“Mr. Ledo, my name is Hollingsworth. I’m with the Prime-Vita Company. You’ve heard of us?”
“No.”
“Too bad. We’re in the health-products field — nutritional aids, vitamins, dietary supplements.”
“Good for you.” Alberto was looking past the man at the crowd filling up his house and eating his nachos.
“I have for you a proposition that could mean several thousand dollars, with options for more if things work out.”
“What proposition?”
“I’d like to use your boy in our newspaper ads and in a television spot.”
“You want Miguel to say he eats your stuff, that’s why he’s alive today?”
Mr. Hollingsworth chuckled. “Actually, he wouldn’t have to say anything. We’d just use his picture, and the copy would say a little about him and about Prime-Vita products. If the people want to make a connection, that’s all right with us.”
“It’s not all right with me.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t want my boy in no commercials for phony vitamins an’ your other junk.”
“Now just a minute, Mr. Ledo — ”
“I ain’t got a minute. I think you better get out of here.” He turned to the crowded room and raised his voice. “The rest of you, too. My family and me want some time alone. Please go.”
After considerable milling around, the crowd thinned, and at last they had all gone. Alberto went into the kitchen and took a cold Coroma from the refrigerator. He popped the top and drank down a third of the bottle. Maria came in, and they sat down together at the kitchen table.
“You were not very nice to the people,” Maria said in Spanish.
“They were making me tired. Do you know what one of them wanted? He wanted to use Miguel to sell his vitamins. That’s when I told everybody to get out.”
Maria touched her husband’s hand. “It is all right. I am glad we are alone.”
“Yes. I will be happy when they find some new miracle.”
“This is a miracle, Berto,” Maria said in a hushed voice.
“Maybe.”
“No, really. We have seen a true miracle from God.”
“That is not for us to say. It all happened so quickly. That man, that McAllister Fain — we don’t know who he is.”
“He is a saint.”
“I don’t understand what happened … what he did.”
“Maybe we are not meant to understand it. We have our little boy back.”
“Yes. Yes, we do.”
“Be happy with me, Berto.”
“I am. I am happy, only …”
“Only what?”
“I don’t know. This thing troubles me.”
A crash out in the living room brought them to their feet. Alberto was the first to reach the room, with his wife right behind.
A table lamp had fallen to the floor, knocked over by Miguel. The boy seemed not to notice as he drew feverish patterns on the painted wall with a Magic Marker. The designs were strange, angular forms in a pattern that looked like writing but was not.
“Miguel!” cried his father. “What are you doing?”
The boy whirled toward them, and for an instant his face was the face of a stranger. Then his eyes cleared, and he looked from one of his parents to the other. His lips quivered, and he began to cry.
Alberto stared at the scribblings on the living-room wall. “What is this? You scrawl graffiti like some cholo? And on your own wall? Have you gone crazy?”
Miguel began to cry louder, and Maria swept the boy into her arms. “Ai, Miguelito, it’s all right. Tell him it’s all right, Berto. He has had a difficult time.”
Alberto stood frowning for another minute at the strange marks on the wall. “Sure, okay, it’s all right. Now let’s clean it up.”
• • •
While the Ledo family scrubbed at their living-room wall, Mac Fain sat with Jillian Pappas in a dark back booth of the Jalisco Tavern on Alvarado Street. Barry Lendl stood talking into a wall-mounted pay phone with his hand cupped over the mouthpiece as though worried that someone might listen in. The only other customers were two Mexicans in their early twenties playing a listless game of pool and a weathered old man sitting at the bar.
“This place smells like a toilet,” Jillian said.
“We had to come somewhere to talk,” Fain told her.
“You saw what it was like at my apartment — the phone, the people hammering at the door.”
“You’re famous,” Jillian said. “You’ll have to get used to it.”
Lendl came back to the booth and sat down, looking pleased. He ignored the glass of beer in front of him, as did Jillian. Only Fain was drinking.
“I called my office,” the agent said. “We’re on our way. You saw the noon news on Channel Thirty-four?”
“I saw it,” Fain said. “And the article in the Times. I made page one of Metro again. No pictures, though.”
“It was too late for the deadline,” Lendl said. “But wait till you see the Herald.”
“Famous,” Jillian said softly. She picked up her beer glass, tasted it, and set it down.
“Besides the Times,” Lendl continued, “we’re in the Daily News and the Orange County Register. They want you for talk shows on KABC and KIEV. Channel Seven’s interested for an Eye on L.A. segment.”
“Things sure happen fast once they start happening,” Fain said.
“That’s the way it is in this town,” Lendl said. “What we want to do now is move fast but make sure we pick the right offers. I don’t want you doing any shit. Excuse me, Jillian.”
She waved him off without comment.
“What I mean,” Lendl continued, “is you’re on fire now and we got to take advantage. God, I can’t hardly believe our luck.”
Fain peered at him. “Luck?”
“That kid last night coming to right when he did. If it happens while the paramedic’s working on him, we’re nothing. If he doesn’t come out of it at all, we’re in trouble with that crowd. Like they say, timing is everything.”
“Were you worried?”
“Hell, yes, I was worried. Those people carry knives. But we can forget that now. First thing is we got to get you out of that shit-box apartment. I’ll book you into a hotel we can use for a headquarters while we sift through the offers.”
Fain turned to Jillian. “How about that, honey? I’m sifting offers.”
“I’m thrilled,” she said, not sounding thrilled.
They heard the bartender say, “Back there,” and turned to see Ivy Hurlbut come toward them.
Ivy wore a “No Nukes” T-shirt and a pair of her squeaky-tight jeans. She carried a copy of the Herald like a banner.
“Take a look at this. You’re gonna love it.”
She moved the beer glasses aside and spread the paper out on the table. Three of Olney Zeno’s photos were printed across the page above the story of what happened at the Eastside Social Club banquet. The first photo showed the prostrate Miguel beside the overturned speaker, looking very dead. Maria Ledo stood over him, hands clenched, her face a mask of grief. The second shot caught Fain standing over the boy, arms outstretched, head tilted toward the ceiling. In the third picture Mrs. Ledo knelt beside her revived son, her face radiant with love and relief. Behind mother and son stood McAllister Fain, his hand raised as in benediction.
“Beautiful,” said Lendl. “Just beautiful. That boy Zeno does good work. You don’t even have to read the story.”
“I really like this one,” Ivy said, pointing to the third of the photos. “If you had a beard, you’d look like Jesus Christ. Maybe you ought to grow one.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Lendl said.
“I hate it.” When everyone looked at Jillian, she said, “I haven’t met your friend, Mac.”
Fain eyed her cautiously. “I’m sorry. Jillian Pappas, this is Ivy Hurlbut, the writer I told you about. Ivy, Jillian.”
The two women looked ea
ch other over without visible warmth.
“I read your story in the Insider,” Jillian said. “Cute piece of work.”
“Thanks,” Ivy said. “What is it you do?”
“I’m an actress.”
“Isn’t that interesting.” She returned her attention to Fain. “I talked to Bantam this morning, read ‘em the Times story. They’re gung ho for the project now. Ready to talk about a real advance.”
“Sounds good,” Fain said.
“That’s not all. The Insider is all over me. They’re ready to pay their top dollar for a page-one feature. The National Enquirer will double that.”
Barry Lendl held up a hand to quiet her. “I don’t think we want to do the tabloids right now. They got no dignity. Besides, we don’t need them. You weren’t here, Ivy, but I got an office full of people looking to buy a piece of McAllister Fain. We can pick and choose. One thing sure, there’ll be no more speeches for three hundred dollars.”
“Hey, you’re going to be rich,” Ivy said.
“Rich and famous,” Jillian put in. “Just like a fairy tale.”
Fain looked at her. “Is something bugging you?”
“Who, me? Heck no, I’m just going with the flow. Waiting my turn for an autograph.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” he said.
“I just don’t like this whole business.”
Barry Lendl jumped in. “What’s not to like? By some fantastic coincidence, Mr. Fain gets lucky two times, and people come to life when he tells them to. The families are happy. The press is happy. We’re happy. And the people who were supposed to be dead got to be happier than any of us. Everybody wins, nobody gets hurt. So what’s not to like.”
“It sounds like you’re turning him into some kind of franchise Messiah. Try our drive-through resurrection window. And you, Mac — I get the feeling you’re starting to believe it. I liked you better when you were doing card tricks and telling fortunes for lonely ladies.”
Ivy gave her a smirk. “This couldn’t be a little jealousy, could it? Boyfriend getting more famous than you are?”
Jillian turned on her. “I don’t need analysis from some scandal-sheet hack.”
“Cut it out, you two,” Lendl said. “We got to make some plans.”
Ivy looked at the newspaper photos again, shaking her head. “This really is wild. We couldn’t have staged it better if we tried. What do you suppose really brought the kid around? That CPR business the paramedics were doing?”
“Who knows?” Lendl said. “Kids bounce back from things would kill a grown-up person.”
“Wait a minute,” Fain said. “Just wait a minute, all of you.”
They looked at him, silenced by the commanding tone of his voice. He locked stares briefly with each of them, his pale gray eyes luminous in the gloom of the tavern.
“What is all this talk about luck and coincidence and paramedics and kids bouncing back?”
After a moment, Lendl said, “I don’t follow you.”
“Why is everybody so damned sure I didn’t really do it?”
“Do it?” Ivy said, blinking.
“Bring that woman and that little boy back to life. Why couldn’t I be the real thing?”
Chapter 16
The Beverly Towers Hotel made it into Beverly Hills just barely, being on La Cienega and Wilshire, far from the glitter of Sunset. As for towers, that was open to doubt in the high-rise 1980s, when twelve stories was not in the towering class.
Nevertheless, the two-room suite rented by Barry Lendl looked good to Mac Fain when he moved in. There was an oversized sitting room with comfortable chairs, two sofas, impressionist prints on the walls, and a wet bar. The bedroom had a king-size bed with soft indirect lighting and a television set built into the wall. A considerable step upward from the Echo Park apartment.
“How much is this costing me, Barry?” he asked when Barry Lendl moved him in on Tuesday.
“Not to worry,” Lendl said airily. “I’ve got a deal with the management, so they’ll wait till we start cashing in on you.”
“Let’s hope they don’t have to wait too long.”
“Let me do the worrying,” Lendl said. “You relax tonight, and tomorrow we go to work.”
That night Fain slept alone, and he slept badly. Jillian was again tied up, she said, with an acting-class project that would last quite late and leave her too tired for anything but sleep. He next called Ivy, but she was anxious to finish an outline for Bantam Books so they could start negotiations on the advance. As he lay wakeful in the big bed, Fain had time to wonder if loneliness was part of the success package.
The next day he forgot all about being lonely. Barry Lendl was there early, closely followed by reporters, cameramen, hustlers, con men, crackpots, and a lot of people with no apparent reason for being there except curiosity. While Fain watched Lendl trying to restore some semblance of order, a smooth young man in a cashmere jacket maneuvered him to one side of the room.
“I’m Warner Echols,” the young man said. “Federated Artists. You have heard of us?”
“I think so,” Fain said.
“Most people have, even people not in the business. We’re easily the strongest, most respected talent agency in town. I could reel off a roster of our clients for you, but why take up our time with bragging, right?”
“Right,” said Fain on cue.
“To get right to it, Mac, we want to represent you. I don’t have to tell you that F-A can do things for you that no other agency can touch.”
“You want to represent me in what?”
“In all areas, Mac. F-A will take over every detail of your career, steering you steadily up the mountain, while you concentrate on … doing what you do.”
“The thing is,” Fain said, “I have kind of an understanding on that with somebody else.”
Echols smiled indulgently. “Yes, I know. Barry Lendl, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
Echols looked over to where Lendl was trying to keep out a large woman at the door waving an Instamatic. “I saw him when I came in. I admire your loyalty, Mac, but I’ve got to be frank. Lendl’s clients are losers and second-raters. You don’t belong with him. You want to travel first-class, and that’s Federated Artists. Your whole future depends on making the right moves now. You’re not under contract, are you?”
“No, but Barry has spent some money. He’s into the hotel for this suite.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. F-A will reimburse him for anything he’s put out and add a little besides, even though we’re under no obligation.”
“It’s not only the money …” Fain began.
Echols leaned closer. Fain could smell the wintergreen breath sweetener. “Mac, sometimes in this business you have to be tough. Everybody in town knows Barry Lendl, and everybody likes him. Hell, I like him. He’s a sweet guy and a beautiful human being, but face it, he’ll put your career right in the toilet. You’ll wind up as one of his flash-in-the-pan celebrities and make a thousand bucks lecturing at Kiwanis meetings, then disappear forever. Is that what you want?”
“No, but …”
“Then be tough, Mac. Move ahead now with F-A. Trust me, Mac. Barry Lendl wouldn’t know how to handle you even if he had the resources, which he doesn’t.”
“And you people do?”
“Hey, I’m here to tell you F-A is the big leagues. When we put you into a book, it’s hardcover with a window display in Brentano’s. When we book a client on a talk show, it’s not some Mickey Mouse local guy on Channel Twelve in Seattle. We’re talking Carson, okay?”
“Sounds good,” Fain said.
“Then we’ve got a deal?”
“I think you’ve made me an offer I can’t refuse.”
“Fantastic. On the chance that you’d make that decision, I’ve got Nolan Dix — he’s our top attorney — on the way over with the papers to make it official. But there’s no reason we have to sit on our hands until everything is signed an
d sealed. That’s not the F-A way.”
“I’m ready when you are,” Fain said.
“That’s what I like to hear. What do you say we step into the other room so Jesse can have a look at you?”
“Jesse?”
“Jesse Cadoret, our image specialist. The very best in the business, I don’t mind telling you. He’ll want an in-depth session with you later, but there’s a lot he can do off a first impression.”
“This may sound dumb,” Fain said, “but what is an image specialist?”
Echols laughed shortly, showing a beautifully capped set of teeth. “I’ll let Jesse explain it to you, Mac. It’s strictly state of the art.”
Fain looked around the room, and his eyes met those of Barry Lendl. He also saw Jillian Pappas, who must have come in while he was talking to Echols. She was puffing inexpertly on a cigarette.
“Give me a minute, will you?” he said.
Echols followed his glance and nodded. “Sure, but don’t take too long. The sooner we rev the motors, the sooner we get off the ground.”
Fain walked over to Lendl, who did not move to meet him.
“Barry, I’ve been talking to Federated Artists.”
“So I see.”
“I wish you and I had more time to talk.”
Lendl shrugged. “What for? How much time do you need to tell a man he’s out?”
“That’s not the way it is,” Fain said.
“Oh, no? You didn’t just make a deal with that shark Warner Echols?”
“I need somebody now who has the clout to help me make the right moves, that’s all.”
“I was already started,” Lendl said. “I’ve got feelers out. I had ideas.”
“I’m sorry, Barry, but your ideas weren’t big enough. Where you were talking East Side Social Club, F-A talks the Tonight show.”
“Already you’re sounding like one of them.”
“Anyway, they’re going to take care of you. You won’t lose anything.”
“Hey, that’s nice of them. All heart, those people.”
“Okay, if you want to take it that way, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ll see you.”
Carrion Page 14
