by Josie Brown
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” He smiled benignly. “I guess your boss keeps you on your toes, eh? Underage Indian chanters? And that fight he had with Marcella—what was that all about, huh?”
I didn’t answer. Something wasn’t right, although I couldn’t put my finger on it.
As if sensing my concern, he grinned broadly and added almost too quickly, “I have to say, though, I’ve got a lot of respect for him.”
“Oh, yeah? How’s that?” Even after all you’ve heard and seen? I really wanted to ask.
“Why, the guy’s a—an acting genius! A real pro! He’s going to be the next—I dunno, the next Russell, I guess. Don’t you think so?”
“Probably.”
“Well, there’s one way in which he’s even got Russell beat.” He winked at me.
“What do you mean?” I answered coolly.
“Hey, honey, you got to admit, your man Louis has got quite a rep—in the sack, I mean. Why, that’s one place he even puts Russell to shame . . . right?”
“Look, I’ve got to get back.” I started for the door.
“Hey, uh, do you think you could give me a lift back?”
I hesitated. For some reason, I didn’t feel comfortable having him anywhere near me, although I didn’t know why. I looked out at the gas pump. Beyond it was the old truck belonging to the Gulp-n-Gas’s owner, and what was obviously a rental car.
Jerry’s car.
So, why did he need a lift?
A cold chill went down my spine.
For a minute, I stood there, as if contemplating his request. Then, slowly I turned back to him. “Sure . . . Aw, shoot! Um, look, I’m out of cash, so would you mind awfully if I borrowed your cell phone? My service is lousy up here. Can’t get a signal.”
I licked my lips coyly, then smiled at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “It’ll only take a second. I promise! But if I don’t make this call, Louis will be mad as all get-out, ’cause it’s sooo important!”
He hesitated for only a second, then grinned. “Sure,” he said, as he tossed his phone to me.
I held up a finger apologetically, pretended to dial a number, and sauntered slowly out the front door. Glancing back at him, I saw a look of disappointment flash over his face because I’d be out of his hearing range. He waved, though, to indicate that he was fine with granting me these few seconds of privacy.
By the time I’d made it to my car, I had reviewed the last five or six photos he had taken with his phone—of Louis, Marcella, and Barnaby, but he also had a couple of Louis with me.
As I’d suspected: Jerry was paparazzi.
And he’d heard everything I’d said. About Marcella. And the chanters.
Not to mention all the other calls he’d eavesdropped on during the past couple of days. And it would not have surprised me in the least to learn he’d been paying the storeowner for any tidbits he may have missed.
I groaned. No wonder Marcella’s people were on the warpath!
Angrily, I yanked out the phone’s memory card, slipped it into my sock, and started my engine.
Hearing it rev up, Jerry rambled onto the front porch of the Gas-n-Gulp. As I pulled away, he stumbled down the steps and made a beeline for my Jeep.
I tossed his phone back at him. “Thanks!” I said brightly, as I waved and made a U-turn.
I almost ran over him as he slid momentarily onto the hood of my Jeep and banged on the windshield. “Bitch!” he shouted. “What did you do with my memory card?”
“Too late. Gone with the wind,” I answered blithely, turning the wheel sharply to shake him off.
“Wait! Wait!” He was breathing hard and was certainly not used to the workout he was getting. I pulled up short, making him roll off the hood. If I rolled forward, I’d flatten him. Before I could put the Jeep in reverse, though, he got to his knees. Catching his breath, he knocked on my window.
“Truce! Truce! I mean it!”
I didn’t roll down my window but yelled through it, “Why should I believe you?”
“Because—because I know what it’s worth to you, sweetheart!” He stuck his hand in his pocket, pulling out what looked like a wad of bills.
It was hard for Jerry to look as cool as he hoped he sounded, what with the rhubarb pie crumbs clinging to his grizzled beard. I wanted to blanch, but I don’t think that even that visceral reaction would have convinced him that I couldn’t be bought somehow.
He put a sweaty paw on my door handle. I couldn’t help but shiver in revulsion.
“What say we have a little talk?” he smiled encouragingly.
I glanced away, sighed, then rolled down my window, but just partially. “Okay, okay. But listen, Jerry, whatever I say—it can’t come back to haunt me! Understand?”
“No prob! Sure thing.”
I shrugged, as if still not convinced. “Can we shake on it?”
“Whatever makes you feel good, honey.” He stuck his hand through the window.
I rolled it up and drove off.
His screams shook the birds out of the treetops. Somewhere before I reached the second hairpin curve, he’d finally fallen to the wayside.
* * *
I made it back to the set just as the cast was breaking for lunch. Upon hearing that I could not procure his chanters, Louis took to his trailer—for the rest of the afternoon. “Make my excuses for me, love,” he pouted. “Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow, but who knows? Tell that blasted director we’ll play it by ear.”
I was loath to break this news to Ben. All I could think of were the hundred plus cast and crewmembers sitting around twiddling their thumbs.
And pointing their middle fingers at Louis’s trailer.
“Please Louis,” I whispered frantically “You can’t do this! Ben’s at his wit’s end with your shenanigans. And Randy said—”
“At his wit’s end, you say? Why, that prat has me at his mercy, out here in the middle of nowhere. No wonder they call it Hellgate! And he dares to complain about my needs as an artist?”
“You’re no artist. Why, you’re nothing but a damned fool!”
Both Louis and I turned toward the trailer door. There stood Barnaby Chadwick. His cobalt blue eyes were flashing in anger, and his regal stance all but dared Louis to contradict him.
Louis, quite aware that the older man’s fury was more legitimate than his own, turned white but kept his mouth shut.
Satisfied he had Louis’s attention, Barnaby continued. “Don’t be such a prima donna, lad! Hell, life is too short! And for that matter, so is your so-called career.”
He was now nose to nose with Louis. “So far all you’ve got to show for it is a few BBC historicals, a well-chosen indie or two, and, admit it, two or three bombs. Am I right?”
Watching Louis turn beet red, Barnaby continued, “Don’t you get it? Sure, you have Dead End, and your performance was great—but it’s just one movie. Understand? Why, even if your studio is able to buy every SAG vote that’s up for sale this year, you’ll still be just a flash in the pan if you blow it now—and over what, eh? Some New Age baloney?” He laughed caustically. “You’re only a legend at thirty-two if you’re dead. And you certainly don’t have to be fifty to be a has-been.”
Louis closed his eyes and clenched his fist. Knowing him the way I did, I could see that it was taking a lot for him to control the many emotions racing through him.
So did Barnaby. The anger left his eyes as he softened his approach.
“I’ll be honest with you, Louis: I was looking forward to working with you. You gave an incomparable performance in Dead End. Why, I haven’t seen acting like that since—well, since her father starred in Tomfoolery.” He turned to me and gave a slight nod. “Hannah, I was honored to be in that cast, I’m glad I have this opportunity to say so.”
I had forgotten about that! No wonder Barnaby had sought me out when we’d first arrived. At the time, his wide, crooked smile had struck me as familiar, but until now I couldn’t remember why: I’d met him years ago,
when I was eight and had visited my father on the set of the one movie they’d made together.
“Leo was a prodigy, granted. But he was also stupid enough to piss it all away. And why? Because he didn’t trust his talent, and he didn’t trust posterity to appreciate it, either. So instead he’s going to be remembered for having a solid-gold wanker and little else.”
Louis looked over at me, as if he needed my assurance that I felt the same way. Without thinking, I bowed my head in acknowledgement.
Poor Leo.
Poor Louis.
Watching this interchange, Barnaby gave a weak smile. Suddenly the air seemed to go out of his body, as if he were a blow-up doll that had been punctured and had begun to deflate. Slowly he turned to leave, but by the time he reached the trailer door, he was shaking so hard that I was sure he was going to fall down.
Both Louis and I leaped to help him. Louis reached him first. Putting his hand on the older man’s shoulder to steady him, Louis muttered something that I couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, Barnaby looked Louis in the eye, nodded, then patted his shoulder.
As he limped down the trailer steps, I noticed that a crowd had gathered a few feet away. It was obvious by their whispers and the curious looks on their faces that Barnaby’s stentorian rant had been heard through the trailer’s thin walls.
Louis was still standing behind me. Unconsciously, he put a hand on my shoulder. As I looked up at him, I saw that his eyes never left Barnaby until the older man was out of view.
On the other hand, Marcella’s PA, who was standing in the midst of the curious onlookers, couldn’t take her eyes off Louis and me.
In fact, she looked right at me—and smiled, if you could call it that.
More likely, bared her teeth.
Oh great, I thought, just what we need: a little tit-for-tat.
* * *
Barnaby’s cold corpse was discovered by the production assistant who had been assigned to him, but only after the girl—a shy sweet coed who was there in order to fulfill her college internship requirement as a film study major—had knocked a minimum of 103 times, called through his window at least twenty more, then mustered the courage to enter the trailer of the great revered actor.
Shaken up from the event, she immediately resolved to change her major to something less stressful: say, accounting—and promptly left both the backwoods of Oregon and any hopes of a film industry career behind her.
Calling the rest of the shell-shocked crew and cast together, Ben explained that, according to the set’s doctor, Barnaby had expired sometime during the night. The local coroner was on his way, and in the meantime, no one was to enter Barnaby’s trailer. Ben assured everyone that, as much as he’d have liked to shut down the set for mourning, he knew that Barnaby would have preferred that they continue to rally on despite this tragedy so that the production could stay within some semblance of its budget. Oh, and not to worry, because he and the producers already had calls in to those they considered acceptable replacements—not that anyone could in fact replace the revered actor. In the meantime, the scenes in which his character did not appear would take precedent—
In other words, the show must go on.
But not for Louis, it seemed.
Not even waiting to hear Ben’s windup, Louis, ashen-faced and hollow-eyed, slowly walked up to one of the crew’s many drivers, who nodded, took the tip Louis handed him, then tossed Louis a key.
As Louis peeled off in a Jeep, I ran up to the man. “Tell me,” I asked, catching my breath, “did Louis say where he was going?”
“I’ll say,” the guy smirked. “To find a nice deep bottle.”
Seeing my grimace, he added, “Don’t worry. Hell, no way I’d let him get anywhere near Grant’s Pass or some other place where he could get into trouble.” The man smiled. “Been with Ben for too many years, and I’ve got too much respect for him to let that happen. I sent your boy a little over an hour west of here, to the Marial Lodge. Trust me, no one will recognize him there.”
I thanked him, grabbed another Jeep key, and went to look for Ben so that I could plead for Louis’s professional life.
Grudgingly, Ben gave me 24 hours in which to work a miracle. But by Hour 25, he warned me, he’d be calling Clive’s agent.
In other words, no one—not even Louis—was irreplaceable.
* * *
I reached the lodge in the midafternoon. As late in the fall as it was, Louis had wasted no time in securing one of the two rooms the lodge had, and I had no problem getting the other.
After tossing my bag on my bed, I steeled myself to face him. I knew it wouldn’t be pretty. Whether it would be as bad as his mood after the London run-in over his father, or similar to the day of Mick and Sam’s deception, I didn’t know. In any case, I’d have to get him to realize that Barnaby’s death was not his fault.
And that his career depended on him getting over any insecurity he had about that and anything else that was holding him back.
As Barnaby said, only Louis could keep himself from being a has-been.
I placed my ear on the shared wall between our rooms. Not a sound.
Maybe he had decided to take a nap. If that was the case, shouldn’t I let him sleep?
Or perhaps he’d passed out in a drunken stupor. That made the sleep/wake issue a definite toss-up.
Then again, was he capable of doing something stupid, like slashing his wrists?
My heart leaped into my throat at the thought that he might die. But then the calm voice of reason came over me:
Nah, not Louis. If he survived, he’d be pissed to come to and find he had scars on his otherwise perfect body.
Still, I couldn’t take that chance.
I crept out into the hall. Hesitating to knock, I decided to try the knob instead.
The door opened. But there was no sound beyond it.
My heart was thumping so loud that I would have been surprised if I’d heard anything anyway. I took a few steps inside and tried to see something, anything at all, in the vast gloom that enveloped the darkened room, but I couldn’t make out much.
Certainly not the bed, which I was clumsy enough to bump into.
“Stop or I’ll shoot.” The tone of his voice, although muffled, was tense enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Louis, it’s just me. Hannah.” I paused, suddenly scared.
He had a gun? So he had planned on killing himself!
I tried to keep my voice steady. “So, uh, where did you get the gun?”
He flicked on the light. “Blimey, Hannah. You believed that? My God, it’s the oldest line in the book!” he smirked caustically. Then he closed his red-rimmed eyes, as if he was too tired for polite conversation. “Well, I’m glad to see that I still have the old Trollope touch.”
A half-empty Dewar’s bottle was on the nightstand. Obviously he had been sleeping.
And drinking. And crying.
Other than the sheet that was coiled around his legs, he was naked. I blushed.
Still, I was relieved to see he was okay. “Of course you do.” Gently, I sat down at the edge of the bed. “Louis, look, I know what you’re thinking—”
“I know you do, Hannah. That’s why I love you: because with you around, I don’t have to think. You do it for me.”
His sarcasm made me wince. “No! That’s not what I meant.”
“I don’t care what you mean.” The words flowed out of him in a torrent. “What you mean doesn’t matter to me. Nothing matters. Not now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I—” He choked on the words. “I killed Barnaby.”
“No, no, Louis!” I ran to him. “You didn’t!”
“Bollocks! You were there! You saw what happened!”
“Yes, I was there—and I saw him get angry and put you in your place, and make you realize that you have a lot to lose when you act like an ass! But you did not kill him!”
“Granted, I might not have physically injured
him, but all of my—my asinine stunts probably . . . probably put a strain on his heart—”
I pulled Louis close to me. He buried his face, now wet with tears again, in my angora sweater and slowly stroked it with his hand for what seemed like an eternity.
After a few minutes, I countered, “Look, Louis, I’m not going to lie to you: things have been extremely stressful on the set these past couple of weeks. And you’re part of the reason it’s been that way. But still”—as I paused I looked him right in the eye—“can’t we both safely agree that Barnaby’s fondness for Gauloises and rare steaks might have had something to do with his heart attack?”
Realizing the truth in what I said, he looked up, gave a hollow chuckle, and nodded.
He kept stroking my sweater.
And his eyes never left my face.
Suddenly, I noticed that Louis’s eyes were the same shade of blue as Leo’s.
That startling turquoise blue.
How ironic.
Softly, I added, “It would be wonderful if we could save the ones we love the most from themselves. But we can’t.”
That in turn released a flood of other memories of my father, and I started to cry.
It was Louis’s turn to cradle me; and to cry with me.
And to kiss me all over, as I dreamed he would, so many times before.
And then to undress me, slowly, lovingly, desperately.
And to trace every curve and crook and ingress of my body with his hands, then with his lips, then his tongue.
And for me to do the same to him, before exploding with him—inside of me.
Again.
And again.
So many times, over so little time:
Alas, a mere 22 hours.
Because, by the twenty-fifth, a very sober Louis was back on the set: clear-eyed, refreshed, relaxed, and ready to go to work . . .
with me—the one person, as he professed so ardently in those 22 hours, that he just couldn’t live without—at his side.
Chapter 12: Worm Hole
Hypothetical shortcut through the space/time continuum.
Sheer bliss.
Each day of the next four weeks of our lives took on a dreamlike quality.
