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.