by Ward, Robert
“He’s using drugs?” Jack said.
“Yeah, and you’d think he would know better. He already snorted a whole series and had his nose collapse. Then he went to a cut-rate plastic man and ended up with a bump in the middle of his face. Had to get it redone twice, and the asshole is still wandering off to the bathroom three, four times a day.”
They came to the trailer steps.
“Why’d you hire him?” Jack said.
“ ‘Cause they love him in the Philippines and in the third world. They still think he’s Mr. Fucking Assistant over there. That’s the problem with this business, you got to appeal to such lowlife motherfuckers like the gooks and slopes or you can’t afford to make movies. Come on in, amigo, we got a heap of talking to do.”
The walls of Buddy Wingate’s trailer were filled with pictures of his favorite person, himself. There were pictures of Buddy in pink pants with elephants on them, playing golf with Arnold Palmer; Buddy in a blue shirt with lobsters on it, having mai-tais with Jack Lord. In that one Buddy had his hair conked up as high as Jack’s, so that they both looked as though they were Venusians from a fifties’ science fiction movie. And there were numerous pictures of Buddy with his idol, William Shatner. Jack looked at these the hardest, and Buddy smiled bravely through his pain.
“That’s me aboard the Enterprise. I had a charity tennis thing last year for the Colitis Foundation—I’m a big sufferer myself—and Bill took me on deck. I got Mr. Sulu’s hat on.”
“My husband, the Trekkie,” Charlotte Rae said, shaking her head.
“Best show ever done. Now, you can take that Deep Space Nine and kiss my butt. They got everybody dressed up in spandex, but they’ll never replace Captain Kirk.”
“Damn right,” Charlotte Rae said, mocking him a little. Wingate gave her a smile that was almost sweet, and for a second Jack thought that he saw what might pass between them when Buddy wasn’t doing his redneck producer act. Because Buddy was obviously enjoying it so much, Jack looked at a few more of the photos; there was one of Buddy and Charlotte Rae with Ricardo Montalban and Herve Villechaize on the set of Fantasy Island. The Wingates wore leis around their necks. Charlotte Rae sat in Buddy’s lap, a goofy, almost happy smile on her face. She wore a grass skirt and a halter top with porpoises on it, but she didn’t look silly, she looked radiant.
Buddy smiled and opened the freezer in the mini-fridge. He took out a blue bottle of chilled Skyy vodka.
“Have a taste?” he asked Jack. “This stuff is the absolute best.”
“No thanks,” Jack said. “A little early for me.”
“Suit yourself,” Buddy said, pouring himself a large glass and taking a long sip.
He smiled and looked at the wall of photos. “Ah, memories, memories,” Buddy said. “Charlotte Rae was guest starring on Fantasy in that one.”
“Yeah,” Charlotte Rae said. “It’ll go down in the annals of great drama, right along with The A-Team.”
Jack laughed, but Buddy wagged a finger at her.
“Hey, don’t lemme hear you talk like that, darlin’.” He turned to Jack with a what-are-you-gonna-do? look on his red face.
“That is her whole problem in a nutshell. She lacks belief in herself. Now, it so happens that episode of Fantasy was very very innaresting. Hey, I know the show ain’t no Hawaii Five-O, but how many of them you ever gonna see? In this one Charlotte played a woman dying of cancer, makes love to a porpoise, and finds everlasting peace. Real mystical shit.”
“Yeah,” Charlotte Rae said, rolling her eyes. “Deep.” Buddy waved his hand at her.
“Now, honey, you know that script gave you a chance to act up a storm. Hey, on one of the takes the whole crew broke out in spontaneous applause.”
“Because you gave them fifty bucks apiece,” Charlotte said.
“Untrue, completely and totally untrue. You shouldn’t oughta run yourself down so, darlin’.”
“You’re right,” she said. “Thank God I have you around to help keep up my self-esteem.”
Buddy ignored the crack, grabbed Jack’s arm, and pulled him eagerly along. They stopped in front of a picture of Charlotte Rae and Buddy hanging out of the cab of a semi. Both of them were dressed like truckers, with flannel shirts, dirty jeans, and scruffy work boots. Standing just below them on the ground was an actor Jack couldn’t name holding a lovable-looking chimpanzee.
“Now, this was a great shoot. Charlotte played a hitchhiker who gets picked up by BJ and the Bear. Personally, I thought this one would get an Emmy nod, but no such luck. They ended up giving the Emmy to Glenn Close ‘cause she played a battered dyke who shoots her husband.”
“Bastards,” Jack said.
Charlotte Rae laughed aloud, and Wingate gave Jack the fish-eye.
“That damned chimp was more honest ‘n most people,” Buddy said, pouring himself another drink. “But therein lies a sad tale. The show was real popular for a couple of years, but then folks got tired of it, so it was canceled. And the chimp couldn’t find any more work. So they eventually take him back to the zoo, but he can’t relate to it no more. I mean, after having people making him up and the press asking him to do his over fifty words of vocabulary, and actually being able to drink scotch and smoke a cigarette at breaks—he was partial to Larks—well, he just can’t get back into the raw-vegetables-and-banana regime at the zoo, not to mention being caged up like a fucking animal, and so his trainer, Lance, comes in one day to get him up, and he finds him hanging there by his tire swing. See, he’d learned to tie knots on his show in order to get BJ out of trouble, and he ties himself a noose, and eeeeeck, he’s finito, kaput. Can you believe that? But, you know what, I can’t say I blame him. ‘Cause it goes to show you one thing, he would rather die like a man than live like an ape.”
“Now, that is sad,” Jack said.
“Check this out in here,” Buddy said. He opened the door to a small bathroom completely done in pink and black. There on the wall were pictures of Buddy Wingate with the President of the United States, Bill Clinton. “How you like that?” Buddy said.
“Business associate?” Jack said.
“My buddy from back home, son. Tell you what, I have lived in Dallas, and Nashville, been to Paris, France, but there is only one Arkansas. Jack, I will tell you this, ain’t too many of us ole boys from the Razorback State who’s made it national. I feel a real link with that man.”
“Does he know about it?” Jack said.
Wingate looked at him and smiled. “Damn straight he does. Accepted my check, didn’t he? This here is the Committee to Elect the President. Hey, we had a hell of a time, didn’t we honey?”
“That we did, Buddy,” Charlotte Rae said. She was trying for sarcasm, but Jack could hear the pride in her voice.
“I’ll tell you what it is. People from Arkansas never forget one another,” Buddy said, waving his arms theatrically. “Bill Clinton is going to call on me one of these days from the Oval Office. And when my phone rings, I shall be ready to serve.”
“Don’t you think he might be a little offended by The President’s Cabinet?” Jack said.
“Not at all,” Buddy said. “He’ll take it for the homage it is. Ole Hillary might not like it too much though.”
“The insensitive bitch,” Charlotte Rae said.
Jack laughed out loud, and Buddy squinted at him.
“I know, I know, you think I’m a little nuts,” Buddy said now. “They all did, until I was invited to the goddamned inaugural.”
“It was beautiful,” Charlotte said.
“Bottom line is Bubba’s a Razorback and he recognizes other Razorbacks. Know what I mean, Jackie?”
“Absolutely,” Jack said. “Got it.”
Buddy smiled and straightened his string tie in the mirror. Jack smiled and looked at Charlotte Rae. “Congratulations,” he said. “For what, pray tell?”
“Marrying a genius,” Jack said.
Charlotte Rae laughed and put her arm around Buddy, and suddenly Jack felt
a surprising jolt of irritation. It was as though she had slapped him in the face. The power of these sudden unwelcome feelings shocked him.
Wingate smiled at him now, a calculating, mocking smile. He was flaunting his power over his wife, and he wanted Jack to see it. Jack met his gaze steadily but with some effort. He tried not to let anything in his eyes, in the tilt of his head, or the shape of his mouth, reveal how much he wanted to take Charlotte Rae out of Wingate’s arms.
“Buddy,” Charlotte Rae said, as they shut the bathroom door. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Of course,” Buddy said.
Suddenly, Wingate reached up and patted Jack’s cheek. It was all Jack could do to hide his revulsion.
“I haven’t forgotten. You saved my wife’s life. We live in a world where nobody wants to help nobody, and you stepped right up and put yourself at risk. Frankly, it amazes me, and I’m grateful. Where you from, Jack?”
“Live in Hollywood now,” Jack said. “Before that I grew up in Manhattan.”
“Ah, now that is a city,” Buddy said. “They got everything a boy needs to get hisself in serious trouble.”
“And you should know,” Charlotte Rae said.
Buddy turned toward her, and Jack saw something change in his face, a quick rage burned in his eyes. For a mini-second Jack thought Wingate was going to slap her. Charlotte Rae obviously thought so too, because even though he never moved a muscle, she winced and jumped back, as though warding off an invisible blow.
“Listen, darlin’,” he said. “It would be better if you didn’t editorialize on every little thing I say. All right?”
“I’m sorry, Buddy,” Charlotte Rae said in a small, meek voice. She seemed to physically shrivel up, and sat down on a love seat a good five feet away from them both. Buddy smiled and sat down himself, nearly disappearing in a huge recliner chair with a Santa Fe Indian blanket draped across it. He motioned for Jack to sit down as well.
“So I understand you are bit by the acting profession.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Though it hasn’t bit back much.”
“That’s the way it is. Cold and cruel. You got an agent?”
“Not yet,” Jack said, trying to sound and look humble.
“Can’t do a thing without one. Maybe we could help you along those lines. How about it, babe?”
Buddy smiled over at Charlotte Rae as if the violent vortex that had whirled like a tornado between them only seconds ago was ancient history.
“Yes, of course,” she said. It was clear at once that she hadn’t forgotten it. Her voice was halting, tremulous, and strangely formal. “I could introduce him to Elliot.”
“Elliot Minsner,” Wingate said, “he’s a tough little prick, but he can do things for you.”
“Hey, that would be great,” Jack said. “But I don’t want to put either of you out. You don’t even know if I can act.”
Wingate laughed at that one.
“I got a feeling about you,” he said.
“Right,” Jack said.
“No, I’m serious. You got the look…. Don’t you think he’s got the look, make the girls go wet in the wee-wee, Charlotte?”
“You have such a way with words, Buddy,” Charlotte Rae said. She seemed to have gotten over the threat, because there was snap in her voice again.
Buddy laughed and waved his hand, as though he were dismissing her remark.
“Yeah, acting’s a tough, tough business,” Buddy said.
“I know,” Jack said. “Some days I’m not sure about it. Don’t want to end up being some kind of security guard at the studio when I’m fifty.”
“I hear you,” Wingate said. He leaned forward and looked intensely at Jack.
“Cold truth is though, son, that most actors don’t become stars. Hell, most of ‘em don’t even get any work after a while. They go home to places like Palmdale, end up working at K mart, using their acting talents by talking through one of them microphones: ‘Shoppers, today on the Blue Light Special, we got your jalapeno Mexican cheese and fat-free kosher baloney.’ Hell, I’ve hired quite a few of them Mel Gibson wanna-bes at my furniture stores.”
He gave out a tough little laugh then and shook his head.
“Glad I ain’t never had the acting bug. Jack, lemme ask you a question. How’d you make a living in the Apple?”
“Did a little bartending,” Jack said. “But mainly I ended up working as a companion to a guy named Joey Rizzo.”
That stopped both Wingate and Charlotte Rae cold. They turned and looked at each other, and for a second Jack had the sensation that everything was moving in slow motion.
“As in, Joey Rizzo, from newspaper and tabloid TV fame?” Charlotte Rae said.
“One and the same,” Jack said. “It’s a long story. Joey had a thing about boxing. He used to come to Gleeson’s Gym down on Union Square. I ended up being his trainer, and after a while our relationship got more personal.”
“Well, well, now that is very interesting,” Wingate said. “Very interesting, indeed. I hear Joey is in excellent health.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I had him working out three times a week, got him on a fat-free diet. We spent a lot of time together.”
“Come on, you can say it right out. You mean you were acting as his bodyguard?” Buddy said.
“ ‘Companion’ was how Joey liked to put it,” Jack said. “Right. Companion. Very nice word. Classy.”
“Well,” Jack said, “it’s been great meeting you Mr. Wingate …”
“Buddy,” Wingate said. He bounced out of the chair and blocked Jack’s way to the door, but in a ball-of-the-feet friendly way.
“Where you going, son?”
“Surely, you don’t have to leave, Jack,” Charlotte Rae said.
“Yeah, ‘fraid I do. I’m bartending over at Topper’s on Las Palmas. And my shift starts soon.”
“Well, wouldn’t want to make you late for work,” Buddy said. “But listen up a minute, will you? I might have an opening coming up, something you’d be good at. It’s kind of behind the scenes, instead of acting, but there could be a real future in it.”
“Really?” Jack said.
“I mean, if you are open to offers?” Buddy said.
“Depends on what they are. They got a wonderful retirement plan at Topper’s. All the cheap red wine you can drink, absolutely free. And a free trip to the hospital to have your stomach pumped.”
Wingate smiled and stretched his short, muscular arms above his head.
“Not sure if it’s happening just yet, son, but long as we know where to reach you, I got a feeling it could work out real good.”
“Sounds like fun,” Jack said. He took out a business card from Topper’s restaurant and handed it to Buddy. “You can usually catch me here.”
“Fine,” Wingate said. “You take it easy. I’ll be in touch, soon. And thanks again for saving my darling here.”
“My pleasure,” Jack said.
Wingate threw his right arm around his wife’s waist, and Jack felt like smashing him in the throat.
Instead, he managed a smile, nodded like a cowboy to the two of them, and opened the trailer door. Outside it was killer hot, but Jack gulped down the smog as if it were ambrosia. Even bad air was better than none at all.
Chapter 5
Topper’s was a chrome-and-black-leather topless bar on Sunset Boulevard. The restaurant specialized in pizza, tequila, strippers, and lap dancers. It had formerly been owned and operated by a drug dealer named Topper Glasby, a three-hundred-pound, Mexican-food-loving smack freak who had hustled everything from stolen securities to rock cocaine. Two years ago he’d been popped by the DEA, and his place of business had been seized by the Agency. Eventually, the place would be forfeited to the government, sold off, and the money would be put into the super slush fund designed to build more jails. Meanwhile, the Agency continued to run it, using Topper as the front man. The waiters and bartenders, however, were all DEA agents. So far, running T
opper’s had been an Agency gold mine. Dealers, hustlers, and prospective buyers of every kind of dope frequented the place because the girls were young and luscious, the music loud, and Topper was a loud, hearty-laughing extrovert who kept things lively. There had already been a couple of busts, and there were a number of pending cases that promised large bounty for the agency.
For the past six months Jack and Calvin Jefferson had used Topper’s as a cover job, monitoring dope buys and meeting prospective perps at the bar.
This afternoon, as they waited for Topper to come back from testifying at a trial, Jack smiled at one of the young strippers, Angel Morrison, who was walking across the stage, half-naked. Angel herself had been popped only three months ago and was now acting as a snitch for the Agency. She had a great body, but Jack didn’t have any fantasies about her. When she wasn’t taking off her clothes or lap dancing in front of stoned, screeching bikers or out-of-town conventioneers, she was bust-pumping iron at the Hollywood YMCA. Her arms and legs were seriously muscled in a way that Jack could find attractive only after he’d had one too many drinks.
She smiled at him now and turned on the stereo. Bob Seger came pouring from the speakers—”Against the Wind”—and Angel began to sing in her little-girl monotone.
“Shit, turn that down, babe,” Calvin Jefferson said, as he read the L.A. Times.
“Oh, whatsa matter, man, chu don’t like it?” Angel said. “I played it ‘cause it is all bout your generation of old fucks.”
Jack laughed, but C.J. just grunted.
“I gave up on Bob Seger when he started making them tire commercials,” C.J. said. “ ‘Like a rock,’ my ass.” Angel shrugged and licked her lips.
“Chu don’t like that?” she said. “That’s my favorite commercial of all time.”
She did a little sexy spin, leapt up on the circular bar, slid down the golden pole in the center, and sang in a voice filled with sex:
