Fade to Blue

by Bill Moody

“What’s he like?” Andie wants to know. “Did you talk to him?” She’s kneeling on the bed facing me as I lean back against the headboard in our hotel.

  “Of course I talked to him. He’s seems okay. He likes my playing and—”

  “He’s okay? How can you be so calm? Do you know how many people would like to meet and talk with Ryan Stiles?”

  “I’m guessing a lot.” I have to laugh, seeing how excited Andie is. She just stares at me, shaking her head. “Okay, it’s pretty heady stuff. Not because it’s Ryan Stiles but that they want me to score the movie. I’m not sure what it will be like seeing him on a daily basis for the piano lessons.”

  “Evan, listen to me. You deserve this. All the years you’ve spent scuffling for gigs, the setbacks, the disappointments. You have to do this. Just think about us sitting in a darkened theater, the credits rolling and we see: Music by Evan Horne.” She looks toward the wall and waves her hand across it dramatically.

  She jumps up and straddles me, her hands around my neck. “You’re going to do this, Evan Horne.”

  I lie awake long after Andie falls asleep. Scoring a movie, even a small one, could open a lot of doors. I squeeze my right hand into a fist. Still no pain, but how long is it going to last? Is it time to start thinking about a future without playing the piano? Andie is right. I couldn’t get near somebody like Ryan Stiles, and here he is coming after me.

  ***

  We’re just about finished packing when the phone rings. Andie answers, nods, and mumbles a few times. “Yes, that’s fine. We’re ready.” She hangs up and turns to me. “Our car is here. They’re sending somebody up for the bags.” She looks at me for a moment. “What car? Where are we going?”

  I try to hide my smile as I zip up my bag. “Oh, Ryan sent the car. We’re going over to the Beverly Hills Hotel for a couple of days while I think things over.” I duck when she throws a pillow at me.

  “Oh my God, I’ve got to go shopping.”

  We go down to the lobby and are shown outside to a black Lincoln town car. The driver touches the bill of his cap and opens the door for us, as a bellman stores our bags in the trunk. We get in and settle back for the short ride to Beverly Hills.

  Andie squeezes my hand and slides against me. “You know what one of my fantasies is?” she whispers in my ear.

  “I can guess, but it’s ten o’clock in the morning.” I glance at the rearview mirror and catch the driver’s eyes and we both smile.

  At the Beverly Hills Hotel, two bellmen greet us. One takes our bags. The other escorts us to the front desk where the manager, dressed in an expensive suit, smiles and flourishes a pen for me to sign in.

  “Your suite is ready, Mr. Horne. Just sign here please. As a guest of Mr. Stiles, please don’t hesitate to call on me for anything.” He smiles again and we cross the lobby with the bellman just ahead of us. At the elevator, we step aside and several people get out.

  Andie nudges me and whispers. “That was Jane Fonda.”

  Our room overlooks the pool. It’s large, airy, and furnished like a condo. On a table is a large basket of fruit, a bottle of wine, and a carton of my brand of cigarettes. There’s a card with them. “Enjoy,” it says. “RS.” I show the card to Andie. She wanders around, taking in the rich furnishings, the canopy bed, and the bathroom that’s bigger than some of the apartments I’ve lived in.

  “I feel a long bath coming on.” She looks at the array of bath oils and lotions.

  When the phone rings, it’s Grant Robbins. “Evan. I trust everything is to your liking?”

  “Perfect. This is all very generous.”

  “How about lunch,” Robbins says. “One o’clock. Ryan will be joining us so we can talk details a bit more.”

  “Fine, I’d like that.”

  “Great,” Robbins says. “The patio dining room.”

  I hang up and turn to Andie. “Better take that bath. We’re having lunch with Ryan Stiles.”

  Just before one, Andie and I arrive at the hotel restaurant. Before we can say a word, the manager appears and escorts us to a plush booth surrounded by palms and flowers. Grant Robbins rises as we approach and holds out his hand to Andie.

  “Miss Lawrence, how nice to meet you.” Andie has outdone herself with a quick shopping trip for a mid-thigh dress and heels, and her hair fluffed up like she’d combed it with her fingers. Tasteful yet very sexy, as only Andie can be. She looks anything but an FBI agent.

  “My pleasure,” she says, taking Robbins’ hand and sliding into the booth as she looks around.

  Robbins catches her. “Don’t worry, Ryan will be joining us shortly. He’s finishing up a few scenes this morning for a new film.”

  I slide in next to Andie. Robbins sits on the other side of her. A waiter appears instantly and takes our drink orders. Bloody Marys all around.

  “Well,” Robbins says. “I hope everything is all right. Room okay?”

  “It’s lovely,” Andie says, sounding almost shy.

  “Yes,” I say. “Thank you very much, but none of this was really necessary.”

  “Nonsense,” Robbins says. “I admit, we wanted to impress you, give you a taste of what’s in store. I trust you’ve given our little proposal some more thought.”

  Before I can answer, Robbins looks up. “Ah, here’s Ryan.” He gets to his feet as Ryan Stiles approaches. He’s in jeans, running shoes, and a light pullover sweater, his eyes hidden behind the dark glasses.

  He takes off the glasses and zeros in on Andie. “Wow, the most beautiful FBI agent I’ve ever seen.” He offers his hand and Andie almost knocks over a water glass as she reaches out to shake it.

  “Hello,” is all she can manage as she stares.

  Stiles sprawls in the booth next to Robbins as a waiter appears with a tall glass of orange juice. I can’t tell if it’s just juice or spiked with vodka.

  “So, everything cool? Grant take care of you guys?”

  “Yes,” Andie and I say in unison.

  “Good.” Stiles turns to Robbins. “You need to speak to that director,” he says. “We had to do three takes for that one dumb scene.”

  Robbins nods. “I’ll handle it.” He takes out his cell phone and dials a number. “Excuse me for a minute,” he tells us, waiting for his call to go through.

  Ryan smiles and shrugs our way. “Sorry,” he says. “Just some artistic differences.”

  Andie and I sip our drinks as Robbins talks softly but firmly to whoever is on the other end. He clicks the phone shut. “All taken care of,” he tells Stiles, who just nods as if he knew it would be.

  “So, how ’bout some lunch?”

  Robbins does most of the talking as we work our way through some melt-in-your-mouth grilled salmon, risotto, and a caesar salad. It’s more about how much he and Ryan want me to join the Stiles team in what could be cinematic history, the way he describes it.

  By the time we order coffee, I have some questions of my own. “What is the story about in this script?”

  Robbins and Stiles exchange glances. “There’s a security issue with the script,” Robbins says. “As I’m sure you can imagine, the press would love to know what Ryan’s next project is. Until we know you’re with us, we prefer to keep the content confidential. I’m sure you understand.”

  I don’t but I let it go. “So I would get to see the script if I agree to score the film?”

  “Of course,” Robbins says. “Absolutely.”

  “He means when we have you signed,” Stiles chimes in with a big smile.

  It all seems a bit over the top to me. It is, after all, only a movie, but I guess Robbins has a point. Both men look at me expectantly.

  I glance at Andie, who manages to take her eyes off Stiles long enough to give me a searching, you-better-do-this look. Under the table I feel her hand squeeze my leg.

  “Okay, here’s what I’ve decided. I’m in for the piano tutoring. I still want to take some more time on the rest of your of
fer if that’s okay with you.” I catch a slight frown from Stiles but Robbins touches his shoulder.

  “Well, we’re halfway there, then, aren’t we.”

  I hear Andie sigh in relief. “I guess we are.”

  Stiles jumps up and grabs my hand. “Way cool, man, way cool!” He glances at his watch. “I have to get back to the set. Grant will fill you in on the details. I can’t wait to get started on this.” He waves at Andie and then he’s gone.

  Robbins has already taken some papers from a slim leather briefcase beside him and slides them across to me. “This is the formal agreement,” he says. “Nothing tricky, just the payment terms. If you’ll just sign where the arrow is.”

  I glance at it briefly, see nothing unusual, and take the Mont Blanc pen Robbins offers, aware of Andie’s eyes on me as I scribble my signature and hand it back. He pulls off one copy. “This one’s for you,” he says, and returns the rest to his briefcase. He stands. “Sorry to run off, but I have several pressing matters to handle. Enjoy your stay. I’ll call you about the beach house.”

  Andie and I lean back and look at each other. “What beach house?”

  Chapter Two

  Andie and I watch as a short, powerfully built man in a torn shirt and faded jeans shoves Ryan Stiles against the bannister of a staircase. Ryan fights him off for a moment, but eventually loses his grip. The short man slams a forearm into Ryan’s face and he tumbles backwards, rolling head-over-heels down the staircase where he lies crumpled and still. The short man, breathing hard now, glares, reaches behind his back and pulls a gun from the waistband of his jeans. He starts down the stairs, the gun trained on Ryan.

  “Cut!” a voice comes from behind us. A bell rings and suddenly there’s a flurry of motion and activity. The man on the stairs grins and twirls the gun on his finger. We watch as Ryan, at the bottom of the stairs, jumps to his feet. But it’s not Ryan. He turns and high-fives Ryan, who approaches, dressed identically in jeans, boots, and a black tee shirt. Another man in a baseball cap walks to them and talks briefly with Ryan and his stunt double.

  “Okay, let’s set it up people,” the director says. Ryan nods, reaches down, and checks a gun in an ankle holster under his jeans. As the stuntman walks away, Ryan lies on the floor, positioning himself in exactly the same pose as the fallen stuntman. There are a few more minutes as the camera and lighting are adjusted. Another man steps in front of the camera with the clapboard.

  “Don’t Die Again, Scene 57, Take one.” He moves back and the director’s voice again pierces the already quiet set. “Quiet please. Roll sound. And, action.”

  Ryan stirs on the floor, looking up at the short man coming down the stairs. Ryan pulls the gun from the ankle holster and fires. A splatter of blood erupts from the short man’s chest. He staggers and falls forward, rolling down the stairs and landing next to Ryan. I feel Andie flinch at the sound of the gunshots.

  “Cut! All right, people, that’s a wrap,” the director says. “Great, guys. Very nice, Ryan.”

  Ryan leans over and claps the short man on the shoulder. “You okay, Barney?”

  Barney sits up and smiles at Ryan. “Never better.” He unbuttons his shirt to reveal the plastic bag of fake blood and pulls it off. “Loved working with you,” he says.

  Ryan gets to his feet, smiling, and saunters over to Andie and I. “So. How’d I do?”

  “You shouldn’t turn the gun sideways,” Andie says. “They always gets that wrong in movies. It’s not nearly so accurate.”

  Ryan’s smile fades. He glances at Andie for a moment, then at me.

  “Hey,” I say. “She would know.”

  Ryan gazes at Andie for a long moment. “You ever shoot anybody or been shot?”

  “Both,” Andie says, matching Ryan’s gaze.

  Ryan looks away then smiles again. “Well, I guess you would know then.”

  Andie just nods, turns, and walks away.

  “It wasn’t that long ago, “ I tell Ryan. “Bank robbery shooting in San Francisco.”

  “Oh shit,” Ryan says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” He looks around. “Look, I’m going to change and then we’ll go out to Malibu, show you the house. I’ll meet you guys outside.”

  I find Andie outside the sound stage, leaning against a vintage car. “You okay?”

  She nods. “Yeah. I know it’s a movie, fake and all that, but…”

  “The star shine fading?”

  “I don’t know. There’s something about him.”

  “Of course there is. He’s a good-looking, millionaire movie star.”

  The ride up the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu is uneventful. Ryan takes a few phone calls while Andie and I watch the scenery. It’s one of those perfect sunny California days. A light breeze blowing off the ocean, the sun, an orange ball starting its decline to the sea. For me, it’s a homecoming of sorts. I grew up in Santa Monica, lived a few years in Venice before I went to Europe, and I’ve driven this road countless times. It was also the road where I had the accident that nearly ended my career as a jazz pianist.

  We pass Pepperdine University and go another ten miles or so, past Point Dume, then down the hill to Trancas canyon. At the light, the driver veers to the left down Broad Beach Road, past the rear of a number of large homes that, according to Ryan, are full of television and movie people. We get an occasional glimpse of the ocean between houses. Then finally, the road curves to the left and up a slight incline and stops behind a large white villa. Tall wrought-iron gates block the entrance.

  Ryan gets out and, blocking the driver’s view, punches in some numbers on the key pad. The gates slowly open on a half-circle driveway. There’s a red BMW sports car already parked, as well as a chocolate brown Mercedes sedan. The driver pulls in and opens the rear door.

  Before we get out, Ryan leans forward and takes Andie’s hand. “I’m really sorry, Andie. I hope you’ll forgive me. I was way out of line.” He turns on that megawatt smile.

  “Nothing to forgive,” Andie says. “I’m just still a little tense about guns.”

  “Yes, I know that now.”

  Andie and I get out and follow Ryan inside. The door is opened by a tall young blonde. “Hi, baby,” she says. She wraps her arms around Ryan then steps back.

  She’s maybe twenty-five, wearing sandals, a flimsy unbuttoned shirt, and a white bikini that leaves nothing to the imagination. Her eyes flick over Andie and she holds out her hand to me. “You must be Evan Horne,” she says. “I’m Melanie Hammond.”

  “This is my honey,” Ryan says, draping his arm around her shoulder. “Isn’t she something?”

  “Indeed,” Andie says. “I’m Andie Lawrence. I’m Evan’s honey.” Andie smiles sweetly.

  “Melanie just wrapped a movie with Adam Sandler,” Ryan says. “Not a big part but she was great.”

  “I bet she was.” Andie squeezes my hand so tightly I can feel her nails dig into my palm.

  “C’mon, Evan,” Ryan says. “Let me show you the guesthouse.”

  “We’ll meet you by the pool,” he says to Melanie and Andie.

  Andie shoots me a look then goes off with Melanie. I follow Ryan out a side door to a flagstone walk that leads to a small guesthouse. One window faces the ocean and the sound of the surf filters up. “I hope this is okay,” Ryan says. He opens the door with a flourish like a bellhop showing me a room in a luxury hotel.

  There’s a queen-sized bed, two stuffed chairs facing a small fireplace, a flat-screen television mounted on the wall, a small refrigerator. Ryan opens it and shows me it’s full of beer, soft drinks, an array of juices. “You need anything special, just let Emillio know. He cooks and runs the house.”

  I nod. “It’s beautiful,” I say.

  Ryan beams. “C’mon. I haven’t shown you the best.” We go back in the house to an enormous living room. The wall facing the ocean is almost all glass with a spectacular view of the surf and beach that stretches back as far as I can see.
In one corner, black and gleaming in the filtered sunlight, is a baby grand piano. “Try it out,” Ryan says.

  I sit down and run my hands over the keys. It’s in perfect tune, of course, and the action is wonderful. I play a few bars of blues and glance at Ryan. “Very nice,” I say. The sound fills the room.

  “Use it all you want,” Ryan says. “You probably practice a lot, right?”

  “When I can.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time,” Ryan says. He stands, looking at me as if memorizing the moment. “C’mon, let’s get some lunch.”

  We join Andie and Melanie on the glassed-in patio, where Emillio is serving. Melanie is on her cell phone. Andie is staring at the ocean, a Bloody Mary in front of her.

  “Yeah, it was like, whoa,” Melanie says into the phone. “Just awesome.”

  Andie rolls her eyes at me and takes a long pull on her drink.

  Melanie glances up, sees Ryan. “Gotta go,” she says and quickly closes the phone.

  “Why don’t you put a top on,” Ryan says. Melanie gets up and excuses herself. Ryan glances at us. “Body like that, you want to flaunt it.”

  When Melanie comes back, she’s wearing a denim shirt, buttoned halfway over her bikini top. Ryan nods and smiles. “Well, let’s eat,” he says.

  Over a lunch of shrimp salad, rolls, and iced tea, Ryan entertains us with movie stories and a rundown of other celebrities that live along the beach. “Don’t be surprised if you run into Ali McGraw walking her dog,” he says. “Stallone too. He had a place down here for awhile. He hired a boat to set off fireworks on the fourth of July a couple of years ago. Very nice guy and a major talent, right, honey?” He looks at Melanie.

  “One of a kind,” she says.

  “Well,” Ryan says, getting to his feet. “Melanie and I are going to take a siesta.” He winks broadly. “You two make yourselves at home, take a walk, whatever. Anything you want, just ask Emillio.”

  When Ryan and Melanie are gone, Andie looks at me. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Okay, okay. He’s trying.”

  “She’s afraid of him,” Andie says. “Did you see the look on her face when he told her to put something on?”