"Janie," I said, "what the hell are you doing here?"
"I asked you first." The hostility was back in full force, and she hugged the clipboard against her like a bulletproof shield.
"I'm Toby's watchdog," I said. "I'm supposed to protect the world from him. And it pays well."
"Yow," she said, avoiding my eyes, "you're messing with my ideals. Mommy was paying you, and you didn't have a nickel. You still helped me instead of her." She dug the toe of her boot into some inoffensive dirt and punted it past me.
"Sheesh," I said, replying to her yow, "there are the girls."
"Which girls?"
"The ones he'll beat up if I don't stop him."
"Yeah," Janie said. It was pretty halfhearted.
"Has he fooled with you?" Behind her the photographer in the green shirt was setting up a big wooden camera on a tripod and a complicated arrangement of iron pipes under the direction of the tired-looking young woman. He tugged a cord, and a roll of seamless blue paper dropped to the ground from the crossbar at the top of the pipes.
"Nothing I can't handle," Janie said. "The occasional hand on the fanny, like you saw today. He tried to feel me up once when we were on the sound stage."
"How many of his balls did you collect?"
She smiled for the first time in what seemed like days. "None. But I stomped his foot."
"And he did what?"
"Yanked my hair. I told him if he laid a finger on me, I'd take his eyes out. Meant it, too. He backed off and said something about chicks having no sense of humor."
"He didn't get you fired, obviously."
"No, Simeon, that's the funny thing. He's like a little kid. After he's bad to someone he gets really contrite. He brought me a Danish."
"Conscience?"
"Toby? His conscience must be smaller than Medusa's G-spot. Listen, he's twisted. It's just the way the man is."
"Well," I said, "he's my baby."
Back on the set the baby shouted something that sounded angry and impatient. The actress stepped back quickly, like someone expecting a raw fish across the face, and there was a general scurrying behind the cameras as people ducked into position. New banks of lights snapped on, and Toby and the actress came down the walk, the actress looking professionally apprehensive and Toby looking genuinely sympathetic. They paused in the hot spot of light and passed some dialogue back and forth, and then Toby patted the woman on the shoulder, gave her his most dazzling smile, and sprinted down the walkway to a long, low black vehicle I hadn't paid attention to before, something that was both high-tech and anthropomorphic, like a cross between a torpedo and My Mother, the Car. He opened the door, looked back over his shoulder, and then climbed back up the walkway while people frantically reangled lights and the camera was moved. Someone else closed the door of the vehicle, using a cloth so he wouldn't mar the shine. Toby reached out and almost touched the camera lens and then drew his hand back until his finger touched the tip of his nose. The cameraman nodded.
"His close-up," Janie said. "Here comes art." There was a brief delay while the reflectors were brought around, and Toby snapped his fingers impatiently and said something unpleasant to the woman. "He's telling them to get their asses in gear," Janie said, watching. She glanced back over to the people behind the rope across the street. "He really hates standing out here with all these yokels staring at him."
"Then he should have been a plumber."
"He is," she said. "He's an emotional Roto-Rooter." As they arranged things for Toby's close-up, Dixie Cohen joined the tired-looking woman and the photographer. The woman was smoking a very long cigarette, and Dixie looked worried. The photographer took refuge under a long black cloth that covered the top of his camera and motioned Dixie into camera range in front of the blue roll of paper. Dixie stood there dolefully, the world's least likely stand-in for Toby Vane. Meanwhile, up on the walkway, the real action had recommenced.
Toby and the actress came back down, found the light, and Toby traded in his sympathetic expression for a million-dollar grin. This time he squeezed the woman's arm reassuringly before jogging on down to the torpedo. Then, leaving the car door open again, he waved off the efforts of the director to bring him back and came toward us as the entire group around the cameras stared after him. One at a time, the lights went off. The actress stood there, looking lost.
"That's enough of that," Toby said as he joined us. "You'd think it was something worth watching. Stunt double's next, right, sweetheart?" he said to Janie.
Janie glanced at her clipboard, but by the time she looked up again, Toby was already gone. "Right," she said anyway. "You asshole." She looked up at me almost guiltily. "A girl's got to express herself," she said.
Toby reached the forlorn little band gathered in front of the roll of blue paper. He put his arm around Dixie's neck, clowning for the still camera. Dixie tried to pull away and then submitted in a resigned fashion. He even smiled. It was the complicated smile of a confirmed pessimist who's just been proven right by being sentenced to death. The big stand-in, John, had ambled over. He stood there, loose-jointed, watching.
"Hey, champ," Toby called to me. "Come over here and meet some people."
"His master's voice," Janie mumbled.
"Ease up, okay?" I said. "I'd like it if we could stay friends."
"Champ," Toby said. "We're being a little rude here."
"Go to it, champ," Janie said. Feeling like the Incredible Shrinking Man, I went over to Toby, who had slipped an arm around the youngish woman's waist.
"My man," Toby said, daring me to contradict him, "this is the extraordinary Betsi, with an i. Betsi with an i is the photo editor of one of America's favorite magazines, a magazine you probably read every day of your life. And this is, um, this is Betsi's photographer."
"Bert," said the lanky man behind the camera.
"Who said that?" Toby asked. "Do I need to be told the photographer's name? Bert here is my favorite photographer, champ. I asked for old Bert, didn't I, Betsi?"
"Sure, Toby," Betsi said mechanically. "You always ask for Bert."
"Always," Toby said, "unless I ask for someone else." He pinched the skin beneath Betsi's blouse. "Simeon here is supposed to keep me out of trouble. What the hell? Somebody has to do it."
"And good luck to both of us," I said.
"So what do we want here, Bets?" Toby turned his attention to her. "The usual head-and-hunk shots, or something special? And where's the mirror?"
"In the car," Betsi said. "Bert-"
"Not going to do anyone much good in the car, is it?" Toby said. "Are you busy or something, Bert?"
Bert scurried off to the station wagon and came back lugging a full-length mirror, which he set up behind the camera.
"There I am," Toby said, passing a hand over his hair. "Let's go. Forty minutes, no more. These clothes okay?"
"Fabulous," Betsi said a little nervously. "Couldn't be better."
"Does the film have to age or something?" Toby impatiently asked Bert. Bert ducked his head under the cloth draped over the back of the camera and went to work.
For the next fifteen minutes or so I got a crash course in star making. Toby worked the camera as though it were a long-distance telephone line over which he was talking to a wife he'd been deceiving for months. He teased it, flirted with it, arched his brows at it, gave it the smile of the century. Before every shot he checked the mirror. Bert's head never emerged from the black cloth. The people across the street edged closer, and Betsi lit one cigarette off another, stubbing out the old ones against her shoe with ravaged-cuticle fingers. Dixie stood uselessly on the side- lines, now and then asking Toby to check his hair in the mirror. Big John just watched silently, his mouth hanging open and his hands opening and closing on air.
Bert emerged from the black cloth like a Muslim woman renouncing the veil. He looked up at the sky, checking the light, and said, "That's enough heads." He pulled the camera back three or four feet.
"Toby," Betsi said,
"we're going three-quarters now. Can you give us some profiles?"
"Which side?" Toby took a quick look at the mirror, giving a quick tug at the skin on either side of his eyes.
"Up to you," Betsi said.
Janie spoke from behind me. "At least twenty minutes," she said.
"I asked you which side," Toby said to Betsi as if Janie didn't exist.
"Really, Toby, it doesn't matter. You're the boss."
"But you're the genius, darling. Come on, just pick your favorite side of old Toby."
Betsi looked flustered. Then she took a vehement drag on her cigarette and said, "Left."
"Left?" Toby's eyes widened in surprise. "What's the matter with you today, Betsi? You want to shoot my left side?"
"Okay, okay, then, the right." Betsi was blushing deeply now and fiddling with the teddy bear pin. Bert had stepped away from the camera, staring down at the grass as if it hadn't been there a minute ago.
"Watch this," Janie whispered. "It may be educational."
"Just a fucking minute," Toby said to Betsi. "There's a principle here. I'm giving you this session because you need it, right? And I expect a little protection in return."
"Left," Betsi said desperately. "Wait, I mean right."
"Do you see this lip?" Toby demanded, tugging at the swelling. "Courtesy of my buddy Simeon, here, I might add. You donate your contact lenses to Greenpeace or something? Shit, if you can't see that, how do I know you can see the best shots? How do I know this isn't going to turn up in the Enquirer?" He framed a headline with his hands, " TOBY VANE GETS TRASHED AT LAST. I've got a little puffiness here, to put it charitably. What're you going to do, Bets, put it on the cover?"
"Toby," Betsi said desperately, "you know I'd never print a bad shot of you."
"Yeah, right. And I promise I'll pull out in time. The check is in the mail." The photographer had stepped back up to the camera and pulled the black cloth over his head to work on focus. "Just a minute, you-Bert-you, whoever you are. We shoot when I'm ready and not before."
"I'm sorry," Betsi said. "I'm double sorry. It's just that you look so good right now. . "
"I look like fucking Rocky Graziano," Toby said.
"No, no, we'll only get the right side. Only the right three-quarters, right, Bert? Only the right, okay, Toby?" She sounded as though she had something caught in her throat.
"Okay, okay, okay," Toby parroted. "You sound like a machine gun. You know what? You used to be prettier."
"Toby," Dixie said, "the public is here."
Toby looked at Betsi for a long moment and then turned toward the crowd of onlookers and made the thumbs-up sign. People clapped. Toby's grin broadened, and he still had it in place when he looked down at Betsi.
"Honey," he said, "I'm tired of these clothes."
Janie whispered something that sounded like "Shit."
Betsi swallowed. "You look great, Toby. You always look so nice."
"Not as nice as when you help. Come on, Betsi. You know how much I like your taste." He made it sound truly disgusting.
"I can't," Betsi said. "Please, Toby, not today."
"It's either that or no more watch the birdie. And with this puffiness, I may have to kill the whole session."
Betsi glanced around jerkily, as if she hoped no one was listening. She looked drawn and five years older. She picked up her cigarettes and pulled one out. Her hand was shaking.
"Now come on, Betsi," Toby said. "Even you can only suck on one thing at a time." He put his arm around her and led her to the trailer. The unlit cigarette dangled forgotten from her fingers. Bert managed to look very busy. At the door to the trailer, Toby waved at the crowd and said, "Be right back, folks." They went in, and Big John took up a stance in front of the door, his arms crossed like an Arabian genie who wanted to keep his hands near his scimitar.
"Congratulations, hero," Janie said.
My mouth tasted foul. "What happens now?"
"You want my best guess?"
"I suppose so."
"He makes her go down on him. He pulls her hair a few times to keep him interested. Then he makes her swallow it."
"There's nothing she can do?"
"Sure, she can get her pictures. No pictures, no job."
"This is what you meant when you said he had something to look forward to today?" I asked Dixie.
Dixie didn't look at me. "She's been around a while," he muttered.
"There are worse things than no job," I said to Janie.
"Simeon, she's been working for the fannies for seven years. Where do you go from there, CBS News? It's not like it was really journalism."
"Point taken," I said. "Screw it anyway."
I headed toward the door of the trailer. Big John shifted on the balls of his feet as I approached and uncrossed his arms. He looked vaguely alarmed.
"John," I said, "beat it."
"You," John said. A lot of people seemed to be calling me "you." "You beat it."
"In a minute." I moved to the left and then sidestepped around him to the right, hearing him grunt as he grabbed at where I'd been. My hand was on the doorknob when his arm went around my throat. He hoisted me like an empty nylon suitcase, bent my spine nearly double, and dumped me over his hip. I landed in the dirt at his feet.
"Get out of the way, John," I said, flat on my back. My words didn't seem as menacing as I'd meant them to be.
"Hnuh," he said. It could have been a laugh. He leaned down over me. I grabbed a bunch of pebbles and dirt and threw them at him and heard them ricochet against the trailer. John grabbed my belt buckle and tugged me up like a sack of rice, and Dixie's pale hand landed on his shoulder.
"Stop it," Dixie hissed at both of us. There wasn't much I could stop, but John dropped me back into the dirt and resumed his guardianship of the door. "Get up," Dixie said to me. "For Christ's sake, there are people over there. This isn't what Norman is paying you to do."
"It isn't?" I got up and dusted my trousers. My heart was drumming wildly in my throat. "Then what am I supposed to be doing, Dixie?"
"Not getting into the papers," Dixie said, looking wildly to right and left as though he expected the Associated Press to emerge from the bushes, cameras flashing. "There could be leaks here. She'll be okay, honest."
I looked at John, who was glaring at me, and then back at Dixie. "You want to change places with her?" I asked him. I started back toward John, who gave me a low-wattage grin.
"Do you want me to ask her?" Dixie demanded.
"Yeah, Dixie," I said, trying without much success to grin back at John. "Let's see you ask her."
Dixie gave me a schoolteacher's upraised index finger. "Stay here," he said. He advanced toward the door. "John," he said in an entirely different tone, "it's just me. I'm going to knock on the door. It'll be okay, John."
John looked from Dixie to me and then stepped aside as Dixie climbed the step and knocked. "Betsi," he said.
I used the moment to bend down and pick up some more pebbles and dirt, lobbing them at the trailer. If nothing else, I figured, the noise might scramble Toby's hormones. Dixie turned to glare at me, and the door opened from inside. Betsi peered out, her hair awry.
"Betsi," Dixie said as though he were talking to the mentally disadvantaged, "do you want to come out?"
She looked at him and then through him, and I took a step, and she looked at me and through me. She made a sound like a strangled garden hose and closed the door.
"Okay?" Dixie asked me.
"Dixie," I said, craning past John, "how do you sleep?" Three large men from the crew had materialized next to John.
Dixie's features got very pinched, squeezed from both sides by a vise I couldn't see. "Welcome to Hollywood," he said. He stepped around John and walked past me, and I glanced at John and his new allies and calculated my chances twice. Both times they came up nil.
I looked at Big John and at the closed door of the trailer that said TOBY VANE on it. "Jesus Christ," I said to Janie. "Has he always
been like this?"
"Not exactly," Janie said. "Most stars start out nice and then get awful. But not our Toby. He started out awful and then got monstrous."
"But what's going to happen? He can't go on like this."
"Sure he can," she said. "He's a star, remember?" Someone called her, and she walked back to the set. I stood there watching the trailer. There didn't seem to be anything to say.
Janie was right about Toby. When, ten minutes later, he emerged from the trailer with a flushed and shaken-looking Betsi behind him, he was a different man. He didn't meet anyone's eyes, and he never glanced in my direction. After he finished giving Betsi her pictures, he went over to the crowd to sign autographs. He honored the middle-aged woman who had approached him earlier. He posed for a picture, kissing a little girl of three or four in her mother's arms. For the rest of the day, until the light faded and the shoot ended, he was a model of docility.
As they packed up the equipment, Toby went back into his trailer. I checked the set for Dixie but couldn't find him. His Mercedes was gone. I was walking back, looking for Janie, when Toby came out of the trailer.
"Champ," he said. He sounded tentative, like a kid trying to make friends.
"I quit, Toby."
He stood silent for a moment. "Please don't," he finally said.
"Betsi said please," I said. "Remember?"
He drew a hand across his eyes and then ran it through his hair. He looked forty. "Help me," he said.
"You don't need a detective, Toby. You need a doctor."
"I've had doctors. I've had doctors up the wazoo. Stay with me, Simeon, just for the next week or two. I promise, I'll be good. You can help me to be good. I'll even see another shrink if you want."
I thought about Betsi. I thought about Nana. I thought about Norman Stillman's check in my pocket. I thought about the rent, for about the sixth time that week, and I gave up.
"Oh, Christ, Toby," I said. "If I stick around, what are you going to do?"
"You mean tonight?"
"That'll do for a start."
He threw his arm around my shoulders, as though everything were settled at last. "Let's go to the Spice Rack," he said. "Let's go be nice to Nana."
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