by Bill Moody
“Yeah, I did. I was kind of disappointed.” Andie just glares. “Okay, just kidding. C’mon, let’s take a walk.”
Just down from the pool, there’s a short, worn path leading down to the beach. We leave our shoes and socks and let our feel sink into the sand and walk along the water’s edge, checking out the impressive homes. Lots of wood and glass, decks and balconies, but not many people. We pass a few other beach strollers, but no one gives us a second look.
We find a spot just out of reach of the encroaching surf and sit down in the sand. The ocean air, the breeze, the sun, all feels good as I lean back on my elbows. Andie sits up, hugging her knees, staring out at the water.
“Something on your mind?”
Andie shrugs. “I don’t want to rain on your parade, but how long do you think it’s going to take to get him to look like a piano player?”
“I don’t know. Couple of weeks, maybe three. I think he’s probably a quick study. Why?”
“Just don’t get all caught up in this celebrity thing, okay.”
“C’mon, Andie. You know me better than that. I’ve been around money before.”
“I know you have but this is different. It’s not just money. It’s limos, beach houses, stars, girls like Melanie. It’s a whole other world.” She turns and looks at me. “Trust me, there’s something not quite right about all this. The way he asked me if I’d ever shot anybody or been shot myself. He already knew.”
“Ryan Stiles can’t help being a movie star. He likes it.”
“He likes the power. Melanie and I are going to have a siesta? Please. That was for our benefit. Sex on demand with Miss Hard Body.”
We look up as a woman in shorts and tee shirt runs by with a small dog on a leash. She waves and smiles.
“Hey,” Andie says. “I think that was Ali McGraw.”
We get up and walk back toward the house. “I know what you’re saying but none of it really bothers me except for one thing.”
“What?”
“They want me to score the movie, but I still haven’t heard a thing about the script.”
Back at the house, it’s all quiet. I show Andie the guesthouse and we have our own siesta to the sound of waves crashing. I leave Andie asleep and walk back out on the deck by the pool. Emillio is standing, staring out to sea.
“Beautiful, isn’t it.”
He turns. “Mr. Horne. Can I get you something?”
“A beer would be nice if it’s no trouble. And please, it’s Evan.” Emillio nods and heads for the kitchen and returns with a bottle, a chilled goblet, and an ashtray.
“Try this,” he says.
I take the bottle from him and do a double-take. On the label is a picture of Thelonious Monk. Brother Thelonious Belgian-style abbey ale. I take a sip and nod. “Nice. Who makes this?”
Emillio smiles. “A small brewery in Northern California. I found it at Trancas market. It seemed appropriate for your stay.”
I take another drink and light a cigarette. “So how do you like working for Ryan?”
Emillio turns and looks out at the ocean again. “It’s fine,” he says, “not too demanding, and of course this is a great extra benefit.” He waves his hand toward the surf, crashing now as the tide comes in. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to start preparing dinner.”
I finish my beer, wander into the living room, and sit down at the piano. I play some chords, then drift into “What’s New.” When I look up, Ryan Stiles is standing, leaning against the wall, shirtless in a pair of long shorts.
“You make it look so easy,” he says.
“Well, I’ve been doing it a long time.”
He comes closer, watching my hands. “Want to show me a few things, kind of get started?”
“Sure. You’ll probably be playing on a mock keyboard, no sound, but to look authentic, your hand movements will have to match the sound track as closely as possible.” I show him some left-hand voicings, a blues, and work through the changes with my right hand. “Like this, see?”
Ryan nods and watches. “Man, wish I could do that.”
“Well, hopefully, we’ll make it look like you can.” I get up and have him sit down. I position his left hand and show him the movements. He’s awkward at first but gradually begins to get the idea, repeating the left-hand three-note voicings over and over.
“That’s good,” I say. “Now play against it with your right hand.”
He stumbles then and stops. “It’s like patting your head and rubbing your stomach.”
“Exactly. The natural tendency is both hands want to do the same motion.”
He tries again, playing a chord with his left hand, then single notes with his right. He does it several times. It’s clumsy but he gradually gets his hands working independently.
“There you go. It’ll come eventually.”
He nods and stops, rubbing his wrists. “I can feel it already. Muscles I haven’t used before. You play again. Let me watch.”
We exchange places. I sit down and play a blues solo for a couple of choruses and take it out, feeling Ryan’s eyes on my every movement.
“I gotta get that head movement too. The way you lean in or tilt back, your eyes on the keyboard. The camera will catch all that.”
“You don’t have to look like me,” I say. “You can decide. Bill Evan kept his head down a lot of the time. Keith Jarrett rocks back and forth, sometimes even stands up as he plays. Every pianist is different.”
Ryan nods. “Lot to learn,” he says. “I’ve going to videotape you while you play and study the tape if that’s okay.”
“Sure.” I begin to realize how hard this is going to be for him to simulate the movement and motion of a jazz pianist in a relatively short time.
“Good. I get into researching a role. I really want this to look right.”
Ryan sits down in a nearby chair and I turn sideways on the piano bench. “Don’t forget, Forrest Whittaker never had a saxophone in his hand, but he looked pretty good playing Charlie Parker.”
“Where’s your lady?”
“Taking a nap.”
Ryan smiles. “Yeah, Melanie too. Wore her out.”
I let that go and get up. “I’m going to check on her.”
“Hey,” Ryan says. “She’s not still mad at me.”
“No, she’s just a little touchy about guns and shooting.”
Over dinner, Ryan announces that he’s throwing a party Friday night. “Some of the cast from Don’t Die Again, few friends, you know, just something casual.”
“Sorry I have to miss it,” Andie says. “I have to get back to work.”
“Catch some bad guys, huh?” Ryan says.
“More like catching up on some reports.”
Ryan turns to me. “Hey, invite your cop friend. What’s his name again? Cooper?”
“Yeah, Danny Cooper. I’m sure he’d enjoy it. I’ll call him.”
“Do that,” Ryan says.
Emillio begins to clear the table. “We’ll have coffee in the screening room,” Ryan tells him. He motions us to get up. “C’mon, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
We follow Ryan to another level of the house. There’s a huge screen, several soft easy chairs, and a couple of couches. Andie grabs my hand and we curl up on one; Ryan and Melanie sit on the other. Next to Ryan’s is a small panel of buttons. He presses one and the movie begins. It’s black and white. Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis in Sweet Smell of Success. I’ve seen it once before. Lancaster as a powerful columnist and Curtis as a sleazy press agent are both fantastic, but I know it’s the music scenes that Ryan has chosen it for.
Martin Milner, who later played in Route 66 and one of the television cop shows, plays a jazz guitarist involved with Lancaster’s sister. The band is drummer Chico Hamilton’s group. Milner must have had a good tutor as his hands on the guitar match the sound track very well. It really does look like he’s playing with Chico Hamilton.
“You going to make me look that good, Evan?”
“I hope so.”
“So do I,” Ryan says. “So do I.”
Chapter Three
Driving down the Pacific Coast Highway toward Santa Monica in a red BMW sports car, courtesy of Ryan Stiles, is an experience I won’t soon forget. I glance over at Andie. She leans back against the headrest, her hair blowing in the wind, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses. With the top down it’s too noisy to talk, which is probably just as well. But before I drop her at LAX, I know I’m going to get another lecture about Ryan Stiles and Hollywood.
I bypass the California Incline and speed through the tunnel and pick up Lincoln Boulevard. The traffic is light for a late Friday morning, so when I pull into the airport, we make it to departures with plenty of time to spare. I stop the car, turn off the engine, and look at Andie. She takes off her glasses and meets my eyes. Smiling, she pats the dashboard.
“You like this, don’t you,” she says.
“I like it better that it’s Ryan Stiles’ car,” I say, grinning, knowing I’m pushing her buttons. I glance in the rearview mirror and see a security guy heading for us. Andie sees him too, and takes out her Bureau I.D. and holds it up for him as he nears the car.
“FBI, special assignment,” she says without looking back at him.
The guard looks, gives her a mock salute. “Yes, Ma’am.”
Andie turns back to me. “How long do you think you’ll be here?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, two or three weeks maybe for the piano tutoring. If I ever get a look at the script, that will come later. I can’t score a movie that hasn’t been made yet.”
“That’s just one of the things that bothers me,” Andie says. “Why wouldn’t they want you to see it? That can’t be normal.”
It bothers me too, and I’ve already decided to push it with Ryan and Grant Robbins the next time I see him. “No, you’re right,” I say. “What else?”
Andie opens the door and gets out. “Keep an eye on Melanie,” she says.
“Hard not to.” I grin again and get a glare from Andie. I get out and take her bag out of the BMW’s small trunk.
We stand at the curb for a moment, passengers and cars flowing around us. “Maybe I’m just jealous that you get to spend a couple of weeks at a movie star’s Malibu beach house while I’m writing reports in San Francisco.” She moves closer and hugs me. “Just watch yourself, okay?”
I nod and kiss her. “Maybe you can get back for a weekend.”
“Maybe.” She turns, smiles, and heads into the terminal. “Call me.”
I stand for a minute, watching her disappear into the crowd, then get back in the car and merge with the exiting traffic. At a signal on Lincoln, I call Coop.
“Hey, you busy?”
“Ah, pianist to the stars. Always busy keeping Santa Monica safe,” he says. “Am I going to see your picture in People magazine anytime soon?”
“How about breakfast? I just dropped Andie at LAX.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” Coop says. “Norm’s?”
“See you there.”
It’s more like a half hour when Coop slides his bulk into a booth opposite me. He’s in jeans, a black tee shirt, and a light, dark blue windbreaker, his gun and badge clipped on his belt. I’m already working on a Denver omelet and coffee. “Sorry, I was hungry.”
Coop nods and signals a waitress for coffee. She brings it and a menu which Coop waves away. “Short stack and bacon,” he tells her, then turns to me. “So how goes it with the rich and famous?”
I catch him up on the house and the little I know about Ryan Stiles and Melanie, who interests Coop far more. “She’s Stiles’ girlfriend? She was one of the Sports Illustrated models. And you had lunch with her with Andie sitting at the same table?”
I push my plate aside. “Ryan was there too. You can see for yourself tomorrow night if you have a spot in your busy schedule.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Ryan is throwing a little party and told me to invite my cop friend.”
“I like him already,” Coop says as the waitress brings his pancakes. “Tell me more.”
“Stiles is okay. He’s eager and I think we’ll get along.”
Coop nods. “I’ve seen all his movies. I like those action flicks.”
“Why does that not surprise me? This one is going to be a small-budget independent type.”
Coop wipes some syrup off his lip with a napkin. “Oh, you mean one with a story and dialogue, that slow kind.”
“Yeah, maybe a little too deep for you.”
“And Stiles will play a piano player who—”
“Gets caught up in a murder or two, and no you don’t have to remind me.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“More coffee, guys?” The waitress has returned.
“Did you know I’ve been invited to Ryan Stiles’ party in Malibu tomorrow night?”
“Give him my regards,” she says. “You gonna arrest him?”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.” Coop turns back to me. “So what’s the catch? My detective skills tell me something is not quite right.”
“Just what Andie says. I don’t know. He and his agent know an awful lot about me already, and they’re being very evasive about showing me the script for some reason.”
Coop shrugs. “Security? They like to keep things secret in Hollywood, then make a big splash announcement, don’t they?”
We walk outside to the parking lot. “I guess that could be it, but I am now kind of in the loop, so to speak.” I grin at Coop and lean on the BMW.
His eyes get big. “Does this belong to…”
“Yep. Sure does.”
Coop nods and walks toward his car. “Hey, enjoy the experience and keep your eyes off Melanie.”
“Funny, Andie said just the opposite.”
“Sure she did. Oh, about the party?”
I get in the car and start the engine. “I’ll have my people call your people.”
***
Back at the house, it’s all quiet. I find Emillio fussing around in the kitchen but Melanie and Ryan are nowhere to be seen.
“Miss Blake went shopping,” Emillio says. “Mr. Stiles is at the gym for his workout.”
“Oh, where’s that? In Malibu?”
“In the basement.” He points to some stairs leading off the kitchen.
I should have known. I go to the guesthouse and change into some swim trunks and a tee shirt, opting on a walk along the beach. I find the stairway to the basement and decide to look in on Stiles. I open the door and I’m suddenly assaulted with earsplitting rock music. Stiles is on a stair master, his tank shirt darkened with sweat.
The room is filled with all kinds of equipment besides the stair master. Free weights line one wall in front of a huge mirror, a life cycle exercise bike next to that, along with several pulley machines. The ultimate home gym.
Ryan senses me or the open door and turns. “Be with you in a minute,” he yells. I can barely hear him over the music. He stops finally, turning off the machine, grabs a towel and switches off the stereo.
“Aerosmith,” he says. “It pumps me up. Want to have a go?” He takes in my swim trunks.
“No, I’ll pass. I was just going to take a walk on the beach.”
“Cool, mind if I join you?”
“Hey, it’s your beach.”
We pass through the kitchen and stop for a couple bottles of water, then down the path to the beach. Ryan jogs every few steps, like a fighter cooling off. I look at the surf. The waves are fairly big and the sun is very bright. It’s been a long time. I strip off my tee shirt.
“You do any surfing?” I ask him.
“No. Living here, I guess I should buy a board and take some lessons.”
“It’s been a while for me, but I have to see if I can still catch a wave or two.” I break into a run, splash throu
gh the churning surf and dive in, chilled for a moment at the water’s coldness. I surface and turn back toward Ryan who’s watching me. “Feels good. Come on in.”
Ryan stands still for a moment. He looks up and down the beach then takes off his shirt and tentatively walks in, letting the water churn around his legs then his chest as the water gets deeper. I turn and swim out toward the break. Ryan catches up eventually and we bounce up and down at neck level.
“Here we go,” I say. A mountain of water rolls toward us, bigger than I would have liked, but what the hell. I turn, facing the beach, and start swimming, feeling the mass of water catch me, start to feather at the top then rise up. Ryan looks a long way down as I start to slide across the face of the wave. He’s too close to avoid the rising wave, not far enough back to avoid the break of tons of water.
I catch just a glimpse of his panicked face as I put my arms to my sides and let my body rush down the incline of the wave. It’s a good ride. It finally breaks and I’m under water but in control as I dig for the surface. It feels so good I start laughing, then look around for Ryan.
I turn back and see him bobbing in the water, his arms thrashing as another wave looms, his head going under, over and over. On the beach I catch a glimpse of Melanie, pointing, yelling something. I turn and go back toward Ryan, swimming against the undercurrent to reach him. I hook my arm around his chest and start to pull him toward the beach. He fights me off at first then relaxes and lets me pull, swimming with one arm till we reach waist-high water. Ryan collapses against me, then flops on his hands and knees, coughing and spitting up water as Melanie rushes over.
She tries to help him to his feet but he angrily brushes her aside. He staggers a few more feet and lies back on the sand. I reach him and look down as Melanie kneels beside him. “You, okay, baby?”
Ryan sputters, “No I’m not fucking okay,” he says.
“What happened?” I move closer.
He gets to his feet and bends over, his hand on his knees, taking in gulps of air.
Finally, he stands upright and stares out at the ocean. “I can’t swim.”
Back at the house, Ryan has dismissed Melanie, and we sit at one of the poolside tables. He’s changed into a white terry cloth robe with a hood, leaning back, staring at the ocean that almost got him.
