Private Affairs

by Judith Michael

  "I can miss anything just to go somewhere else for a while."

  "Tell me about it," Luz muttered. She turned to Isabel. "Can we go with Elizabeth to the airport?"

  "We'll all go. Padre? Wake up."

  Thinking of them, Elizabeth smiled to herself as the plane climbed above Santa Fe's small splash of bright lights on the dark plateau. Then the smile faded. It was bad enough that someone had switched her tapes without consulting her, but then no one had bothered to tell her about it. What was going on?

  "Who was it?" she demanded of Tony. He had been out to dinner when she arrived at his house, and when he came home to find her in the living room it had taken her ten minutes to convince him that neither love nor desire had brought her to Malibu twelve hours early: she wanted to talk.

  "I don't know," he said. "Word of honor, my sweet, I have no idea. I didn't even know your sensitive macho was dropped; you know I never see the show until the next day when you and I can watch it together. Somebody probably mixed up the tapes after a night of too much booze or coke or both; we'll run it next week and all will be well." He put his arms around her. "But it's a blessing in disguise; it brought you to me tonight. Oh, don't frown, dearest Elizabeth; it hurts me to see you frown."

  "Why didn't anyone call me to tell me a mistake had been made?"

  "How do I know? They knew you'd be here tomorrow and they could tell you then."

  "I should have been consulted before air time. 'They' didn't want me to know in advance. Who are 'they'?"

  "I don't know! Do you doubt my absolute innocence in this? It was somebody's simple mistake—"

  Elizabeth slipped out of his arms and picked up her suede jacket. "It was not simple and I doubt very much it was a mistake. I'm going to talk to Bo."

  "Bo! Elizabeth, Bo lives in Laurel Canyon. It's an hour's drive, at least. He is no doubt happily in bed with his young man, just as you could be much more happily in bed with me. This can wait until morning!"

  "No it can't. I've got to talk to him, Tony. 'Private Affairs' is mine; it's my part of the show. That was our agreement. And as long as I'm in charge of it, no one is going to do anything to it behind my back."

  "You're right. No question about it. But you can make that clear in the

  morning when we're all more alert. Sleepy people are not good in discussions, Elizabeth; they misunderstand each other and get angry and I've had a good deal to drink and I can't handle this. It's not the right time for you to have a face-off—"

  "May I use your car?"

  He sighed deeply and loudly. "I'll drive you. Eleven o'clock; we'll be there at midnight. The witching hour. How pleased Bo will be to see us on his doorstep. God, you're lovely when you're fierce. Like a goddess who's been betrayed by a mortal. All right, let's go; at least there's a moon; Laurel Canyon will be pleasant to behold."

  Elizabeth did not notice the moon or Laurel Canyon; she was brooding. And by the time she faced Bo, scowling darkly in his satin and velvet dressing gown, filling their glasses with Scotch though he knew she disliked it, she was angrier than ever. "Just tell me how it happened," she said coldly. "And that it won't happen when I schedule Olson next week. Not much gets past you in that place; you can make sure it doesn't happen again."

  "If I so desired." Boyle downed his Scotch and poured another. "Which I don't. That interview with Olson was inflammatory: a political polemic that has no place on 4 Anthony' or any other entertainment show. I wouldn't allow it and neither would our legal department."

  "Legal—?" Elizabeth's voice wavered. "They said we were vulnerable because of what Jock Olson said?"

  "Inflammatory," repeated Boyle, and poured a third drink.

  Tony was looking at him curiously. "Bo, dear Bo," he said amiably. "I've known you a long time; I always know when your imagination is percolating. You did not go to our legal beagles."

  "Bullshit."

  "And that is very odd," Tony continued. "Because if you didn't go to legal, why did you switch the tapes?"

  Elizabeth swung her glance to Tony. "Bo switched them?"

  "Oh, I'm sure he did. Nobody else has the authority."

  "You've known that since I first told you about it."

  "Dearest Elizabeth, of course. But I detest quarrels and I wanted to be in bed with you instead of standing in the middle of Bo's dreary living room in the wee hours wondering why he's lying about the legal department. But since we're here . . . why are you lying, little Bo Peep?"

  "Tony, don't be a bore," Boyle said. "You're horny and you've had too much to drink. Crawl into bed with your inflammatory lady; take two fucks, and call me in the morning."

  Tony's face darkened. "You son of a bitch, you can't talk to me like

  that! And you won't talk about Elizabeth at all! Just tell us you won't fool around with her tapes again without her permission, and we'll go home and forget that anything happened."

  "I'd like to know why it happened," Elizabeth put in quietly.

  Looking at Tony, Boyle said, "Keep out of it, Lizzie; the great lover wants this between us."

  "Bo, what the hell's gotten into you!" Tony exclaimed. "You've never talked like—"

  "You've never gotten me up at midnight to tell me how to do my job. I've got pressures from all directions; I don't need any from you or your little lady." He splashed more Scotch into Tony's glass.

  "Stop; I don't want your goddam liquor—" Glancing at Elizabeth, Tony drew himself up and became suave. "You've disappointed me, Bo. We came here with a simple question and I never doubted we could discuss it like gentlemen, but you talk like somebody from the gutter. I don't drink with gutter rats." Absently he drained his glass and automatically held it out to be refilled. His words rolled out. "You work for me, Bo; don't forget that! And don't forget what I've done for you. You should be on your knees in gratitude; you haven't got the talent"—the dignified facade began to crack—"to make it to Laurel Canyon or anywhere else—television, radio, walkie-talkies—without riding on my coat-tails; you've been hanging onto them for years!"

  "Your coattails! Fuck it, you pathetic bastard, you don't know your ass from a hole in the ground. You'd be a deejay on a thirty-watt station without me. Even with everything I do, we can't jack up your ratings; we have to scrounge for sponsors and then pay them —"

  "ENOUGH! THAT'S ENOUGH! YOU'RE FIRED! I don't listen to vermin puking out lies—"

  "You'll listen to me, you stupid bastard! You can't fire me—you can't tell me what to do—because I don't work for you; I work for someone else. And I don't lie about sponsors!"

  Confused, Tony paused, looking at the dark, heavy furniture crammed into the square room. His glance passed over Elizabeth as if he did not recognize her. She was standing in a corner, leaning against a long library table and watching the two men who were barely recognizable in their anger. She'd started something that had grown into a monster; she didn't understand it, but its ugliness appalled her and she wanted to run from it, but she couldn't move: she had to stay and hear the rest of it because somehow she was part of it.

  ' 'Work for someone else,' " Tony repeated finally. His voice deepened in scorn. 'Scrounge for sponsors . . . pay them.' You'd love to believe

  lies like that; you've always been jealous of my popularity. But everyone knows sponsors line up to get on my show."

  "Everyone knows you're going downhill. You're talking ancient history, fella; there's nothing for me to be jealous of. We would have lost the show five years ago if . . . somebody hadn't reimbursed—that means paid — Gardner Insurance to sponsor three fifteen-minute segments. That only left us the fourth to sell; a cinch, we thought, but we're having trouble keeping it sold."

  Tony's lips stretched; he was trying to grin. "Good old Bo; always joking. But it's not a joke; it's pure shit. So what the hell is going on? You're trying out for Johnny Carson or Polly Perritt? Or you've flipped and you're a dangerous maniac. YOU SON OF A BITCH, YOU'RE THROUGH!" His voice came in breathless spurts, as if he had been running
. "You've practically ruined my show—goddam it, you drove down the ratings! I've never liked you—I would have fired you years ago, but I felt sorry for you, poor bastard, I kept you in clothes and shelter and pocket money to hire little boys because they're the only ones in town willing to get on all fours for you—"

  Boyle flung the empty bottle of Scotch at him; it struck him in the chest and he doubled over with a grunt of pain and surprised rage. Elizabeth ran to him. "Tony, let's go; let's get out of here—"

  "Not yet, God damn it; I'm going to teach this"—he started for Bo, but Elizabeth was clinging to his arm and he turned a contorted face to her— "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

  "No! Tony, listen to me, don V listen to Bo, listen to me! Don't say any more, don't listen to any more . . . Tony, let's go home!"

  "Fucking bastard!" he said to Boyle, jerking his arm out of Elizabeth's grasp and starting again for the other side of the room. "So fucking jealous you try to ruin my show—tell lies about—"

  "Listen you little shit, your show would be dead and buried if it wasn't for me and your Daddy."

  Tony stopped. "That's a lie. He doesn't have anything to do with my show. He never did. You fucking liar!"

  "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," Boyle chanted. He was holding another bottle, and he took a swig from it, watching Tony. "Daddy pays Gardner to sponsor your show; Daddy's kept you alive for five years; Daddy pays me to watch over you and edit your interviews so they're good enough to—"

  With a roar, Tony threw himself at Boyle, knocking him to the floor, his fists slamming Boyle's face. "Bastard! Lying, fucking bastard!" He was stronger than Boyle and pinned him down, half-lying on him, trying to get his hands around Boyle's neck, but Boyle fended him off, twisting

  under him, his arms straining as he kept Tony's hands from his neck. "Working for . . . DADDY," he gasped and tried to laugh, but it came out a wheezing grunt. "All these . . . years . . . shit, Tony ... get the hell off! . . . even Lizzie knows . . . you need help . . . too weak—" Tony's fist slammed into his mouth; blood covered Boyle's teeth and Tony's knuckles, and as Boyle gagged Tony got his hands around his throat. Eyes bulging, Boyle scratched at Tony's hands and pried one finger up and jerked it back. Through their gasps and strangled curses came a sharp crack; Tony screamed and sat up, holding his hand, his face black with rage and pain. He stood and kicked Boyle in the ribs, then aimed again, but Boyle had rolled away and was on all fours, wiping the blood from his mouth. He stood and pulled his robe tight around him and tied it. "You dumb ass, you stupid fart." Head down, holding his ribs with his folded arms, he glowered at Tony. "Where the fuck do you think you'd go on your own?"

  Breathing raggedly, his broken finger held inside his jacket, Tony looked in his direction, his eyes unfocused. The color had drained from his face, leaving it pasty and old. "Shut up," he said, but the words had no force.

  Carefully stretching out one hand, Boyle grasped a bottle on the table and drank from it. "Get out." He spat and blood spattered on the front of his robe. "Out"

  "Tony, we're going." Elizabeth had her arm around his waist. "We can find out if it's true about your father in the—"

  "It's true," Tony said dully. "Bo wouldn't make it up. It's true, isn't it, Bo?"

  "Yes."

  Elizabeth tightened her arm, to turn Tony in the direction of the front door. She had watched the fight without moving, rigid with fear at the violence they had unleashed, afraid Tony would succeed in strangling Boyle, caught between pity for Tony and astonishment at his contorted face and the venom spewing from his mouth. And through it all, like a dark thread, ran the thought, It can't be true, I haven't been working for Keegan; I haven't; I haven't been working for Tony's father! "Come on," she urged Tony, trying to get him moving, trying to get him out of the house.

  "I want to know about it," he said hoarsely. "Why do you keep interfering?" He pulled away from Elizabeth's embrace; his shoulders slumped and his arm twitched, as if he were a puppet that someone had tossed aside, its strings broken, its stuffing gone. "/ want to know about my show!"

  "Your Daddy's show," Boyle said. He leaned against the table, breathing hard. "He subsidizes it; it's his."

  "Subsidi—" Tony cleared his throat. "You knew I was . . . working for him and you never told me."

  "He told me to keep it quiet."

  "For a price."

  Boyle shrugged, then winced and held his ribs again. "I don't come cheap. Your Daddy is going to back me as a miniseries producer as soon as I've run out of ways to prop you up."

  "Why?"

  "Why is he backing me? Because I'm a superb producer."

  "Why did he . . ."—Tony choked on the word—"subsidize my show?"

  "I didn't ask him and he didn't tell me." Boyle's voice had become stronger as Tony's grew weaker. "Any other questions?"

  Silently Tony shook his head.

  "Tony," Elizabeth said. "That's enough. You've heard enough. We're going."

  "He's ignoring you, Lizzie," said Boyle. "He has to make up to me. You should see that. You've lost him. You lost Olson, too. You should be clear on that, so listen carefully." He started to drink from the bottle, then poured Scotch into a glass instead, and drank from it. "This is for the future. You can do what you want when I approve it. That means you'll clear everything with me: every interview, every editing job, every tape that goes on the air. And you won't argue when I put my foot down. You're good, but it's my show and I didn't like the Olson interview so I killed it. Them's the rules. I wouldn't like to lose you, but I don't tolerate insolence; television is teamwork. You stay on our team; you'll be very happy. Don't think Mr. Rourke and I don't know that the ratings are up because of you; we're planning a nice raise and your own house and car for when you're in town. You're a valued part of 'Anthony.' Who knows? Someday 'Anthony' may even become 'Private Affairs.' "

  Elizabeth's stomach was churning; she was so angry the room was blurred and red, as if her blood rushed hot and fuming just behind her eyes. "Not your 'Private Affairs,' Bo; not ever. You won't ever have a chance to kill anything of mine again." She took Tony's hand in both of hers. "Tony, I'm leaving. Please come with me."

  He turned to her, his mouth rigid. "Why are you fighting him? Don't argue; just say you'll go along!"

  "Go along?" She let his hand drop. Boyle was watching, a small smile on his face, but she spoke only to Tony. "Go along with what?"

  "With whatever he says! Do you have to be so goddam . . . proud? It's not important enough! He killed one lousy interview! That's all we're talking about!"

  "We're talking about my work!" she cried. "It comes from my mind; I create it; and you're damned right I'm proud! I'm proud of what I create; it's part of me and it's very important! Can't you see that? Can't you understand it and stand up for me?"

  "Did you hear what he said about my father?"

  "Of course I did; that's part of it. Do you think I want to work for Keegan any more than you do? But how can we talk about it—how can we talk about anything—if you can't understand what I'm saying and at least support me—"

  "There's nothing I can do. What the hell do you want me to do? Risk my whole future because you don't like taking orders? Nobody likes taking orders! Are you so special I'm supposed to destroy myself so you don't have to take them? I'm the one who needs support, not you! One interview, Elizabeth! One tiny fucking interview!"

  Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. "I can't believe you're saying this. Where's all the brave talk I've heard for months? Tony, we can find other sponsors. If our ratings are up, that's not a secret. If we believe in what we can do—"

  "No. You don't know what you're talking about. It's a jungle, this business, and I won't go out there looking for a job, getting chewed up . . ." He looked at her, his eyes pleading. "Do what Bo says. It's not so terrible, is it? And you're famous, Elizabeth! Nothing else is important if you have that! Christ, Elizabeth, don't make trouble! I don't know how the hell I got into this—I knew we shouldn't come tonight—then I wouldn't hav
e found out—I'd never have known—I don't give a damn about sponsors! I do interviews; I don't worry about money! Sponsors are not my problem!"

  "Tony, stop!" Elizabeth cried. "You keep making things worse!" She went to a chair near the doorway and picked up her jacket. "I know how terrible it's been for you, Tony, finding out about your father, and I'd like to help you handle that, but I can't, at least not here, not now. All I can do is ask you to come with me. You've been wonderful to me and I'm grateful, and I'll work with you, if you want, and help you get away from your father. We'll start another show—people know us, we have an audience—we'll put a program together, Tony! And I'll be with you."

  "I can't do it! Damn it to hell, Elizabeth, don't you understand? I'm a famous person, not somebody just starting out! I don't go around begging

  for a show, hiring a producer, worrying about sponsors . . . Why the hell do you think I'd get involved in all that?"

  "You wouldn't. I was wrong to think you would. I'm sorry, Tony—"

  "Lizzie, we want you on the show!" Boyle said, his voice riding over hers. "Don't try to be Joan of Arc; you'll regret it. You've got one hell of a brilliant future—"

  "I won't see you again, Tony."

  "You can't leave me!" Tony cried. "I need you! Elizabeth, my God, you can't leave me! You can't leave the show! Look what it's done for you! Look what I've done for you! Damn it, / made you! You were buried in the desert! Nobody knew you; nobody cared about you; even your husband wouldn't stay with you; I was the only one—"

  The last of Elizabeth's control slipped. Enraged, she lashed at him. "How dare you! You don't know the first thing about me, or my husband —you have no right to say anything about us! You're having a tantrum, Tony—my God, why won't you grow up! You've been exaggerating and dramatizing for years—I kept thinking maybe you weren't, or it didn't make any difference, but it makes all the difference in the world because you can't live any other way, can you? Hiding yourself, playing your little games, scared to death of being honest because maybe no one would love you if you were just . . . you. And maybe no one would; I don't know and I don't care. I don't love you, Tony—I never did—I suppose because there isn't anyone to love: only a hollow little boy trying to be a man. How are you going to live with yourself after tonight? Your big chance to stand up to your father and his rotten little flunky—his spy —your chance to defend my integrity, and your own, and grow up; and you threw it away. You'd rather have your crib: nice and warm and secure, with no danger of falling. Failing. I hope you're happy in it, Tony; I even hope you find someone to share it. But it won't be me. It isn't big enough for me. And neither are you."