Fifty Grand

by Adrian McKinty

  Time and food and conversation flowed, and when Watson went into the kitchen to load the dishwasher, Miss Raven produced a 150-year-old vintage Madeira and preembargo Monte Cristo cubanos.

  With a bottle under his belt Jack was waxing on his favorite topic: the up-and-down career of Jack Tyrone. “Yeah, the Independent Spirit nomination was a real boost, I’m getting leads now. I’m doing this movie called Gunmetal, medium budget, I play a British Victoria Cross winner in the Crimean War. You wouldn’t believe the script changes. It’s based on the video game but it’s gone in a totally different direction. We’re throwing this Brit guy into the future, steam punk, all that.”

  “You’re playing a Brit?” Mickey asked skeptically.

  “But of course, my dear sir,” Jack said in his faux English diphthongs.

  “Don’t like the title. Don’t see the connection,” another of the other producers said. He was a svelte, tanned man in a tailored polo shirt and an expensive toupee.

  “But that’s the whole thing, you see,” Jack said. “All the Victoria Cross medals are made from gunmetal from cannons that the Brits captured in the Crimea. So the title sneakily refers to the medals but it’s also about the first-person shooter.”

  The dishwasher loaded and the kitchen cleaned, Watson came back and kneeled next to Miss Raven. She drummed her fingernails on his leather-encased head while Jack went on and on. Some of the men were looking bored and I wished Jack would give it a rest, but unfortunately he wasn’t capable of that. Cunningham finally interrupted the flow.

  “Who’s this with?”

  “Focus, for Universal.”

  “I’ll speak to them. Gunmetal won’t fly. Sounds too John Woo. Doesn’t work for a historical.”

  Jack wanted to defend his picture, which hadn’t even begun rolling yet, but he had the sense not to offend the producer. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  Cunningham puffed cigar smoke and considered it. “Keep it short, go with Crimea.”

  “Well, it’s not really up to me,” Jack said.

  The producer with the toupee looked at him, strangely, as if regarding a particularly rare specimen in a butterfly net: My God, who is this person that eats with us yet doesn’t have the power to change the title of a movie?

  I sipped some of the Madeira. It was sweet, rich, very good.

  Miss Raven stared at me, hoping that I had something to say.

  Titles, I thought to myself, what do I know about titles?

  Time Can Be Either Particle or Wave.

  “I like Gunmetal,” Watson said, surprisingly, from behind his mask. “But it is too John Woo. Gunmetal Sky, Gunmetal Gray—those work better and they’re short. Titles should be two or three syllables at most.”

  Watson’s words hung in the air like a failed bon mot. It was easy to ignore him as long as he wasn’t saying anything, but now that he’d broken the spell we couldn’t help but see this bondage-encased man kneeling on the floor next to us.

  Watson knew he’d screwed up and with a haughty look from Miss Raven he scurried off to the kitchen.

  The party ended in anticlimax. Miss Raven asked us if we would mind forgoing coffee as she had urgent business to attend to in the dungeon. The men said it was no problem. She thanked everyone for coming, asked them to see themselves out, and with a bored sigh followed Watson into the kitchen.

  Jack and the others walked outside and Jack gave Cunningham his phone number. It was cold now. Jack took off his jacket and placed it around my shoulders.

  We said good night and got in the Bentley.

  Jack wasn’t happy. Something had upset him. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “You’re upset about the movie-title thing?”

  “No, titles are like gossamer. Change all the time. Did you hear what Mickey said earlier? He said that my acting was an homage to the icons of yesteryear.”

  “Isn’t that a compliment?”

  “Like fuck it is. He was saying I was a lousy actor. Fucking queer, what does he know?”

  “Mickey likes you. Miss Raven told me so.”

  Jack’s mood did a one-eighty. A grin like a Party kid meeting Jefe at Pioneer Camp. “Really? Really? She said that?”

  “Yes,” I assured him.

  “Oh, shit, really? Maybe I got the wrong end of the stick there. Yeah, he’s a good guy. And you know, it’s not true about my acting. I’ve gotten good notices. Paul says I just missed out on a SAG award, and A. O. Scott said that in We’ll Always Have Parricide I was ‘the sole bearer of a lifebelt in this shipwreck of a movie.’ Clever, right? Did you ever see that one? We’ll Always Have Parricide? It was a black comedy, you know? Bandwagon stuff, Luke Wilson vehicle, I was third banana.”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “Well, you didn’t miss much. I’ve got the DVD at home if you want to take a look.”

  “Sure.”

  We accelerated out of the driveway and the gates opened for us as if by magic. Jack paused to see if there was anything happening at the Cruise estate but the lights were off and the Cruises abed.

  “Can I give you a ride to Wetback—to the, uhm, I mean, the motel?”

  “Don’t worry, I know what everybody calls it.”

  “It’s just a joke. It’s not mean.”

  “I’m not offended.”

  A look of obvious conspiracy flashed in his eyes followed by that boyish salesman smile. “Or, or, would you, uh, like to come back to my place for coffee?”

  “Your place. Coffee,” I said quickly.

  The ride to Jack’s took fifteen minutes. It was a five-minute drive but Jack had had that bottle.

  The irony did not impress me at the time because I was tipsy too, but I saw it eventually.

  This car. This road. An intoxicated driver. Me. Dad. Enabler. Avenger.

  We arrived at the house. I stumbled as I got out. Jack caught me before I fell.

  I had never had such heady stuff in my life.

  Tipsy, but not drunk.

  I knew what I was doing. I knew what was going to happen. There were a million opportunities to back out. No one put a gun to my head.

  A gun to my head. Yeah, that’s right, more irony.

  “Shall we go inside?”

  “Please.”

  “Let me get your bag.”

  “Leave it.”

  “Christ, that’s heavy, whatcha got in there?”

  A telephone call to the motel would have put a stop to it. Paco, come. But I made no calls. Didn’t want to. Jack was the antithesis of all those cadaver boys in Havana.

  Jack was alive, funny, insecure, overconfident.

  Jack was all those Yuma movies and TV shows.

  Jack was America.

  We went in and he took off his jacket and surreptitiously wrote something on a pad next to the phone table.

  “Martini?” he asked. “Even when I’m sort of on the wagon I allow myself one at the end of the day.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Tip from Paul. A stiff drink and one—but only one—Ambien and all the cares of the world disappear . . . How do you like yours? Your martini?”

  “Whatever way you’re having it.”

  When he went into the kitchen I looked at the note he’d made on the scribble pad. It said: “1) Chk Richard Serra MOMA/Met? 2) New Yorker—tell Paul subscribe.”

  Very sinister.

  “You want me to find that Luke Wilson DVD?” Jack shouted.

  “If you want to.”

  Jack came back with the martinis and began showing me the various objets d’art and interesting pieces of furniture he had in his living room. He had somehow forgotten that I had been in this house twice already and dusted all this shit.

  I listened. He told jokes. I laughed.

  Upstairs he showed me his awards, his film books, his signed scripts, and that hideous framed poster of the twins in spaceship uniforms.

  “What do you think?” he said, pointing at the poster.

  “Who are they?”

&nb
sp; Jack’s jaw dropped and hung there.

  “It’s Kirk! From Star Trek. The two captains. Look, down there, signed by Shatner himself.”

  I had heard of Star Trek but that particular Yuma series had never made it to Cuba.

  “I thought the captain was bald,” I said.

  “Jesus Christ, that’s Picard! Forget him, this is the main dude. Bill’s the man. Did you ever see Fight Club? Remember what Pitt said when they asked him who he’d want to fight in the whole world?”

  “I did not see Fight Club.”

  “Shit, man. No Star Trek, no Fight Club . . . I mean, you had electricity, right, where you’re from, right?”

  “Electricity? No, we only just got fire a few years ago, but that was useful because it helped scare away all the dinosaurs that kept marauding the village.”

  Jack laughed and kissed me on the cheek. “Oh, María, you crack me up. You’re funny. No, no, let me tell you, I’m proud of this. It’s from ‘The Enemy Within,’ episode five, you know, the two Kirks? I wanted ‘Mirror Mirror,’ but then I figured that if I ever got an opportunity to meet Nimoy, I’d get him to sign a ‘Mirror Mirror’ poster, the two Spocks. Good idea, huh?”

  “Very.”

  “I’d thought about getting a goatee myself like the evil Spock for Gunmetal, but everybody’s nixed it. The Brits back then wore mustaches, not goatees. Besides, after all the ‘Mirror Mirror’ parodies you’d feel like an idiot.”

  “Yes.”

  “Probably should move the poster to my place in L.A. More traffic through there, tell the story, impress them with my Trek lore. Youkilis says I should move full-time to L.A., but I’m a Colorado boy and Fairview is white hot for celebs right now and it’s still got that small-town feel.”

  “It does.”

  “Yeah, you really get to know people and the big rooster himself is up the hill. Shit, if we could get Spielberg to move out here we’d really have something . . .”

  I stopped listening after a while. I liked Jack better when he wasn’t saying anything. He was several years older than me but he seemed younger, younger than Paco, even. I finished my drink.

  “Get you a refill?” he asked.

  The martini. Words. Another martini. More words.

  “I’ll have to introduce you to my friends and I’ll have to meet yours . . . You should see my place in L.A. Seriously, why not?”

  Jack’s shirt. His breath on my neck. A joke. A question.

  Yes, Jack, I do. I want to feel your body on top of me, I want you to give yourself to me utterly, completely, all of you, Jack, even if only for a night.

  Another refill and I caught him looking at his own reflection in the window. He grinned sheepishly. It’s ok, Jack, this is you at your peak, lead rolls in the pictures, money, women, fame. This is you on top, before the injections and the rejections. You shouldn’t be ashamed to look. You’re fabulous.

  “New haircut, not sure I like it,” he said and pulled a strand or two.

  Oh, don’t speak, Jack, just come over.

  Why is it always the woman who has to show the man? I thought, drained the third martini and got up from the couch. I stepped out of my skirt and panties, I let the blouse fall to the floor, I unhooked my hair.

  “Two hundred dollars in a new place on Pearl and they didn’t even trim my sideburns,” he said, still looking at the haircut, but then he saw me and his common sense kicked in. His mouth closed. He put down his glass.

  “Fuck,” he said.

  “My sentiments exactly,” I replied.

  CHAPTER 14

  KAREN

  B

  lindfolded dawn. Sound, then light. A timer clicks, a motor whirrs, and the curtains pull back by themselves. Snow at morning’s door. A pinkish-white dusting on the balcony rail.

  The sun inching over the Front Range but as yet invisible behind a smother of low gray clouds. Above the clouds, a red sky turning American blue.

  Hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

  Something’s wrong. A shiver.

  “Jack?”

  But Jack’s asleep. Dreaming of Oscars and Spirit Awards.

  I sit up and look around the bedroom.

  Maybe Youkilis has come in early.

  Maybe I’ve overplayed my hand.

  No, the alarm box in the bedroom is still blinking. It hasn’t been disabled. No one’s come in.

  Is there someone outside? A deranged fan? I have read about such things in French magazines.

  I slip out from between the covers, find a pair of Jack’s sweatpants and one of his T-shirts. I pull on the sweatpants, tie the band tight, and tuck in the T. The T-shirt says “Total Loser” on it. Why would someone buy that? It must be an American joke. How long would I have to be in this country to stop feeling like an alien? Did Dad ever get over it? I think of Mork in that Yuma show from the seventies—that was Colorado too.

  I walk to the glass doors and scan the balcony and the gravel drive that leads to the road. Chairs. Bird footprints. Snow. Once I would have run outside. Not now. I’ll never see it again after tomorrow. Not until Jefe and Little Jefe finally go to be with Marx.

  Hector’s voice: Well, Mercado, what else do you see with that keen cop eye of yours?

  A water tower rising like a Wells tripod from the trees. A breeze ruffling the upper branches. A plane on the approach to Vail.

  No psychotic stalkers or fans.

  Spotlights at the big Cruise estate at the top of the mountain are making a kind of false dawn. Spotlights and a flashing red landing beacon. The helicopter bringing Mr. Cruise will be here soon.

  I walk to the window nearest the bathroom and check the garden and Jack’s car. The gate is closed and the car is still in its spot.

  There’s nothing out there, I say to myself.

  I sit on the ottoman and pull the hair back from my face. On a desk I find some other one-night stand’s scrunchie and make a short ponytail.

  What now?

  I could do breakfast, but Jack’s TiVo says it’s only 6:15. Too early to get up quite yet.

  I don’t want to go for a walk. I don’t want to sit here.

  Hell with this.

  I lift the duvet, slide back underneath the cover, and sidle my way next to him.

  “Jack,” I whisper but he’s out.

  His breathing hushed, slow. One of my hairs falls on his face. His nose twitches.

  What am I doing here with this lovely boy? The psalmist has words for you. But not me. I’m content to say nothing, to lose myself in the silence, to ripen in your good looks.

  Oh, Jack, you’ll never get taken seriously as an actor with that face. You ought to be in Attica judging beauty contests between Hera and Aphrodite. You ought to be out in the earthblack woods, butterflies alighting at your passing, does sniffing the air.

  You’re so un-Cuban. So finely sculpted—masculine, poised, confident. Like the statue of David I will never be allowed to travel to see. You can. You can do whatever you like. You’re one of those imperialist Yankees we read about in high school. One of those white men who run the globe. Sure, I’ll meet your friends, Jack, and you can meet mine. Tell Paco he’ll never be a big cheese like you. Tell Esteban that this isn’t Mexico anymore. This is your land, Jack. You beat them all to it. You were here before Columbus slipped anchor for China. You were here first. Flying your Enola Gay. Singing “Jail-house Rock.” Bunny-hopping on the moon. Let me be here with you, Jack, let me stroke those washboard abs, that botticino marble skin, let me ride that long American cock and lick the sweat from your back.

  I slide my hand between his thighs but the Ambien and martinis keep him down.

  I’m leaving, Jack. I’m going soon. You’ll come see me? Defy the U.S. Treasury. Rendezvous in the Hotel Nacional. A good career move. Maybe they’ll put your picture up next to Robert Redford’s.

  He grins in his sleep and I close my eyes. Feel his warmth. Lie there.

  The winter sun burning through clouds. Ice melt. Water tap-tap-t
apping on the window. My boy smiling in his dream.

  I touch his cheek and his eyelashes flicker.

  Wake up and we’ll skip this scene. I could be legal by noon. Drive me to the FBI office in Denver. This year alone five thousand Cubans have come over the border from Mexico, all of them now on the path to citizenship. Citizen Mercado and her boyfriend, Jack.

  You like the sound of that?

  And I’ll forgive Paul or Esteban or Mrs. Cooper.

  María is the sovereign lady of forgiveness.

  Forgive. Yes. I don’t even think I’d care if it was you, Jack. Not Youkilis, Youkilis covering for you somehow.

  It wouldn’t matter, would it, Jack?

  Uhh, he says in agreement.

  I put my arm under him. My breasts press against his back.

  Yes. Let’s slip away.

  You’ll understand, Dad, won’t you? After all, what did you ever care about any of us? What were you thinking about on that slope? Did you see my face? Ricky’s? Not Mom’s. Probably you were drunk or high. Crying out for Karen or the girls you had on the side. Drunk and happy like you were the day you abandoned us in Santiago. Did you see me as you lay dying? You were not on my mind. I wasn’t even in Havana. Wild goose chase for a wife killer. Train to Laguna de la Leche. Reading one of Hector’s extensive collection of banned books. Thucydides. Given to me as a birthday present. Yeah, that’s right . . . the day after my birthday. Well, Pop, did you even bother to look down on me on your way to eternity? You would have liked Pajero, near Laguna—a perfect shithole. Moonshine shacks, tin houses, open sewers. Our killer—of course—long gone. Girl on a bicycle brought me a message from town. Señora, a phone call from Havana. Phone call? Sí, señora. Back together on the bike. Two of us. East among the sunflowers. East into the dying sunflowers, the words of Pericles by the lake, while you were being unmade.

  Ring-ring on a rickety black café phone from the thirties.

  Ricky’s voice as distant as the moon.

  How did you find me?

  Listen, darling sit down, are you sitting? I’m sorry, Dad’s dead, some kind of accident in Colorado.