by Bruce Wagner
“Yes…I think she told me something had been wired—”
“$1,140,000. That came within 24 hours, by the way. And when we get to JFK—we might be dropping anchor in Newark this month, I actually need to make a mental note to check on that so the fleet of limos doesn’t go to the wrong FBO—wouldn’t that be a bungle—the minute we enter Big Apple airspace, Bonita Billingsley will receive a check for 12,000,000 more.”
“But she already got something—”
The old woman struggled to make sense of all the formulas—the forms and formulations. She didn’t want Lucas to think she was the slow one in the group.
“You bet. The amount of which is completely at my discretion to draw upon, as long as it does not exceed the tally allotted to the Windfall Pretax Fund, a number arrived at by a rather Byzantine series of accounting equations with which I promise not to bore you. But they do give me wiggle room, that’s one of the perks of my job. Again, Marjorie Morningstar, here’s the bottom line. If you give me a check for the amount of”—his thick pen had a calculator embedded within, and the slender fingers worked it like a pianist’s—“$563,789.53…if you give me that check tonight, or even tomorrow morning, but tonight would be preferred—I’ll bend the rules, whatever makes you feel comfortable—if you can give me that check, I will hand you a negotiable instrument and bill of exchange for the amount of $2,790,591.57 in a special toast at Spago on Saturday night. A pack of Rolls-Royces—they belong to the hotel—will then ferry the Sisters to their suites at the Four Seasons. Suite Sisters! We’ll have a small afterparty, attended by the likes of ‘unknowns’ such as Maria Shriver, Laura Chick—she’s the City Controller here in LA—and Ray Romano.” He was losing her again. “You’ll sleep the sleep of a babe in the woods. In the morning, you’ll have a lovely bath and breakfast en chambre. Then you and the Blind entourage will be whisked to a private airport in Van Nuys where our sky chariot awaits. Now, if you are opposed—you don’t even have to give me an answer just now—that’s fine. No pressure. We can enroll you in the expedited process, or not. I’ll tell you one thing: at the moment we speak, 3 others are vying to be EAP enlistees, but I only have one more slot. Marj, I want you to know absolutely that it doesn’t matter to me, either way—of course, I’ll be a little sad—and I know you might not be able to get your hands on that kind of money with such short notice. Unfortunately, the figure I quoted is the least I can accept without jeopardizing my job. It’s kind of a silly catch-22: you may not have the money now—but in 90 days, that number will be insignificant. Cause you’ve got 6,000,000 coming down the sluice! So, it’s important for you to hear that I won’t be upset, even though you’re one of my favorites” (he winked) “and that if you’re not with us, I just may curl up in my private bedroom on the G-5 and cry like a baby as they pass the caviar! But seriously, Ms Morningstar, let me know. You have my cell. You have my soul. You have my heart. Give me the word and ye shall be heard.”
The waiter came with fortune cookies and the check.
Marj cracked hers open, tucking the wish into her purse.
XLIX.
Joan
CHESTER made a lunch date with his sister at a place Laxmi recommended in Venice, called Axe. It turned out that Joan was a regular, because it was over on Abbott Kinney, near ARK.
They hadn’t seen each other since their stepfather’s funeral. When Chess called to say he wanted to “talk about something,” her antennae went up. He said on the phone he had visited Mom, and that clinched it—Big Brother needed a 2nd helping. She didn’t ask if Marj had already tithed. She didn’t want to know.
He was thin and drawn, and walked with a hobble that struck her as slightly theatrical. Oh boy. I’m gonna get hit up for a bundle. He gave the place a once-over and said he hoped the menu wasn’t “minimalist.” (A lame dig at Joan’s aesthetics.) She told him he’d been pronouncing it wrong. It was ah-shay, she said, not axe.
“Well, you look like you’ve been eating!” he said, with a smile. (In secret sibling language, that meant: 1) You’re rich and you’re lucky; 2) I’m poor and I’m fucked; 3) You’re a middleaged whore; 4) You’ve gained weight because you’re a rich, lucky, middleaged whore.) He launched into the ballad of how his old friend Maurie Levin set him up on a reality show and got him injured. She literally shook her head, bemused. Chester was always putting his foot in it. There was something endearingly pathetic about him: he was some kind of classic, dipped-in-shit, dyed-in-the-wool fuckup. Her brother went on to say he was suing the company that produced the show and that his supercharged lawyer, “Remar” (even the name made her chuckle), was “extremely optimistic” things would “settle out” before a court date was set. Might take a year, though, maybe 2. Joan had already done the math and decided to give him 5 grand; she ran the figures in her head when he 1st called. 5,000 and not a penny more. That was OK. She had enough in the bank right now and it’d actually been a few years since he’d asked. He had the pride thing going but that wouldn’t last forever.
The waiter took his time. It was that kind of place. Both staff and clientele seemed like smug California dreamers, New Age grifters. When the guy finally came, Chess asked for a Coke. He said they didn’t have Cokes, they didn’t have soda. Like Chess had asked for yak urine. (Which they probably did have.) Joan just smiled. She ordered tea and tofu. Her brother had a bowl of rice and chicken, and a jug of weirdass juice.
He made some cursory stabs at catching up. How are your projects, are you seeing anyone, bip bop boop. Even threw in a zinger about Mayne winning the Pritzker.
“Since when do you keep up on the life of Thom Mayne?”
“I do read, you know. My landlady gives me her New York Observers.”
“Well la-di-da.”
“And LA magazine.”
“That’s a restaurant guide, right?”
“I’m telling you, Joanie, I’ve been to so many doctors’ offices, I’m up on all the zines. I just sit in waiting rooms, reading. Mayne’s doing the Olympic Village in New York, right? Tough-looking fucker. Supposed to be kinda nasty, you know, nasty to his clients. I hate that shit. I wouldn’t last 2 seconds if I was rude to the people who hire me. Ever meet him? Doesn’t he look like that French guy? That actor? The guy from The Da Vinci Code…Reno! Jean Reno. Mayne gives a pretty good interview. Doesn’t he live around here? He did a ‘My Favorite Weekend’—the Times wants me to do one of those. Seriously. Anyway, I was reading this interview where Mayne said an architect’s career doesn’t really begin happening till he’s in his 50s. So your clock hasn’t officially started to tick.”
(In not-so-secret sibling language, that meant: 1) You haven’t made it in your field and probably never will; 2) You are likely to achieve career success only by consenting to be sodomized by an already established architect—and should maybe just shoot for Thom Mayne; 3) If you’re gonna “build” anything, it better be a kid, before you go barren.)
Joan was beginning to wonder why she had agreed to see him. She’d forgotten how gallingly passive-aggressive her brother could be. Maybe she wouldn’t give him the money afterall.
“You know,” said Chess. “I was thinking. I was wondering. About Dad.”
“Dad?”
She suddenly—wonder of wonders—realized he was stoned.
“Yeah. You know, Maurie told me he heard a story about Michael Bay—that director? He did Pearl Harbor and Armageddon. Maurie said that Michael Bay—and I don’t know if this is bullshit—Michael Bay found out his dad was John Frankenheimer, the guy who did the original Manchurian Candidate. He died last year or whenever. Supposedly he and Burt Lancaster were banging extras in their trailers during Seven Days in May. That was ’64 and Bay was born in ’65. Do the math. You know, I did some scouting for Path to War, this TV movie he did. Frankenheimer. He died on the table, I think, in the middle of surgery. They were operating on his spine—probably what’s going to wind up happening to me. I’ll kick, right on the table, with the bozo anesthesiologist snoring
away. Do you have any idea how often that happens, Joan? I’ve really looked into this shit! They just kill you. End of story. You can be healthy as an ox and they accidentally kill you cause they had a fight with their girlfriend or they’re daydreaming about which satellite radio service to get or they’re pissed off because the guy at Cingular fucked up and deleted their BlackBerry addressbook. Anyway, I just thought the Michael Bay/Frankenheimer thing was weird. Maybe it’s one of those ‘urban movie myths.’ Like the gerbil. I don’t know if it’s true but it got me thinking about Dad. I mean, Bay and Frankenheimer are both action guys and they’re both alleged to be pricks. I mean, I don’t even know Michael Bay, and I really like his movies—not as much as I like the Scott brothers, but he’s fucking good—though I never heard anything great about him, personally. Not that that means anything. You always hear bad things about people then one day you work with them and they’re pussycats. So I don’t put all that much stock in gossip and shit. Still…I saw him over at the Sports Club LA and he seemed like a nice guy. I mean, he wasn’t going off on anybody. Very unassuming. Or maybe I saw Renny Harlin. No—it was definitely Bay. You know, come to think of it, Michael Bay kinda looks like Thom Mayne!”
“Oh Chess, come on,” she said, mildly exasperated.
“He does,” laughed Chess. “I swear! Not that making movies is a popularity contest. Most directors have prickly reputations. The good ones, anyway. But, Joanie, don’t you think that’s strange?”
“What are you saying, Chess? What’s strange.”
“Frankenheimer supposedly denied paternity to the bitter end—which would be cold, if it turned out to be true. Bay shoulda stole a cigarette or a coffee cup. They can extract DNA from that shit. Anyhow, it just made me wonder what the chances were that Dad was still in this city. Maybe even in the business. And he just doesn’t want to contact us.”
“Yeah, right. Maybe Dad’s George Lucas! You finally unraveled the secret, Chester! Our father is George Lucas! Or Frank Gehry! Maybe Dad’s Frank Gehry! No—” (time for her to get in a zinger of her own) “—he’s a location scout. That’s it! Dad’s the Location Scout King!”
“OK, Joanie. Chill.”
“You chill. I just don’t understand what you’re trying to get at. I mean, you’re stoned. Fine. It’s a weekday and you’re limping and you’re loaded. Look, if you need money, why don’t you just ask? Just come out and ask. You could have asked me over the phone, Chess. You didn’t need to spend your precious gas money to drive all the way to Abbott Kinney.”
The waiter brought the food.
She thought she might have been too rough on him. Then her sympathies quickly waned. Oh, fuck him. I’m not going to feel bad about his crazy shit.
Chess seemed humbled and began to eat. He let some of the smoke clear before he spoke.
“It’s just that you reach a certain age—I have a few years on you, Joanie—and you wonder, or start to wonder, what your origins are. The medical thing’s important too. I mean, what if our father had—or has—medical issues that are relevant?”
“What difference would it make, Chess? What difference would it make?”
“I’ve been talking to this friend about her dad. They’re estranged. (She’s not really a girlfriend, but I have my hopes.) Anyway, they’re estranged but she knows where he is and occasionally they talk. And my friend—this girl—she thought it was weird that I never at least tried to find Raymond.”
He waited for his sister to say something but she didn’t.
“Isn’t it weird that we never sought him out?”
“No. Not particularly. Why would we?”
“Here’s a guy who really impacted us. Our real father, right?”
“Impacted? How?”
“We’re both searching for a home. We always have been.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jesus, Joanie, look at what we do. I’m a location scout—could it be any more on the fucking nose? That’s what I do for a living: I look for places, mostly houses. I’m out there every week, looking for the perfect house. But what is it I’m really searching for?”
“You are so stoned.”
“Having this injury has given me time to think about shit, Joan. We take a lot for granted…and look at what you do. You build houses. Or at least you’re trying to. It’s not even like a metaphor with us, right? Do you see what I’m saying? And our relationships—or lack of them—I think, can be traced to this guy—Dad—leaving. I mean, neither of us can commit, right?” She grimaced, struggling to chopstick a tofu cube. “I don’t think either one of us has been with someone for longer than 3 years. Am I wrong, Joanie? Cause if I am, great. But I don’t think so. It’s all that abandonment shit, right? That’s the paradigm.”
“You’ve been watching way too much Oprah, Chester.”
“Maybe. Maybe so. Great woman, by the way. But I think—I think I’m going to look into it.”
“Go for it,” she said, aloof.
“I kinda have the time right now. And I guess I just wanted to get together and see if that—resonated.”
“I said: go for it, Chesapeake.”
That was the nickname Mom gave him. Raymond called him Chesterfield.
“Chesapeake,” he said, misty-eyed. She felt sorry for him again. “She hasn’t called me that in a long time. Anyhoo: I’m not asking for your blessings, Joanie.”
“No blessings, just cash. Right?”
He shook his head. “I don’t need your money. I’m fine. I just want to keep you in the loop.”
“Great. Perfect. Consider me in the loop.”
Maybe she had embarrassed him into rescinding his request. If that were true, she was prepared to feel minorly guilty. Joan didn’t know what to make of her brother’s oratory. He sort of had a point, bordering even on eloquence, but she just didn’t have it in her to care. It was his soap opera, not hers. She spent little time thinking about the man who walked away when she was 3. She knew their mother had loved Ghost Dad more than Hamilton—she’d tearfully admitted as much to Joan one night, after too much vino—but the daughter never probed further. Fuck Raymond Rausch. If he could live without her, she could definitely live without him. But things hadn’t turned out so well for Chess and it made sense, particularly in the throes of maudlin midlife and what sounded like a new love, to root around in that particular cellar. Rock on, Chesapeake Bay. Rock on with yer bad self. She thought his fantasy of Ray Rausch being a Master of the Universe was sad and hilarious. Money was always in there for her brother, one way or another.
Money shouted. Money sang. Money talked.
Money walked.
She remembered how Raymond used to read to them from The Jungle Book. One Halloween, he gave Chess a wig and red Speedo; the little boy trick-or-treated as Mowgli while their father comported in a raffish Baloo jungle bear number. (Maybe that memory wasn’t even her own. Maybe it was Marj’s, as-told-to.)
2 months later, just days after Christmas, he was gone.
JOAN got a call from Trudy, the original Travel Gal. After a light skirmish of How are you?s, Trudy advised Joan she had just returned from “a little vacation,” and heard from a coworker that Marjorie had expressed interest in going to Mumbai. Trudy said she tried Marj at home but couldn’t reach her, and was “just checking in to see if everything was OK.” She had tagged along with her mother once when the Travel Gals arranged an anniversary cruise to Alaska; her adoptive father was sick and Joan offered to help with planning, along with lending moral support. That was back when she was seeing more of her mom—she felt to blame for being somewhat of a stranger since Hamilton’s death. Add that one to the list. It should have been the other way around—she should have seen less of Marj while her husband was still alive, and more of her now. Whatever. It was all moot. She told Trudy she’d get hold of Mom and they’d come in together. Frankly, she was irritated the woman had phoned. She hated the folksy hard sell.
Besides, Joan had no intention of going to India wit
h her mother, Pradeep, Thom Mayne, John Frankenheimer, Salman Rushdie, or anyone else you could think of. She needed to bag the Freiberg Mem and get her ass in gear, finish the maquette, have Barbet sign off, then fly it on up to Lew. The whole high-dollar dog-and-pony thing. She needed to wash that Mem right out of her hair and soak up the world press that would accompany her honor, propelling her to new worlds: the tony gallery rep for gouaches and watercolors, the crazy-cool furniture line, sex-sizzled signed and numbered condos, Sunday-magazine profiles, Robert Wilson collaborations, Taschen/Rizzoli Joan Herlihy: Builder book pub parties, and international university master classes. If everything turned out like she wanted, she wouldn’t be able to sleep for the next 10 years, let alone travel for pleasure or familial obligation.
Maybe her brother was on to something when he brought up the ticking clock. She had stopped taking birth control pills like her gynecologist told her to every few years, and hadn’t had a period in nearly 3 months.
Which was normal.
But now she had that same feeling she’d had years ago with Pradeep, a few weeks before she miscarried.
L.
Ray
Through Lawyer, Deputies Issue Apology
for Wrong Door Break-In
By CHARLTON WOOLTON, Times Staff Writer
8 deputies who broke down the wrong door of a City of Industry residence, mistaking it for a narcotics distribution site, apologized Friday through their lawyers for the damage, including the shooting of a family dog. Doctors said the early-morning break-in was a contributing factor to a heart attack suffered by the apartment tenant Raymond Rausch, 76. He was hospitalized for 5 days. Both Mr Rausch and the dog, “Friar Tuck,” have since recovered and been released from their respective caregiving facilities.
