by Daniel Depp
‘What thing? What fucking thing?’
‘About Jerry Margashack. You said to call you if there was ever a thing.’
‘Sylvia, darling, if you don’t clear the shit out of your throat and tell me what this is, I’m going to come down there and extract it with a machete. Is it bad?’
‘Well,’ said poor Sylvia, ‘it’s not good.’
And she told her.
‘Shit,’ said Annie.
Hung up.
‘Ju got to concentray,’ Roberto said to her again.
Annie dialed a phone number on her cell phone.
‘No, Roberto, I got to deal with my fucking asshole clients who seem intent on trying to kill me. By the way, you’re fired, I hate this fucking shit. Pack up your fruit and your monkeys and go.’
To the phone:
‘Let me speak to Frank … Who do you mean who is this? Are you fucking new? Are you fucking fresh out of the cradle? Tell him it’s Annie.’
A moment. Frank answered.
‘Frank,’ she said, ‘we have a thing.’
SEVEN
On the soundstage during the remake of The Lady Eve, the male and female leads were doing a scene. The director called, ‘Cut!’ then looked at the director of photography. ‘Was that good?’
‘It was famous,’ said the DP.
The male lead said, ‘Was I close enough?’
‘You were close enough,’ said the female lead.
‘I can get closer,’ said the male lead.
‘Not unless,’ said the female lead, ‘you’ve decided to play both roles wearing my underwear.’
‘Food for thought, of course,’ said the actor.
Spandau and Anna were just off the set, watching the scene on a monitor and listening through headphones.
‘Our Oscar-winning cinematographer says it was famous,’ the director announced. ‘I guess we’re okay. Are we okay?’
‘We’re okay,’ said the DP. ‘Can we eat now?’
‘I think we can eat now. Our producer is on the set. We have to ask the Suit.’ To Anna: ‘What does the Suit say? Can we eat now?’
‘The Suit says eat,’ Anna told him.
‘Are there any more Suits here?’ the director asked her.
‘I’m the only Suit present,’ said Anna.
The director announced loudly,
‘You hear that? The Suit says eat! We eat!’
‘Lunch!’ cried the assistant director.
They broke for lunch.
‘What do you think?’ Anna asked Spandau.
‘It looks good.’
‘You think the chemistry is working between Regina and Bill?’
‘It looks great to me. But you’re the Suit. I am merely the Suit’s boyfriend.’
‘I am the Suit, aren’t I?’
‘And a damned fine Suit you are too. I’d like to fondle your buttons but not until you feed me something.’
‘Is food the only thing you ever think about?’
‘Sometimes I think about really disgusting sexual acts, but only on a full stomach.’
‘Ooh, let’s get you fed then.’
‘Then do we have time to go back to your office and do kinky things on the desk?’
‘I have a one-thirty meeting.’
‘What if I eat fast?’
‘I refuse to have afternoon sex with a man who has ketchup on his shirt.’
‘It was only just that once. I’ll wear a bib.’
He reached for his cell phone.
‘Do not touch that phone,’ she said. ‘We made a deal. One lunch without either of us using our phones.’
‘We said talking. We didn’t say anything about checking. Walter’s out sick again. I’m still playing boss.’
‘How many days is this? Is he on another bender? Or did he get married again?’
‘He’s at home. I’m starting to get worried about him.’
‘I’m sure he’s making passionate love to a bottle of scotch.’
‘That’s pretty harsh.’
‘Harsh, I think, is him staying shitfaced and expecting you to do your job and his.’
Spandau checked his phone.
‘It’s him,’ she said. ‘I knew it.’
‘He wants me to come by the house.’
‘He needs his drinking buddy.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘He’d like nothing better than to ruin us and get you back on the sauce. Then he has you all to himself.’
‘Can we not have this conversation?’
‘Don’t let him do it, David. We have this great thing going. Don’t let him fuck it up.’
‘You act like he’s some kind of Svengali. He’s a friend of mine.’
‘He’s a fucking selfish and manipulative drunk, and he knows you’re the only person who can stand him.’
‘So,’ said Spandau, changing the topic, ‘you want to go to Canter’s? What do you think about a nice artery-clogging pastrami?’
‘I mean it, David.’
‘What are you doing, Anna? Are you threatening me? Are you threatening to leave me?’
‘I’m asking you to look out for yourself, for once.’
‘You keep asking me to give up the house in the Valley, move in with you. Well, this is why I don’t. I keep waiting for the other shoe to fall. I’m not one of your old boytoys, Anna. I’ve been a grown-up for a while now. If you’re not happy, I can manage.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Anna Mayhew the famous actress is used to having her ass kissed.’
‘But not by you.’
‘That’s right. Not by me.’
‘You sure you’re not waiting for Dee to come back?’
‘You know what? Why don’t you have lunch with one of the actors who need a speaking part. I’m sure they’ll let you shit on them all you want. I don’t have to.’
Started to leave.
‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re the one who seems determined to fuck this up, not me. I’ve been as faithful and sober as a goddamned Mormon since I met you. What is it you want, Anna?’
‘I don’t want to lose you.’
‘Then let me live my life. Let me do the things I have to do, instead of becoming the sort of goddamned parasite you seem to want.’
‘David …’
He left.
EIGHT
A short while later Spandau pulled up at Walter’s house in his black BMW. Got out. Rang the bell. No answer. Called on his cell phone.
‘Hello, sport,’ answered Walter.
‘You want to let me in?’
‘Is that you? Fucking maid’s took a powder. Don’t know where she is.’
The door opened and there was Walter, still talking on the phone. He looked like shit.
‘So nice of you to come calling,’ Walter said into the phone.
‘Quit farting around, Walter,’ said Spandau, and pushed past him into the house.
‘Testy,’ said Walter, following him inside. ‘All not right at the old Augean stables?’
‘Walter, I am in no mood for you to be showing off your superior education. Do you have anything to eat? I missed lunch thanks to you.’
‘You can see if the maid left anything,’ said Walter. ‘Normally she steals me blind.’
Walter followed him into the kitchen. Spandau opened the fridge, got hit by the smell. Closed it.
‘When did the maid leave?’
‘Don’t know, sport,’ said Walter. ‘Maybe two weeks. Left when I suggested she find me a woman for erotic purposes. Can’t imagine why she’d find that offensive.’
‘When was the last time you ate?’
‘Don’t know that either. I’ve been ordering things on the internet. People just keep coming to the door.’
‘There are easier ways of killing yourself, Walter.’
‘Are there?’ said Walter. ‘And here I am thinking I was efficient.’
Spandau looked th
rough the cabinets, found some packaged stuff. Later Walter was sitting at the kitchen table eating microwaved ramen noodles. His hands shook. Spandau took another bowl out of the microwave.
‘What is this?’ asked Walter.
‘Ramen noodles.’
‘Japanese, is it?’
‘Supposed to be.’
‘Why do they make them all zigzaggy like that?’
‘I don’t know, Walter. So they don’t slide off your chopsticks. Just eat it. Please.’
‘Your hostility is ruining my appetite.’
‘I think it would be the chronic alcoholism doing that. What the hell am I going to do with you? You need to go in for another dry out. You want me to arrange it?’
‘God no. They want me to quit drinking.’
‘I can’t keep doing this.’
‘Didn’t ask you to do anything, sport.’
‘You asked me to come here.’
‘Entirely work-related. Nice cushy assignment for you. Frank Jurado.’
‘You’re kidding.’
Walter broke into a wheezy laugh.
‘Thought you’d enjoy that. Just wanted to be able to see your face.’
‘Last time I saw that bastard he had two goons drag me into an alley and beat the shit out of me.’
‘Thought you’d appreciate the poetry of it.’
‘I’d appreciate getting my hands around that sonofabitch’s neck.’
‘You might have the rare opportunity. He’s got trouble with a director of his. Guy’s also a client of Annie Michaels.’
‘Ball-buster Michaels? This just gets better and better. It’s like a reunion of all the people I’d expect to see in hell. Why me? They both hate my guts?’
‘I keep telling you, there’s no such thing as hatred in the movie business, only box-office receipts. Nobody gives a shit who hates who as long as you give them what they want. In this case you’re the only guy who can do that. After that Cannes crap you’re famous now. We can stick them for a bundle.’
‘You’re serious? You expect me to take this?’
‘Oh come on, sport. You’re just dying to get in there and strike a few licks.’
‘Who’s the client?’
‘Jerry Margashack.’
‘What sort of trouble is he in?’
‘Don’t know, sport. Said they’d rather wait and tell you.’
‘I like his work.’
‘I know.’
‘Anna is right. You really are a manipulative bastard.’
‘Anna should know,’ said Walter. ‘She’s got you high-stepping with your balls in her gentle but firm grip.’
‘Don’t you start too.’
‘She thinks I’m a bad influence, does she?’
‘She knows you’re a bad influence.’
‘The serpent in the garden.’
‘No,’ said Spandau, ‘just a hopeless drunk and my friend, that’s all.’
NINE
Spandau hadn’t been back to the two-bedroomed house he owned in Woodland Hills for over a week. In theory he and Anna weren’t living together, but compared to the estate she lived in just off Sunset, it felt ludicrous to invite her here, so he didn’t, and ended up spending more and more time at her place until the line between guest and resident got itself dissolved.
He parked the BMW in the drive, went into the house and the dry, musty smell of a home now feeling unloved. He and Dee bought the house just after they were married, lived in it until she’d finally given up on the marriage and found her own place. Like all marriages it began happy then got away from them. Spandau had been a stuntman when they’d met, working for her father, Big Beau Macaulay. As risky as that profession was, at least it was one she knew and could respect.
Then Beau died and the injuries Spandau had accumulated in rodeos and mistimed stunt gags started taking their toll. He’d taken the job with Walter, better hours, good pay, safer, no long-distance film shoots. Except Dee had hated it. Hated the way it changed him, hated the acts that were required of him. It was a profession of dishonesty, she said. Spying on people, getting them to trust you, then betraying that trust one way or another. Trust was everything to Dee. She couldn’t see how he could hold a job that violated the very things he was supposed to care about most. Ironically, he was having that same battle now with Anna. She wanted him to quit. He was having a hard time explaining why he couldn’t, though in fact he’d been thinking for a long time that he should.
Spandau went into his office. Dee called it the Gene Autry Room. It was the second bedroom, they’d meant it for a child, but the marriage showed strains early enough they avoided that mistake. Spandau was free to work mainly from home if he wanted, so the room became an uneasy combination of office and personal museum. Dee simply called it his ‘macho crap’ and probably that’s what it was. Things from movies he’d worked on, rodeos he’d competed in, rare books on the American West, Indian totems, even a few collectible guns hanging on the wall. A large poster of Sitting Bull frowned down upon all this from his viewpoint above a rolltop desk where the phone and computer were hidden. Spandau opened the desk, listened to his messages on the answering machine. Nothing that couldn’t wait. Sitting Bull seemed to be glaring at him with still more disapproval than usual, as if considering Spandau an impressive fuck up even for a white man.
Spandau went into the living room. The furniture looked shabbier than he remembered. Through the patio door he could see how badly the yard needed mowing. Somehow everything went to seed after Dee left, especially Spandau. The divorce damn near killed him. He’d pulled a Walter and nearly drunk himself to death until he met Anna the previous year. She’d been good to him, but there were indications he was about to screw that up as well. Spandau went outside to check on the pond he built after Dee left him.
He’d installed a turtle and some large goldfish. A poor excuse for a family but the best he could manage. Then raccoons began coming down at night and killing his fish, and every so often he’d come out in the morning to find a stiff golden corpse or two, half-eaten or perhaps just mangled for the hell of it. He was drinking heavily and it didn’t take much for him to see the bandit-masked critters as symbols of pure evil, furry devils, examples of all that was worst in the world. One night, tanked, he’d fired off shots from an antique Navy .44 into the trees. He woke with a mighty hangover the next day but thankful he’d not been arrested or had the rickety weapon blow up in his hand.
The fish swam around happily. A neighbor fed them when he was gone. They saw Spandau and waggled toward him to be fed. He went inside and brought out the fish chow, scattered some lightly on the water. They gobbled. Spandau did a quick count, none seemed to be missing. Maybe the raccoons had given up, moved on. He felt relieved. The turtle had vacated a long time ago, having correctly tagged Spandau as a bad risk.
He went into the garage to check on his truck, the pride of his life, a 1958 baby blue and white Apache shortbed, kept lovingly in cherry condition. It had been Beau’s and Beau had left it to him when he died. He opened the door, climbed in, ran his hand across the leather seat. The Red Pecker Bar & Grill baseball cap was still there. He put it on, opened the garage door, cranked the engine. It balked for just a second before it turned over and ran fine. Spandau turned on the AM dashboard radio, eased out into the street, and went off for a short drive. Waylon Jennings sang ‘This Time’ and Spandau warbled along with the old outlaw, pretending, at least for as long as the ride lasted, to be an earlier and better version of himself.
TEN
Spandau pulled up in front of the Coren Investigations office on Sunset. Found a parking spot in front, looked over across the street at the small French bistro. Julien, the owner and chef, was posting up a new menu. He looked at Spandau and Spandau looked at him. Spandau crossed the street and made a show of examining the menu.
Spandau cleared his throat and said:
‘I see you have the Daube Provençal again.’
‘That’s right,’ said Julien.
‘With the orange peel?’
‘No,’ said Julien, ‘not with the orange peel.’
‘Ah,’ said Spandau.
Julien moaned and rolled his eyes.
‘Don’t start with me, David. How many times do we have to go over this? Americans don’t like the orange peel.’
‘It’s not authentic without the orange peel. You said so yourself. You’re from Provence, you said your own mother never made it without orange peel. You said, and I quote, that without orange peel it’s just fucking beef stew. Did you not say that?’
‘We are not in Provence. We are in America. And Americans do not like orange peel in their daube. I tried it and it doesn’t work, everybody complained.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Spandau. ‘I have no ethical objections to you putting beef stew on the menu, as long as you call it beef stew and not Daube Provençal.’
‘You have to be practical. You don’t understand cuisine. It’s a living thing, you move it around, it adapts, it changes. That’s the beauty of it.’
‘So when are you going to adapt beanie-weenies and call it cassoulet?’
‘Kiss my ass,’ Julien said in French.
‘I’m just saying.’
‘I’ve worked with Alain Ducasse and I refuse to accept criticism of my art from a man wearing cowboy boots with a Versace jacket.’
‘In their own humble way, these boots are a work of art.’
‘This tells me everything I need to know. If Walter didn’t tell you how to dress or what to drive, that’– nodding to the Beemer – ‘would be a Ford Fiesta and your jacket would be from Sears.’
‘You, my friend, are a snob.’
‘If preferring that which is beautiful to that which is ugly means I’m a snob, then I’m a snob. I don’t understand why Americans think beauty is undemocratic.’
‘Didn’t Gainsbourg once say that ugliness is superior to beauty because it lasts longer?’
‘Serge also drank himself to death and dumped Jane Birkin when she began to wrinkle. And do not ever quote Serge Gainsbourg to me because you’re not French and you will never understand him. When are you going to bring Anna back in? She’s the only intelligent thing you’ve done since I’ve known you.’
