“That's news to me.”
“Really?” she said, studying his face, searching for the truth. “Say, I've been meaning to call you. Arsenio Hall's coming to town next month, and I'm going to do a piece on him. Is he gay? A friend of mine said he was, said there were all these gay comedians—Louie Anderson, Paula Poundstone. In fact, my friend says all the men on Frasier are gay except for Frasier himself. What do you think, that true too?”
The names of supposedly gay celebrities were continually flying—John Travolta, Richard Gere, Tom Selleck, James Spader, Kevin Spacey, Mark Harmon, Ellen DeGeneres, Rosie O’Donnell, Jodie Foster, Lily Tomlin—some of them true, some of them not. But as always, the media, which had left in the closet such greats as Rock Hudson, Barbara Stanwyck, Errol Flynn, Tab Hunter, Cary Grant, and Malcolm Forbes, was shy of such things.
“Cindy, you're walking through land mine territory, you know. You say stuff like that on the air and you're liable to get your ass sued, which actually would be just fine with me.”
“Well, I just thought—”
“That they were guilty of something?”
“God, Todd, you're so touchy.”
He didn't know why he said it, except of course that he remembered she was a huge fan of his, and it just came blurting out: “You know what, I heard that Tim Chase is definitely gay.”
“Him?” she said as if she'd been slapped. “Dream on, Todd. That guy's so gorgeous—don't be ridiculous.”
Behind him Todd heard the familiar sound of an electric motor humming away. He glanced over, saw the mast on their ENG truck begin to lower. Nope, he couldn't let her see that they were packing it in. No way in hell.
He turned back toward the apartment building, and said, “Hey, is that the medical examiner? Is he here already?”
“Where?”
“Up there. I think he just came out of the building.”
She was gone in a second, determined to miss nothing.
Relieved, Todd wandered over to a group of three or four people who he assumed were neighbors, because, as if they had just dashed outside, none of them wore jackets. Without trying to be too obvious, he slipped alongside them, tried to hear what they were saying. His eyes, of course, were elsewhere, on the building, on the cops gathered off to one side.
And it was then that his gaze fell upon someone in particular, a tall, thin young man.
Todd noticed him at first because he just stood there crying, his eyes puffed and raw as tears came streaming unabashedly down his cheeks. Crushing the yellow police tape in both hands, he stared at the front of the door, his young, pale face transfixed with shock. He had very long light brown hair that he flicked back with a shake of his head, and it was that movement, that toss of his silky mane, that made Todd realize something. Surely this kid wasn't even twenty, but somehow Todd knew him, somewhere they'd met once or twice. But when and where?
Instinctively Todd started toward him, but just at that moment the kid lifted the yellow tape and lunged toward the building. The very next moment a couple of cops shouted out and came running over. Still the young man didn't stop, hurrying forward one long step after another, until the cops caught him and took him by the arms and pulled him back, shoving him once again beneath and behind the police tape. And as they herded him back, the kid said nothing, did nothing to protest. He only stared with sodden eyes at the building.
Of course, realized Todd. That's one of Andrew's friends.
Todd beefed it up, hurrying around one clump of gawkers, another. He ducked around a tree, saw the kid just standing there looking as if he'd never move again. But then the next instant the young guy was gone. Immediately Todd started both running and scanning, checking the side of the building, the scattered clumps of people, and the various media. He looked toward the park, down the street, back toward the building, but there was no lanky figure with fine, long hair hurrying away. Todd ran right to the spot where the kid had been standing and crushing the police tape in his hand, turned from side to side.
Wait.
There he was, scurrying across the street, into the park. Todd burst forward. And then someone caught him by the arm.
“Hey, Todd. I'm here. I made it.”
It was Mark, the second photographer. Todd glanced at him, then took one last look across the street as the kid disappeared into the park and the night. Next Todd checked his watch.
Running one hand through his hair, Todd said, “We don't have much time, do we?”
“No shit,” laughed Mark.
The people on the technical side of things were always pretty macho, in part because they were mostly guys who were proud of the heavy equipment they lugged around. Mark, holding his Betacam beneath his arm like a large football, was no exception. With a sort of stocky, square body, he had hair that was cut into short bangs, while the back was long, almost shoulder length. It was the perfect Minnesota hockey haircut, and Mark stood there chewing gum and grinning, ready to play any game. This was going to be close, and he loved it.
Todd said, “Just keep this place covered until we get back.”
“You got it.”
“Where the hell's Bradley?”
“Right over there.”
Todd saw him and darted through the crowd. He grabbed Bradley by the arm, and the two of them made their way out of the crowd, around a few cop cars, and toward his Jeep.
“Think we're going to make it?” asked Bradley, a twinkle in his eye.
“Five bucks says we will.”
“You're on.”
They had less than three minutes, and Todd wondered if there was a chance in hell.
4
Once inside the huge house, he stood there barely breathing. But there was nothing, no one, not as far as he could discern.
Carrying nothing, he proceeded up a half-dozen steps, entered a back hall, then froze. Just up ahead he heard running water, followed by the dull but steady sound of something striking wood. Following that, he came to a doorway and peered into a huge kitchen. Scanning the room, he saw countertops of rare blue marble, an eight-burner range, a separate high-powered wok, an enormous Sub-Zero refrigerator, and, standing at a copper sink, a lone woman. Wearing a baggy T-shirt and blue jeans and with her light hair put up in a loose bun, she was chopping vegetables on a cutting board.
He cleared his throat, and said, “Hi, Amy”
She gasped and spun around, her left hand on her chest, her right clutching a small paring knife.
“Tim, oh, my God, it's you.” She took a deep breath. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” said Tim Chase, one of Hollywood's top stars. “Sometimes I feel like I'm sneaking around my own house. I mean, there's not one but two photographers out front.”
“It's awful.”
“Yeah.” He nodded toward the pile of vegetables next to the sink. “What are you making?”
“Oh,” she said, turning back to her work and collecting her thoughts. “Just finishing up some broth for tomorrow. I'm going to poach some fish—that Hawaiian fisherman I use is Fed-Exing me some onaga and ahi he caught this afternoon. Isn't the world a wonder? He caught it at four this afternoon and it'll be here in fly-over land by ten tomorrow morning.”
“I'm sure it'll be great.”
“Are you hungry? Can I get you anything to eat?”
“Nope, I'm all set, thanks.” He glanced at the wall clock, saw that it was just about ten. “Where is everyone?”
“I'm not sure where Vic is—I think he just went up to his room. Charlie's downstairs watching a movie.”
Vic was Tim's main bodyguard, a skilled professional who traveled with him and who organized security whenever Tim appeared publicly. Charlie was the number two guy, not only Tim's personal trainer, but also in charge of household security; he was hired a year ago after Gwen and Tim started having trouble with a stalker.
“I think Maggie and Gwen are upstairs.”
“Thanks.” He grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter and starte
d out. “If you see Vic, tell him I need to talk to him.”
“Sure.” A moment later she called, “Breakfast at five again tomorrow?”
“Yep. Gotta be on the set at six.”
He passed through the pantry, a long room with shelves of dishes and two dishwashers, then entered the dining room with its tall ceiling and mahogany paneling. Next he stepped into the entry hall, an enormous space nearly twenty feet wide and some thirty feet long. It was ridiculously big, this place, much more than they needed, with an indoor pool and ten bedrooms, but the producers had just wanted to make sure Tim and his entourage were happy. And the owner, the top saleswoman for a cosmetics company who'd totally rehabbed the place just several years ago and who was now off in the Aegean, had been only too eager to lease it for fifty thousand for ten weeks.
Tim just hoped to hell it wasn't a mistake coming to the Midwest and doing this film.
With a face that was too often described as all-American, rich brown hair, a lean, hard body, and a smile that could light up any room, not to mention any screen, Tim Chase was everyone's heartthrob. By everyone's count, he was one of a few truly bankable stars whose name alone—like Harrison Ford, Julia Roberts, Tom Cruise, and Mel Gibson—could open a movie. But his successful fare had always been action heroes—an underdog soccer player in one film, a DEA agent in another, a diplomat in one of his latest. Yet here he was in Minneapolis shooting The Good Heart, the story of a gay man who watches not only his lover die from AIDS but his conservative, judgmental father, from whom he has been estranged for over ten years. It was the riskiest of roles for him, there was no doubt about it, and his agent and manager had deeply questioned whether he should play the role of a gay man.
“Fuck it,” he had told them all. “This is an Oscar-winning role if I've ever seen one. Besides, it's a story that should be told.”
“But, Tim,” whined Jed, his agent, “you know I'm as queer as a three dollar bill, and I'm not sure this is good for you. What about all your fans, what about your sex appeal? You're one of the four or five most valuable franchises in Hollywood. This is not good, this is not wise. All those girls in middle America are not going to be cool with this.”
“I'm married, Jed. I have a kid. Everyone knows that.”
“Yeah, but, Tim, you do this and the rumors are going to start flying again. Trust me, the tabloids are going to have a heyday.”
“Don't you see, Jed? My fans aren't going to think I'm gay because I'm playing a gay part. If anything, this is going to make them think I'm straight… and kind of gutsy. And when they're bawling their eyes out at the end of the film, they're going to love, love, love me all the more.”
“It's your career, pal.”
“Hey, don't forget how great Tom Hanks was in a role like this— Philadelphia was a terrific flick.”
“Yeah, but…”
But maybe he was right, Tim now thought. Maybe it wasn't going to work. Maybe America couldn't handle Tim Chase in anything but the role of the charming hunk next door. Over the years and with the advice of many, from his mother to his agent to numerous studios, heads to the most expensive public relations firm in the country, Tim Chase's career had been carefully carved and molded. And the secret of his appeal was no secret, but simply its breadth. Guys loved him for his virility, while women of every age loved him for his blatantly charming and sweet sex appeal. Tim knew and knew well that it was a numbers game, that his superstar success was due, of course, to his mass appeal.
But don't worry, he told himself as he reached the imposing staircase. It's going to be okay. Everything's going well—great script, great director, great cast.
Grabbing onto the carved newel post, he bounded up, taking the steps two at a time. As he neared the top, he heard the large and unmistakable voice of Jack, who wasn't quite three, piercing the quiet of the house. Of course the kid shouldn't be up this late, but Tim smiled anyway. Gwen and Jack, along with Maggie, officially the nanny, had arrived just yesterday, and Tim was more than glad for it. This house had been much too big, much too quiet without them.
Stepping into the middle bedroom, the one at the front of the house and over the front door, he found them all, mother, nanny, and child, sitting on the floor, a veritable riot of multicolored Duplos scattered all around them.
With a big smile, Tim asked, “Hey, is this a party or what?”
“Daddy!” shouted the kid, jumping to his feet and running over.
Tim scooped him up, taking the tiny kid with the angelic face into his arms and kissing him on the cheek. His son, Tim swore, was not only the best thing that had ever happened to him, but was the most gorgeous child in the universe. Blue eyes radiated from his round face, and his dark hair was thick and rich. Nothing, absolutely nothing, gave Tim Chase the same thrill—not Academy Award, not rave review, not legions of adoring fans—as did this boy.
“Oh, I'm so glad you're here now,” said Tim, snuggling Jack and kissing him. “It was so lonely without you. But what are you still doing up, Jack? Don't you know that all the other little boys in the world are already asleep? Don't you know how late it is?”
He put a finger to his mouth and shook his head. “Noon?”
“Noon? Noon? You think it's that early?”
“Yeah, it's noon!”
Gwen, wearing a long cotton nightgown with a floral print, pushed herself up from the floor. “What he thinks is that it's two hours earlier than it really is. In other words, the little charmer's not quite used to the time change yet.”
“Ohhhh.” Tim kissed his son again. “Listen, Jack, you know you're my favorite son, don't you?”
He nodded quickly, having heard that line any number of times.
“Then I want you to do exactly what I tell you, okay?”
“Hmmm, okay.”
“I'm going to bed now because I have to get up very, very early to work. And I want you to go to bed now too.”
“But… but I want to play! I want to—”
“Nope, it's time for bed, Mister Twister.”
“But—”
Maggie rose from the floor, saying, “How about I read you a story, Jack?”
“Great idea,” said Tim.
She came over then, eternally patient and beautiful Maggie with the slender waist and bobbed dark hair. She wore jeans and a loose striped top, and the truth was that she'd spent more time with Tim and Gwen's son than either of them had. She'd been there right from the day he was born, caring for the child as if he were hers, and she now lifted him from Tim's arms and carried him to the bed against the far wall.
Gwen brushed back a bit of hair, and called, “I'll be back to give you a kiss, sweetheart.”
“Love you, Jack!”
“Love you, Daddy.”
With a small, but warm smile, Tim stepped into the hall, followed by his wife. God, he'd hated being away from them. And, dear God, he was glad they were here now.
“I missed you,” he said, taking his wife's hand.
“Me too,” she said, pulling the door shut with her free hand.
She was beautiful, he thought. Several inches shorter than him, Gwen was one of the most regal young actresses around, her chinalike skin offset by soft brown hair. She had a small mouth, lips that were full and always plush with color, and long legs. Although her father was American, she claimed her mother's homeland, England, as her own, and in fact she had lived almost half her life there. Though she could convincingly play any kind of American, she was a natural for English roles, and just last year she'd been nominated for an Oscar for her part in a Jane Austen adaptation.
Standing there in the hallway, Tim reached out, took her into his arms, and kissed her. “Hi.”
She came into his arms without a wisp of resistance. “We worked everything out this afternoon—we'll be able to stay for the rest of your shoot.”
His lips touched her forehead. “That's great.”
“Are you okay? Is something the matter?”
“No, I just n
eed to talk to Vic, that's all.”
“Where'd you go earlier?”
He shrugged and grinned. “Out.”
Eyeing him suspiciously, she said, “Tim?”
“It was my first time off, the first time I could get away since I got here. I just wanted to escape… so I did. I just drove around, that's all.”
She rolled her eyes knowingly and shook her head. “I just hope to hell you were careful.”
“Aren't I always?”
“Yes, but…”
“But what?”
“This is a new city. The people are different here.” She shrugged. “Did you take Vic with you?”
“No, I didn't need to.”
“Oh, Tim. I don't know. Anything could happen. I just worry about you so, that's all, particularly since that creep started stalking us.”
“Don't worry, we're in the Midwest now and there's nothing to be afraid of. You just have to trust me, Gwenny. Believe me, I love you, I love our son, I love our life together. I'm not going to screw that up.”
She took a deep breath, ran her slender fingers through his hair. “Okay, then, my hero.” She kissed him. “Good night.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Will I see you for breakfast?”
“I think I need to sleep. How about Maggie, Jack, and I drop by the set sometime late morning?”
As he headed off, knowing he had to find Vic before going to bed, Tim Chase said, “Sounds great.”
5
A good reporter was never afraid and never excited, just prepared.
So as Bradley drove Todd's Cherokee to the live shot, Todd sat in the passenger seat scribbling away in his reporter's notebook, one of those elongated pads. He was writing it all down in detail, exactly what he'd say in those thirty-five seconds of voice-over, though of course he knew from experience that he wouldn't end up reading it word for word. Somehow it just never turned out that way, somehow he always ended up punting. After all, as they said whenever there was a screwup, why do you think they call it live TV?
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