by Rex Bolt
“Please re-direct,” she said.
“So I’m assuming this kid’s got it all squared away, and the sky’s the limit . . . and I even tell him this -- and I’m paraphrasing -- but it’s like, take it from me son, you don’t always know how good you have it, until you get some perspective later on . . . and my unsolicited advice is keep right on having fun, and not waste time worrying about what comes next.”
“How did this Pike respond?”
“He seemed to consider what I was saying, and then he shifted gears. Which surprised me. Maybe me being a stranger. That he figured he could open up, it wouldn’t come back to bite him. Who knows.”
“How did he shift gears?”
“He told me a terrible story. There was an accident. A drunk driver ran up on a curb and killed a woman. The Pike kid knew the family, went to school all through with one of the daughters. It happened last fall, a lot of people were still reeling bad, he said.”
“And?”
“How did you know there was more? Isn’t that enough?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well there is more . . . Pike is having enough trouble wrapping his head around it. A couple weeks later the daughter is going through her mom’s things, and she comes across a diary and some letters. Bottom line -- and don’t forget, it is a small town, but she informs Pike that her mom -- and Pike’s dad -- were having an affair.”
“Currently? At the time of the accident?”
“That wasn’t clear. They tried to piece it together, it may have ended a while back, or it could have been one of those on again off again deals. Eventually the daughter tells Pike that she figured out the timeline, and the affair had already been over for some time.”
“But he didn’t necessarily believe that.”
“Correct . . . You must be tough to go to the movies with. You’d be one of those people who keeps calling out what’s about to happen . . . Would you ever want to go to the movies by the way? I mean I know you’re married, you said that, but this is 2018.”
Dr. Moore took a moment. “Are you saying -- to pick up on that -- that you, for one, behave differently therefore? That in 2018 anything goes?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying. Pike finishes telling me all this, I sort of apologize for assuming his life is all idyllic Camelot, since it’s clearly anything but at this point, and he leaves off by saying -- pretty darn matter of fact, too -- that he has the ability to do something about it . . . and he’s going to. And he says good night, and takes off on his jog.”
“What do you feel he meant by that?”
“You’re supposed to tell me. I don’t know if he was serious, or joking, like as a defense mechanism . . . or being symbolic or some shit.”
Dr. Moore was writing something down, drawing an arrow it looked like, connecting a couple things. She looked at her watch. “We’re going to need to conclude. In about 6 minutes. Anything else, Chris? What possessed you to call me this morning?”
“None of this. Jesus . . . But if you need one more topic . . . I guess that could be: If a guy had a terminal disease -- but he got better -- but he kind of changed his general approach while thinking he had the terminal disease -- and yes he may really be disease-free -- but the new approach he developed remains -- is that okay.”
Another note from Dr. Moore. “How did he change his approach?” she said.
“I don’t know . . . More aggressive with others, perhaps? More impulsive? Less concerned about ramifications? Less worried whether people like him? More apt to move on?”
“As opposed to dwelling on a particular?”
“I guess. But that’s it? I listed about 6 things.”
“Do you feel he should alter his current approach?” Dr. Moore said.
“Well,” Chris said, “in a perfect world, sure.”
“Does he feel liberated by the new approach? The qualities you alluded to, they represent a sort of freedom, do they not?”
“Yeah? Could be I guess,” Chris said, rubbing his chin, giving that one a going over, no one quite putting it like that before.
“Does this person have a best friend?” she said.
“I don’t think so . . . If you define it as a couple people he can count on in a crisis, then maybe.”
“Does this person consider himself out of the loop, socially?”
“Now and then.”
“And that partial degree of alienation -- he feels it’s the result of the current approach?”
“Maybe.”
“Under the original approach, he was more prominently in the social loop then?”
“I told you,” Chris said, “maybe. What part don’t you understand?”
Dr. Moore cleared her throat and straightened up her notes. “That’s sufficient for today, Chris.”
“I’m sorry. That was on me, getting worked up for a second. Nothing to do with you. You’re doing your job.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you call the police on me though? Last time?”
“I did.”
“Oh . . . How ‘bout this time?”
“I’m not planning to.” They stood up.
Chris wanted to give her that hug last time, even brought it up, and who knows, maybe that was part of the deal, why she did call the cops.
But she opened the door for him, and he hesitated a second and then reached around and gave her one . . . and like a good human being, flicking the switch on the therapist role for just a minute, she hugged him back, and it sure felt real.
Chapter 7
There was a text from Ned when Chris left the office: Let’s talk.
What could this be now?
Whatever soothing resolution -- even an inflated one -- Chris might have walked out of Dr. Moore’s office with -- that was now history.
What did we have? 2 o’clock Monday afternoon?
So we’re talking . . . Friday night? The guy in the pond? Ralph?
It was running together a bit, but yeah. By the time it was consummated, that was deep into Saturday morning -- so what, 50 hours ago, give or take?
The only saving grace, which kept Chris’s heartbeat and hyperventilation mechanism in check . . . was if it’s real serious -- like life or death -- Ned would have phrased it slightly differently.
More along the lines of: We got a problem.
Chris still took that deep breath, and called him back.
“Hey!” Ned said. “What’s shaking, man?”
“You have a way,” Chris said, “of sneaking up on people, and brushing it off, while the other guy doesn’t extricate himself quite as quick.”
“Not following you. Listen, you got a half hour?”
“Okay you’re doing it again.”
“Take it easy, we’re good,” Ned said.
Chris said in that case he might fit it in, and they settled on the pizza place in Hermosa Beach.
There was another message, and he could relax now and give it the attention it deserved . . . and son of a gun, this was Shep. So Chris called him back.
“My brother,” Shep said, and you could hear glasses clinking and plenty of conversation, Weatherby’s busy enough for a Monday afternoon.
“You got me nervous,” Chris said. “You never text.” Not Ned-quality nervous, but still.
“All’s we have,” Shep said, “That tenant I found you? Well it didn’t take so great, the relationship.”
“Ah.”
“So I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of uh . . . well, I kind of took a page out of your book.”
A beat. “I don’t want to ask what that means.”
“Yeah. The roof business again . . . We came to the requisite meeting of the minds.”
“Holy Smokes, I’m not believing this . . . Honestly, that place, the karma may not be there, Shep . . . Should we just hand it back to the landlord? I mean I probably won’t ever need it again.” Though you never did know.
“Are you nuts?” Shep said. “With the upside we got? Do
you know the median one-bedroom in the city now, is $3690.”
Chris had seen that the other day, the New York Times picking up the story because it was so outrageous.
“And they showed examples of that median version,” Shep said. “A basement dive off the Panhandle, and a worse dive in the Mission, where everything’s security screens. We got a gold mine here, believe me.”
“If you say so,” Chris said, “totally up to you . . . Sorry for the hassle.”
“Don’t mention it. Wasn’t the worst thing, throw a little tough love around up there. I’ll be honest, I seen where you’re coming from.” Shep said he had to go.
Chris felt himself shaking his head at that conversation as he started up the new-used Chevy Malibu -- and there was admittedly a slight knock in the engine as he accelerated onto the 405, but he told himself think positive, and you need to get past worrying about a dumb car if you’re going to tackle the bigger problems.
Had he been that transparent with Shep though? Jeez. What was that part where he saw where I was coming from? Sure, the list, way back in the beginning, that got some indirect mention, over a couple Anchor Steams, across the bar -- but had he really related dangling that guy off the roof?
Or worse? Had someone seen him do it, and word got around the neighborhood, and back to Shep.
Ooh boy . . .
Ned was all smiles, had the corner table in back, same directional setup as in the Crow’s Nest.
Chris sat down and said, “I don’t need to look at the menu. These days I either go with the whole combo pie, bring home what I can’t eat and have it for breakfast -- or go with the pepperoni calzone.”
“See now calzones,” Ned said, “and are you any part Italian, or not, I may have asked you.”
“I’ll have to go on Ancestry.com,” Chris said, “spit in a cup, I may surprise myself.” That was the wrong analogy, because it reminded him once again of the ill-fated DNA test and the hacker Mark, still waiting for it. Maybe.
“What was I saying?” Ned said. “Calzones -- me being Italian doesn’t mean I eat ‘em.”
“I’ll eat yours then.”
“On a list of cheap eats . . . they’d be near the bottom. I don’t care that they originated in 18th century Naples. They’re too dry.”
“What’s below ‘em?”
“Huh?”
“On your list.”
“General Tso’s Chicken for one,” Ned said. “Do you know that stuff’s not even Chinese?”
They ordered and Chris said, “Not to insult anyone, and I’m sure he’s a friend of yours, but I hope the owner doesn’t come over.”
“Oh that guy. He’s a pain in the ass,” Ned said. And it was good they were on the same page, the owner a friendly enough fellow, a trace of a Brooklyn accent so you knew the food was authentic, but he loved to stroll table to table and talk . . . and if he got it dialed in at your table on a given night, forget it. Kind of amusing that Ned agreed, since Ned wasn’t typically bothered by that kind of stuff, meaning he must have had a bad experience with the guy.
“What I wanted to go over,” Ned said, “is the writing assignment. I’m trying to come up with final scene, like Finch wants, but I’m hitting myself over the head. I’ve worked around like 5 of them, and one’s more stupid than the last.”
“Whew,” Chris said. “Now I can complete that deep breath, no strings attached. Who would think, you needed me because of your novel.”
“Let’s not be a comedian, okay?”
“I’m serious. You’ve got one in you. You know it too, otherwise you don’t show up the other night at Finch’s.”
“Well what’s yours?” Ned said.
“You know what? I haven’t given it a thought. I’ll start working on it about 6:15 Friday night . . . Rosie okay with hers?”
“Oh yeah, she’s got a good one. Takes place in Louisiana, her character’s climatic moment anyway. Healthy imagination on that girl.”
“You guys making it then . . . or what?”
“Us? Nah. She’s got her thing going, whatever. And Chandler’s trying to get her into UCLA. Not the real thing, but the extension part. Starting with summer session.”
Of course it was Chris who suggested that, but no point butting in now . . . and of course Ned’s answer, what was going on otherwise, that was a little shaky.
Chris said, “Forget UCLA maybe. She produces that novel, Finch with his screenwriting connections . . . who knows.”
“I agree,” Ned said. “Be honest, I was thinking that direction myself. For me. But I’m friggen blocked.”
“Email it to me,” Chris said, “I’ll give you the cold-blooded evaluation.”
“Which ending?”
“Your top two. Don’t murder me with all 5.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“If I could make a suggestion?” Chris said.
“Go for it.”
“Well I liked your start. A lot of detail, you bring the international element into it, the guy seeking out his roots back in Czechoslovakia, the whole bit disguised as a vehicle to get to know the Pan Am check-in gal.”
“Pan Am’s not around anymore. They’ve been gone a while.”
“Whatever. My point is, it’s real so far. Keep it that way.”
You could tell Ned was thinking about those 5 endings, and his face was scrunched up.
Chris said, “Like Chili Palmer in Get Shorty. I’m not saying you gotta portray the main character as a wise guy or something . . . but use that set-up as an example how to keep it real.”
Ned said, “That was Travolta, at least the first one. I would have gone with a young Mickey Rourke.”
“Doesn’t matter. What I’m saying, the guy comes out here, knows nothing about the movie business, ends up dominating the action, hobnobbing with the Beverly Hills crowd.”
“More like Calabasas. That’s where the Kardashians are now. Johnny Depp, Jennifer Lawrence. That group.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
“Nah, I get your point. Write what you know.”
“More than that . . . give your guy an edge that he doesn’t lose. Capiche? Or do I have to call the owner over, ask him how his week’s been going.”
Ned said that wouldn’t be necessary, and they finished up and crossed the street to the long block that they malled-off, meaning only foot traffic permitted -- some benches staggered around, outdoor restaurants spilling into the middle of the action, the Hermosa Pier at the end.
There was a street musician performing for tips and he wasn’t bad, he used recorded back up and sang high, and pretty sweet, kind of a modern take on doo-wop, and Chris and Ned grabbed a seat and listened.
Ned said, “I see what you’re saying. My character. He has to sustain it. His act.”
“Yeah,” Chris said, “now mind you, and I’ve seen it in some of the Donald Westlake books as well, that a minor character could present themself better than you expected.”
“So don’t get locked in, you’re telling me then.”
“No, do get locked in to your main dude -- I mean that final scene you’re trying to come up with, it should be all about him, shouldn’t it? . . . His trials and tribulations having aired themselves out, in the scene before, and now you’re leaving the reader off, based on that resolution.”
“You’re bullshitting me. If you try repeating what you just said, it’ll come out different.”
“Fair enough,” Chris said. “But the minor character thing -- don’t fight it if it pops up, is all.”
“What would be an example, give me something.”
“Well . . . say you got this guy, he thinks his wife’s cheating on him. Not presently necessarily, but two years ago there was a party, and the wife and the other guy happen to disappear for a while.”
Ned said, “Where do they live, these people?”
“Come on, who cares? So the husband, he can’t get it out of his system, they’re shopping on Christmas Eve, he sees something that reminds him
of the wife’s infidelity, triggers him bringing it up.”
“What’d he see?”
“How do I know, what difference does it make? Stop being so literal here . . . the bigger picture, Christmas comes and goes but the guy can’t take it, he finally gets up the gumption to confront the other dude.”
“The wife know about this?”
“Not sure. The point being, he does find the guy and confront him, the guy comes clean, doesn’t deny it . . . even throws in that he envies this first guy for having a lovely wife.”
“It would never happen that way,” Ned said.
Chris said, “Fine. Don’t write yours that way. But you ask me for an example . . . In this one, these two guys become friends. Little stiff at first, and eventually they go on a fishing trip together. Bond pretty good. The cheater guy ends up becoming more interesting to the readers than the wife. So the writer -- he lets the guy go, gives him free rein. Not letting him steal the show, of course, from the main guy. But right up there.”
“That’s not too bad,” Ned said. “What book is that from?”
“No real book. I made it up, just to address your question.” Though Chris was starting to think maybe I didn’t make it up, that I saw it unfold on one of those Lifetime made for TV movies.
They listened to the modern d0o-wop guy a while longer, threw him a few bucks, and headed down the block to the pier.
Chris said, “So I hate to bring this up, perfect weather and all. I mean they couldn’t design it better for April.”
“You got that right,” Ned said, playfully punching Chris on the arm. “It took you 6 months to figure it out?”
“Why we live here you mean.”
“Unh-huh. We got the system beat. Mostly.”
“Yeah well. I see they still got snow up the wazoo in Buffalo.”
“Montreal even worse,” Ned said, “and how about Nebraska? Flooding out of their backside there, and it’s not even tornado season yet.”
“Just getting warmed up.”
“Yep,” Ned said. “So no need to bring up, what you don’t want to bring up.”
“And I wouldn’t ordinarily,” Chris said. “Except what’s next? What do we got?”
