Cee and Bertie met in Atlantic City. Cee Cee looked more closely at the picture. It looked like a color Polaroid shot. But then, of course, it couldn’t be Bertie. Cee Cee grinned and put the picture back on the table.
“Bert,” she called out. There was no response.
There was a phone on a little table next to the sofa. Cee Cee picked up the receiver and dialed. First the area code, then the number she wanted.
“William Morris Agency,” a voice answered.
“Larry Gold,” Cee Cee said.
A moment later, Larry Gold’s secretary picked up.
“Larry Gold’s office.”
“Yeah. It’s Cee Cee Bloom.”
“Oh, good!” the secretary said hastily. “He’s been looking for you.”
I’ll bet, Cee Cee thought.
A click. Another click.
“Where the fuck are you?” Larry Gold’s angry voice asked.
“None of your goddamned business,” Cee Cee replied. A cigarette. She looked around the room for one.
“Cee Cee,” Gold said. “Don’t give me that shit. My ass is on the line. At three o’clock this afternoon, when it became apparent you were taking a very long lunch, I was with a director, a producer, two guest stars, eight dancers, and three network executives who were sitting in the fucking rehearsal hall, waiting for you to come back. To your own goddamned show. And you didn’t. By four, I was sweating blood, you self-indulgent cunt. Where the fuck are you?”
“Gold, you little prick,” Cee Cee said, slowly and carefully. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again. ’Cause if you do, you can take your ten percent and shove it up your greedy ass. I had something to do. Someone I had to see, and I don’t care if Jesus Christ Himself was there waiting for me.”
“Now wait a minute,” Gold began, but Cee Cee went on.
“No, you listen to me, you sawed-off little bastard,” she said, amazed by how calm she was feeling despite her words. “You postpone the rehearsals until I call you and let you know that I’m ready to come back.”
“Cee Cee, you can’t just—”
“I can, Larry,” she said. “I can. Because I’m hot shit and you know it. I’ll be there when I get there.”
Cee Cee hung up the phone and sat down on the sofa. There. She’d handled it. Now she’d sit, read a magazine, and wait for Bertie to come and tell her what was going on.