My sunshine days were gone, and they don’t ever return.
My juices did come back. There was a second novel, Such Sweet Sorrow, which the critics hated. Readers merely ignored it. Merilee came back, too. We were still something. We just didn’t know what. Somehow, we stuck it out. Or at least we had. I wasn’t sure what was happening between us right now. All I knew was that something was wrong and that she wouldn’t talk about it. And that she was in Fiji and out of my life for the next three months. Part of me understood. Part of me didn’t. All of me felt alone.
Los Angeles isn’t terrible to fly into by night. The lights spread out beneath you like jewels, a hundred miles in every direction. Pretty, almost. We began our descent in the middle of the afternoon. Not so pretty. Just a vast, arid expanse of tar and concrete shrouded under a thick blanket of saffron-colored smog. The end of so-called civilization as we know it.
Our bags were waiting for us in the air-conditioned charter terminal, along with a row of limo drivers and four or five dozen members of the House of Wax press corps. It was me they were waiting for. Our mutual publisher had already commenced banging the drum over Matthew’s million-dollar book deal, and my association with it. He was fond of drum banging. Almost as fond as he was of telling you that he knew more about publishing than anyone else in publishing. I wouldn’t know. I do know you can always count on him to overpay.
I was assaulted the second they spotted me. Microphones were shoved at me. TV lights blinded me. Shouts deafened me.
“TELL US ABOUT THE BOOK!”
“GONNA NAIL HER?!”
“WHAT’S PRETTY PENNY SAY?”
Me, I had nothing to say. Blinking, I pulled my boater down low over my eyes and began fighting my way through the reporters. Of course, that would have been a lot easier if Lulu hadn’t stayed behind to vogue it up for the cameras like Jayne Mansfield arriving for her latest star-studded premiere. All she needed was a mink stole and false eyelashes. I wasn’t kidding about how her head swells. Cursing, I fought my way back toward her, so as to strangle her. Only now I was being carried along by the crowd—jostled, buffeted, helpless. Until a rampaging wild woman came bursting through the crowd, grabbed me, grabbed Lulu, and spirited us toward the door, ramming, roaring, elbowing, shoving at anyone who got in our way. She was a black woman, and quite some woman. A good three inches over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, high-rumped, long-legged, big. And as sleekly muscled as a thoroughbred racehorse. A redcap waited by the glass doors with my bags and the carton of the only canned food Lulu will eat, Nine Lives mackerel for cats and very weird dogs. My rescuer grabbed the whole load from him and stormed out into the bright sunshine, moving very fast. Lulu and I followed her, the pack in pursuit.
I was unprepared for just how searingly hot it was. Well over a hundred. Dry hot. My skin tightened, my hair crackled, my throat constricted. This was no heat wave. This was the earth moving closer to the sun. Black limos were baking at the curb. Press vans were parked everywhere. We made for a tan Toyota Land Cruiser that was double-parked, engine running, tailgate open. My rescuer threw my stuff in and slammed it shut. I reached for the passenger door.
“Don’t touch!” she warned, her voice deep and straight up from the diaphragm. “Handle’ll burn you!”
I used my linen handkerchief on it. Then I jumped in, Lulu on the floor at my feet. The air-conditioning was on but it wasn’t what you’d call cool inside. My rescuer jumped in behind the wheel and pulled away with a screech, working her way through the snarled airport traffic with total mastery. She gripped the wheel and gear shift tightly in her powerful hands, cords of muscle standing out on her neck and forearms.
“Nice weather if you happen to be a lizard,” I observed.
“They been saying it’ll break tomorrow,” she boomed. “Of course, they been saying that for, like, three days. Otherwise people’ll start murdering each other in the streets, y’know what I’m saying?”
We were clear now, zipping out of the airport onto Century Boulevard. She let out a breath of relief and smiled. Big smile. Everything about her was big. “Charmaine Harris, Mr. Hoag.”
“Make it Hoagy.”
“In that case, make it Sarge.”
The woman who ran Matthew Wax’s life was in her midthirties, totally fit and totally no-nonsense. She wore no makeup and no jewelry, other than the Dennis the Dinosaur watch on her wrist. Her hair was cut short in a flattop fade. She had on a pink polo shirt with the sleeves turned up, khaki shorts, and running shoes. She exuded readiness, capability, and efficiency. I would have been perfectly happy to have her run my life. Also to have her on my side in a fight. She was as imposing a woman as I’d ever seen. Next to her, Merilee, the woman who Frank Rich once called the Connecticut Yankee Amazon, looked like Annie Potts.
“Shoot, smell like something died in here,” she said, making a face.
“That’s Lulu.” She lay there under the dashboard, panting miserably. She doesn’t do well in the heat, being covered with hair. I wasn’t feeling too sorry for her though. “Pull another stunt like that,” I warned her, “and you’ll spend the rest of this assignment in a carrier—eating steak!” She grumbled at me and dripped some doggy saliva on my shoes. Fiji. I should have sent her to Fiji, C.O.D.
“Y’all meet the two Shelleys?” Sarge asked.
I said I had.
“He’s a real rarity in this business,” she said. “A human being. Not a whole lotta them running studios. He gives you his word, he means it. The rest of ’em are just trying to give you some kind of lower body root canal job, y’know what I’m saying?”
“And Matthew?”
“Matthew is a spoiled little boy who wakes up in the middle of the night screaming ‘Zeppelins! Zeppelins! I wanna do a battle between two zeppelins!’ It’s my job to find out who can pull it off and how much it’ll cost. Shelley’s his go-between with the suits. I’m his go-between with the troops.” She glanced over at me. “Not that I know what Matthew says when he wakes up in the middle of the night,” she added carefully. “Or at any other time.”
She pulled off Century onto the San Diego Freeway, heading north toward the west side. The traffic was at a standstill, five lanes of cars stacked up end to end. More than a few drivers rode their horns as they sat there in anguish, broiling under the midafternoon sun.
I sat back and relaxed. “It certainly is nice to be back in paradise.”
“Hey, any fool back East still thinks of this as El Lay, land of quiche-eating volleyball players, is living in the seventies,” Sarge declared flatly. “Ain’t nobody smiles and says have a nice day around here no more. Too afraid they’ll get their head blown off. We got it all, man—high crime, bad air, lousy schools, too many people, not enough water. Lot of folks are moving on. Finding some new place to mess with. Portland, Seattle … Well, lookie, lookie …” Her eyes were on her rearview mirror. “We got us some company.”
“Who?” I asked, turning around for a look.
“Dude in the red Porsche.”
It was two cars back and a lane over, a whale-tailed 911 Turbo, brand-new, which would run you just a little more than a three-bedroom ranch home in Indianapolis. The driver wore sunglasses, and kept stalling it.
“Looks like he needs a tune-up,” she observed.
“Just driving lessons. Is he one of the reporters from the airport?”
“One of Zorch’s detectives. Been tailing me since I left Bedford Falls to come get you.”
“Kind of a conspicuous car for a detective, isn’t it?”
“Not for one who’s hanging around the lot. It’s all flash there. Honda would be what sticks out. By the way, I got something for you.” Sarge opened the glove compartment and pulled out a blue plastic three-ring binder with Bedford Falls stamped on it. She had a gun stashed in there, too, a Glock semiautomatic pistol. More new-wave Hollywood security. I suppose it beat body armor, what with the heat and all. “Studio directory,” she said, handing it to me. “Tell you everyt
hing you need to know. Your gate pass is in there, too.”
Her pocket phone bleated.
“That’ll be the man. Excuse me.” She answered it. “Yeah, darling, I got him …” She glanced over at me. “Looks plenty okay if you like tall, skinny white boys.” She laughed. “Taking him to his hotel, we ever get there.” I was billeted at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. Lulu always likes to be within walking distance of the Ralph Lauren Polo Shop if possible. “That’s true,” Sarge said. “Uh-huh. Okay …” To me she said, “Studio’s on our way there. He wants us to stop by now. You can get acquainted, get the tour …”
“I’d rather get settled in first.”
Her eyes flickered at me. “He says he wants to get settled first,” she said into the phone. “Uh-huh …” To me she said: “He really wants you to stop by now. We may as well, traffic being so bad. Okay?”
“No, it’s not okay.”
“The thing is,” she persisted, “it’s really more convenient for him to do it now.”
“It’s not more convenient for me.”
“What, you having a bad day?”
“I’m having a great day. I’m just having a bad life.”
She stared at me curiously. I get a lot of that. “He says no,” she said into the phone, reluctantly. “That’s right. I don’t know why. He just does … Okay …” She hung up.
We inched forward in silence, the air conditioner struggling to keep up with the heat and Lulu’s fish breath.
Sarge narrowed her eyes at me. “What you doing on him?” she wondered.
“My job.”
“Your job?”
“It’s what they pay me for.”
“They pay you to disrespect people?”
“Vast sums. Why, don’t you ever say no to him?”
She didn’t care for that one. “You jammin’ me, man?” she demanded fiercely, a panther ready to pounce.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Just wondered.”
She relaxed, somewhat. “Not my job to be gas-facing him. Director always gets his way. He’s like a general. I’m just his associate producer.”
“I hear you’re a lot more than that.”
“I care about him, if that’s what you mean. He been nothing but good to me. And he’s hurting right now. You gonna help him?”
“I’m just a former writer.”
“I hear you’re a lot more than that,” she said, her face breaking into a smile.
“Been with him long?” I asked, smiling back at her.
“Ever since I got out of UCLA.”
“Film school?”
She erupted into laughter. “Get outta here, man!” she whooped. “My major was the four hundred meters. Finished third in the NCAAs my junior year. Made the ’80 Olympic team as an alternate, only we didn’t go that year.”
“Well, I was close. I was guessing high hurdles. You’ve got a hurdler’s legs.” I gave them an admiring once over. “No offense.”
“None taken, believe it. I ran those, too, only not as good. You know track?”
“I threw the javelin in college.”
“Spear-chucker, huh?” This seemed to amuse her greatly. “You any good?”
“Only for the Ivy League. You’ve stayed in shape.”
“Gets harder every year. Work out two hours every morning before work. Weights, Stairmaster …” She checked me out. “You have, too.”
“Appearances can be deceiving. How did you get together with Matthew?”
“He was a big fan of my honey, Sugar Bear. Started me out as a gofer on account of him. Sugar Bear Davis. He backed up Bill Walton at center when he was at UCLA, then Jabbar for three seasons for the Lakers. Until he blew out his knee. We been together since college.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“Three to five in San Quentin for armed robbery,” she replied matter-of-factly. “He’s had some adjustment problems since he stopped playing. Got used to living large, y’know what I’m saying? His old Crenshaw High posse got him into some bad shit. But he’s up for parole next year. Shelley’s promised him a job on the lot.”
We inched our way along. We were near the Culver Boulevard off-ramp now.
I glanced at Grandfather’s Rolex. “Okay, you can call him. I’ve changed my mind.”
“What, now it’s okay to stop there first?” she asked, baffled.
“I think he’s sweated long enough.” I swiped at the back of my neck with my handkerchief. “I certainly have.”
I stared out at the traffic while she phoned him. When she was done she turned and looked at me, utterly mystified. Then she turned back to the road.
“You a strange dude, Stewart Hoag,” she said quietly.
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
The red Porsche got off with us at Culver Boulevard. He stalled it at the bottom of the off-ramp. Sarge took a right and guided us through the Culver City commercial district, which isn’t much, unless you happen to be looking for a dozen doughnuts or a discount muffler. At Overland we passed the old MGM lot, which had been Lorimar the last time I was in town, and then Columbia, by way of the Sony buy-out. Now it was Sony Studios. Just past there Culver angled into Washington Boulevard, and we were at Bedford Falls. The main office building faced right onto the street. It was quite old and had been designed to look like a colonial mansion, most distinguished. A baron might live there. But the giant soundstages looming behind it gave away its real purpose. Baldwin Hills formed a backdrop behind them. There were still a few old oil towers up there, poking up into the smog.
“Studio goes all the way back to people like Hal Roach and Cecil B. de Mille,” Sarge informed me, slowing up before it. “There was one soundstage built in 1913 that was still standing. We had to tear it down. Didn’t pass the new earthquake laws. Whole lotta history in this place. You into history?”
“I am history, category semiliving.”
“What, you mean like Count Dracula?”
“Except he gets out more at night.”
There was a guard in a booth at the main gate to stop people there, and a twelve-foot-high chain link fence topped with razor wire to stop them everywhere else. The red Porsche made a U-turn and parked across the street from the gate, where a few sweaty photographers were keeping up their House of Wax vigil in the shade of a catering truck. They were too hot to pay me any notice.
“Remember them old cavalry movies?” Sarge asked. “Where the soldiers lived in those forts with them big high walls? Only place they felt safe? Every time I drive in here I feel that same way.”
“Fort Bedford,” I said.
“You got that right.”
The uniformed guard on the gate was a thickly built black man in his fifties. He had a big belly and heavy, familiar features. Very familiar. He flashed Sarge a gold-toothed grin. She grinned back as we passed on through, and noticed me studying him.
“Recognize him?”
“I’m sure I do. …”
She stopped the car, backed up, and rolled down her window. “Got yourself another one, baby,” she called out. “Bust a move.”
He let out a husky laugh and stepped out of the booth, moved slowly around to the front of our car, and stood there, his back to us. He was armed with a Glock and a nightstick. He took out the nightstick and gripped it with both hands like a baseball bat. Then he went into a right-handed batter’s stance, a typical stance, bat cocked to swing. Until just before he got himself settled, when he did something unexpected. He wiggled his big butt once, twice, three times. Only one batter in history had ever done that. It was his trademark.
“Shadow Williams,” I declared. “Played outfield for the Dodgers in Brooklyn, then a few more seasons after they moved out here. No one stepped into the box like he did.”
“The ladies sure never forgot him,” Sarge chuckled.
She introduced us. He gently squeezed my hand with his huge one and told me to call him Shadow. I said I would. Then someone pulled in behind us and honked, and
we drove on in.
“Matthew, you’ll discover, hasn’t much good to say about his dad,” Sarge told me, as we passed the visitors’ parking lot. “About the only positive memory he’s got is when he took him to a Dodger game one time when he was little. Shadow pinch-hit a grand salami with two out in the bottom of the ninth to win it. Matthew never forgot it. A few years back he read that the man was having some trouble finding work. So he got him a security job at Panorama City. When we took over Bedford Falls, he came over with us. He’s chief of security now.”
“Happy ending, huh?”
“Only kind there is. You’ll get off on Shadow—he’s deep.”
“That makes one of us.”
Ahead was a cluster of giant soundstages. We eased slowly along the shaded canyon between them. There were speed bumps to keep people from going too fast. Lulu climbed up in my lap, planted her rear paws firmly in my groin, and stuck her large black nose against the window so as to see. Not that there was really much to see. A studio is a factory like any other. Beer-bellied workmen in shorts and heavy boots wheeled cameras and sound equipment along. Many were shirtless in the heat, and wore do-rags over their heads. Young, tanned production assistants wearing Bedford Falls golf visors zipped along on bikes and golf carts with pouches of mail, scripts, tapes. A few waved at Sarge. She waved back. One of the stages had a row of makeup trailers parked outside it. A big sign said “Coven High.”
“ABC is taping a new midseason sitcom here,” Sarge said. “Something about a bunch of teenagers who’re all witches. I hear it’s real stupid.”
“Imagine that.”
Two dozen dwarfs in red silk underwear came spilling out of another stage, smoking huge cigars.
“New David Lee Roth video,” she explained, as we passed them.
Well, maybe not a factory exactly like any other.
We cruised past a prop warehouse, carpentry shop, machine shop. Then another parking lot. There were names on the curbstones here, and little or nothing resembling basic transportation. Vintage English ragtops seemed to be in that season. I spotted a couple of MGAs, a Triumph Spitfire, an Austin Healey 3000. Seeing them made me miss the Jag. We arrived next at the gift shop and commissary, then found ourselves in a bungalow colony. Dozens of snug pink stucco cottages with tile roofs were situated neatly around a chain of courtyards with fountains and benches.
The Woman Who Fell From Grace Page 26
