by Andrews
"Where's the tunnel entrance? Under a tombstone like a big fake rock used to hide house keys?" I asked flippantly.
My cell phone rang and I stood outside by valet parking to take the call. I mimed to Callie to go on into the bar and order me a drink.
"Hello?" I said loudly into the phone, shouting over the roar of the traffic.
"Teague, it's me, George. I've been on the phone with Jocowitz's counsel, who's a dick. You there?" I assured him that I was. "So they don't want you to do the script. They want to hire someone who's written for Jocowitz before. They'll pay you for the first draft—"
"Then they won't get the story rights," I said sharply. "Tell them they just lost the movie."
"Well, I told them you might agree if you—"
"No!" I nearly shouted. "They don't rip off the idea, have a crony write it, and then fuck up the script. Tell them thanks, no deal, goodbye."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure," I said.
"Makes my life easy. Talk to you later." He hung up.
That's always the way it is! Love ya, love your work, love your writing, love to steal your stuff, love to fuck you over, love to pay someone else, who’s not as bright but who I know from PS 180 in the Bronx. Fuck Jeremy Jocowitz, I thought. I tried to shake my angry, gloomy mood as I headed back toward the bar. It was more crowded now, and there were several men halfway blocking my view of Callie, who was seated on a bar stool in profile to me talking to an attractive older man with silver hair and a very expensive suit. He looked well groomed in a slick, expensive way, like a mafia type. I strained to see who he was, and what they were doing, when suddenly, I was jostled by a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. We both staggered slightly, and I apologized. When I looked up, the silver-haired man was gone, his bar stool empty, and Callie was talking to the bartender.
"Hi," I said, approaching her. "Who was that?"
"Who was who?"
"The man you were talking to."
"I wasn't talking to anyone," Callie said, and looked at the bartender.
"She's just been talking to me, that's all," the bartender said.
"So you lie, and he swears to it?" I asked sarcastically. Callie looked shocked, and the bartender lifted his eyebrows in reproach and moved on down the bar to less obstreperous patrons. Callie was incensed that I'd called her a liar, and she said, with great seriousness in her voice, that she wouldn't tolerate it.
"Well, Callie, you were talking to a man with gorgeous silver hair and a very expensive suit and jewelry, and I, on the other hand, am out of the room, so I'm just asking what I missed." Callie stared at me like I'd lost my mind. I sat down and she pushed a drink in front of me.
"Apologize," she demanded.
"For what?"
"For the tone of voice you used on me."
"I apologize," I said, somewhat confused.
"And don't do it again! You're angry over your phone call, and you're taking it out on me."
I chose not to respond. She was right, but she was rubbing it in. Callie Rivers would be a very difficult person to live with. Every word received analysis, every joke a sermon, and every remark was infused with a positive or negative implication. Henpecking, men used to call it.
"While we're asking questions, who was on your phone?" she asked, pecking a bit harder.
"My attorney. It's already started. They don't want me to write the script."
"What? It's your story!"
"Doesn't matter. They always want to take it away and give it to a friend, or to someone they owe a deal, or to someone who's won an Academy Award, or to someone who's a big box office hit, or to anyone who's not the person with the idea they like, want to buy, want to steal.. .whatever."
"I'm so sorry, but listen to me, you're going to get to write it."
"Oh sure, they'll let me do the first draft. Then they thank me, pay me Writer's Guild minimum, and put the script in the trash. Now you've gotten to write, now goodbye." My cell phone rang and I excused myself again to go out into the lobby and seek quiet and better reception.
It was George. "Okay, you scared 'em. My suggestion, however, is stick with no. They're going to be a big fucking pain in the ass if we do this deal. Just let me know."
He hung up and I felt slightly vindicated, but only slightly. These kinds of deals were always a battle, and they left me feeling less than. I took a deep breath, let out some air, and prepared to have a better night. As I reentered the bar, I could see Callie clearly across the room this time, in a corner with the same silver-haired man. He was standing so close to Callie that their bodies were nearly touching—could have been touching. He leaned in to kiss her.
My heart sank into my shoes and my mind flooded with images of L.A. and Robert Isaacs and the way Callie had omitted the fact that she'd been married. Now here was another man, and he'd returned minutes after Callie had denied his existence. He was sharing her airspace as if they were intimate. I was insanely jealous, and on top of that, lying was my hot button. I didn't want to be lied to and I certainly didn't want a relationship with someone who could summon lies so readily. I stood and stared for what seemed like minutes, then I made my way over to the two of them. By the time I got to her, the silver-haired man had left. Callie looked shaken. My heart was broken.
"What the hell was that about?" I asked coldly, flatly. I knew this entire relationship was too good to be true. Callie is a fantasy. The idea that she would be monogamous is insane, of course!
"It's okay, Teague, come on." She took me by the hand, and I pulled away. "Come with me. Let's go back to the room."
"I'm not going anywhere with you, Callie. I'm going back to L. A." I turned and walked to the bank of elevators.
I could hear Callie's heels clacking on the floor behind me as she struggled to catch up. "Teague, listen to me, please." She had me by the arm now and I could feel the tears on my cheeks. I pulled away as the elevator doors opened, but she got in with me.
"It's not what you think," Callie said, and the man in the elevator standing next to me looked at her quizzically.
"It's not what I think?" I whirled to face the man, and in true Callie fashion, I aired my pain in public. "If your wife were kissing another man, and then told you that it's not what you think, what would you think?" I asked the stranger riding on our elevator.
The man blinked. "I'd think about divorce."
"Bingo!" I said and the elevator doors opened. I dashed ahead of Callie and opened the hotel room door. Elmo looked fretful, as if he knew the kind of angry energy coming his way.
I grabbed my clothes and began flinging them into suitcases.
"I owe myself this much. I'm not dating straight women and I'm not dating bisexuals. It's called pick a flavor and stick to it! No one should be turned on by the entire planet. Fifty percent of the population should leave you cold. Which fifty percent is entirely up to you, and while you figure that out, I'm out of here!"
Callie grabbed my arms, then my hands, then finally grabbed the suitcase with Herculean might and flung it off the bed and against the wall. "Listen to me! I am not running around on you!"
I froze, staring at Callie. She looked intense, and serious, and in control, like a hero in a movie who has to convince a disbelieving comrade that a bomb is about to explode and they only have minutes to survive. Something about her look and her energy dissipated mine.
"Look, Callie, you don't have to go to this extreme to end our relationship. Really, a simple 'it's not working' will do. I know I've been pushing you, and that's why it's taken you ten weeks—"
"You don't know anything! Listen to me, please. I think he's the man who told Randall Ross that Rose was in danger."
"And what does that have to do with him slathering over you?"
"I knew you wouldn't get it..."
"Get it? You were married, you fool around with older guys, hell, you look straight, I don't know what I was thinking."
"No one understands what I do..."
"Glad you cou
ld make it global...cosmic...no one on the planet understands you!"
Callie stared at me for a long moment. "Don't say things you'll regret."
"Is that a threat of some kind?" I asked, and she didn't answer. I could feel silent tears rolling down my cheeks. "I don't know what to say, and I don't know what to think. I just need to get some sleep." I hooked Elmo up and took him downstairs for his walk, hurrying out to intentionally leave Callie behind. I needed some time alone. Elmo padded along in silence, letting me mull things over. Out by the bushes where we always made our nightly stop, I looked up at the stars and said a small prayer: I don't get it, God. Whatever help you can give me, I would really appreciate. I just need to understand. I just need a little guidance here. Amen.
∗ ∗ ∗ ∗
Back upstairs, Elmo jumped up on the adjoining double bed and smooshed his face into the pillows. It was his reward for being pent up during the day. I crawled into bed, leaving the TV off, and waited silently. Callie slid in beside me and wrapped her arms around my waist, pressing her cheek against my back and cupping my breasts with her hands. I felt a great sadness wash over me. What if this is it? What if I can't have this for the rest of my life? Or worse, what if I can have Callie Rivers at some superficial level and then, below that layer is something saved for someone else? My chest hurt, as if a piece of my heart was being slowly torn away from the whole. "What are you thinking?" Her voice was soft and quiet in the darkness.
"Just business," I lied, and a burning anger began to kick in to mask the pain. "I checked on the show that Elliot Traugh said he was late for when he dashed out of Karla's house. There was no show at that time, or any time for the next five hours, so Elliot lied—like everyone else in this town. Must be catching."
Callie let go of me, turned over, and moved to the other side of the bed. It was the second time I'd called her a liar.
Chapter Eighteen
“Teague, regardless of what you feel or don't feel for me, don't let Rose get killed over it."
"Very dramatic," I said scornfully, locking my suitcase in preparation for loading the Jeep.
"Please." She placed her small hands on my wrists, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply, diminishing my anger. "I'm asking you as a personal favor—don't leave me here alone."
Unfair, I thought. If anything happens to her now I'm responsible because she asked me to stay and not leave her alone. Does she really believe something will happen? Or is she using me again? She looked up into my eyes, and with that look of innocence and pleading, Callie Rivers talked me into staying to help finish the case, without ever saying another word. It’s her way of getting me to stay in hopes that my anger will die down and we’ll get back together. How can I ever trust her? I've seen her with someone else with my own eyes! Besides, Callie Rivers was dangerous. She could look at me and get me to do things. Like a horse whisperer, she was able to mentally connect with me and make me move toward her without ever speaking my name. Her look said, "you know you love me, don't leave me." Looks are more dangerous than words. Callie had the ability to control me with a look. I bolted for the door, terrified of being owned in that way, wanting to put distance between the two of us. Not wanting her to—look at me.
Elmo and I spent the day walking the Strip alone. I was thinking about Callie and I was sure he was thinking his legs were way too short for this kind of exercise. "Elmo, I know you love her too but I just don't see how it can work. If she will flirt with a man in a public place, she'll do other things right in front of me and deny she's doing them. That has to be a sign of, at best, a pathological liar. How could someone like me, who has been trained to read people, be so wrong about her? My heart got in the way. That's all I can say for myself. My heart did me in."
Elmo made a series of short, grunting sounds I'd never heard before that sounded a lot like blah, blah, blah. I stared at him. "Are you making fun of me?" He rolled his eyes and went silent, walking more slowly. "Okay, we're both tired," I said less defensively.
We returned from our walk still saddened. Callie barely registered a nod as we came into the room. "Have a good day?" she asked, clearly put out by our having been gone.
"Fine, thanks," I said sullenly. Elmo's dragging ears signaled that he felt the drain on our energies, and he plopped down, pleading for dinner. I started to order room service but decided maybe Callie was right on this one, so instead I reached up on the top shelf of the closet to retrieve the extra cans of Elmo's dog food I had brought with me. My reaching only pushed them farther back onto the shelf, and I had to pull the desk chair over and stand on it to retrieve the elusive chow. That's when I saw the thin black wire and dime-sized lens embedded back in the closet wall. I stood on my toes and leaned into the shelf. I was looking into the back of a pinhole surveillance camera—the lens focused on room 1250.
"Thank you, Ms. Loomis," I said quietly. "This room does have a better view."
"What did you say?" Callie asked.
"Ms. Loomis is trying to tell us something. Take a look. It's like a nanny-cam. Receiver could be a hundred yards away and linked to a box where it could be recorded."
Callie climbed up to have a look. "So who monitors and where are they?"
We both went silent, contemplating that. I finally said, "Just about anybody."
That night, Callie and I went to the theater together. We spoke very little, walking side by side almost like two strangers. I could barely stand to be with her because it reminded me of what I couldn't have. I tried to focus my thoughts away from her and onto the scenery.
With the house lights up full, I could see the theater in all its gay-guy grandeur festooned in red velvet drapes and large gold sconces and lots of paintings on the side walls of young Greek boys in compromising positions. Callie and I took a seat down front, and I ordered a drink. Callie changed my order, whispering to the waiter, "She'll have bottled water." Looking at me she said, "Safer. Who knows where the water comes from and who's touched it?"
"Your regular water will be just fine," I said, letting the waiter know that his orders came from me and letting Callie know that I didn't really care what she thought anymore, and letting myself know that if the regular water killed me that would be just fine. I felt half dead anyway.
The waiter gave it one more beat and said, "Bring you one of each, on the house," and spun in a diplomatic exit, no doubt to tell his friends in the kitchen that there was a dyke fight in row one.
We were extremely early, not sure what to do with ourselves since we were now estranged lovers—I couldn't yet bear the term "ex-lovers." I suggested we go backstage to the dressing rooms and check on Rose Ross. It was as if I thought by locating her often enough we could prevent something bad from happening to her. We inched our way between the tables and up the side steps onto the wings of the stage and down an equipment-littered path along the massive concrete walls.
Twenty feet farther on, I took a wrong turn, headed behind a parallel set of scenery flats, and ended up in a jumble of lighting, ropes, and other stage debris. As I turned around to lead us out, I caught sight of Rose in silhouette. She was apparently rehearsing her entrance, which involved standing on two ropes that hung from the sky. One arm was wrapped around each of the thickly braided colorful ropes and her feet were planted firmly in the clear plastic footholds that jutted from the ropes, creating an unsteady pair of rope stilts that held her a few feet off the ground. Sophia stood slightly below her, giving her guidance and positioning her feet. She smoothed Rose's pale pink leotard, pressing the wrinkles up the leg toward the body of the costume. When their eyes met, Sophia's hands moved quickly down and away, coming to rest on Rose's ankles, and both women froze in a trembling tableau of erotic realization. They slowly came to life when Sophia once again caressed Rose's calves and knees and thighs, then lifted her skirt, and through the thin pink leotard used her thumbs to massage between Rose's legs and rested her cheek on the girl in just that spot to smell her and feel her.
"Now that takes bala
nce," I whispered. We were voyeurs, afraid to move and let them know we were present, and unable not to look—the girl dangling there like a doll in the wind and the older woman having what she could of her. Rose had her head back as Sophia transported her to a place from which she could no longer concentrate, much less stand, and she threatened to faint and fall. Sophia held her with one strong arm around her small thighs as Rose fully understood in that moment that, most likely, she was gay.
Footsteps approached. I panicked on behalf of the lovers, who were oblivious to the sounds of anything but their own soft moaning. I moved to cut off the approaching intruders, and Callie moved toward the lovers to warn them. It was Marlena rounding the corner in her soft slippers.
She looked surprised to see us. "Where are Sophia and Rose? They need to take their places for the curtain. And what are you two doing back here?"
"Wrong turn in trying to get to the greenroom." I shrugged.
Marlena spotted the two women, who by now had begun to realize that they were the center of a gathering.
"She fell," Sophia said with unwavering aplomb, cradling Rose on the floor. "She's a little dizzy, that's all. We'll be there."
"Dizzy wouldn't begin to cover it," I said softly, shooting Callie a look.
Marlena spun on her heel and left, leaving a trail of captivating cologne.
Sophia gave me a look of lasting gratitude. I spun Callie around by her shoulders and retraced our steps back down the littered backstage area, guiding her through the maze of potential mishaps, down the dim corridor, and out into the mezzanine section.
"Odd positions seem to be an aphrodisiac in the theater world," I remarked.
"Walls can be an aphrodisiac too, as I recall from personal experience," Callie said, and I pretended not to hear her.
We took our seats as the small orchestra took up its position and struck up the overture. On the final crescendo and sustain, the chorus line of dozens of men—in black pants, shirts, and ties, looking like male models—dance-kicked out from stage right, arms locked, crossed in front of the footlights, and exited stage left, returning from the wings stage right in an unbroken chain, only this time the men were now women in black jodhpurs, white shirts, and beautifully made-up faces. The audience broke into wild applause and speculated in whispers about how they had managed to make the gender transition in less than thirty seconds while moving. It was quite an opener.
