They're Watching

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “Some.” I’d fought every instinct in my body not to ask about what happened, not to torture through the beads one by one—who wore what, who put whose hand where. I was at least smart enough to know that the more I knew, the more I’d want to know, and the worse it would get.

  I reached a hand awkwardly toward her on the table. “I neglected you. I get that. Keith hit you when you were vulnerable. When you were primed to believe it. But what I can’t get past is that you didn’t talk to me first.”

  “I’d been trying to talk to you for days, Patrick.”

  “I was barely holding it together. I couldn’t cut it. Keith was just my excuse to bail out.” I couldn’t manage to meet her eye. “The notes—the stupid rewrite notes morning after night.” I stopped myself. “I know, you’ve heard it all already. But I was . . .”

  She sensed the change in my tone. “What?”

  I looked at my hands. “I made so many compromises and still wound up a failure.”

  She looked at me silently, her dark eyes mournful.

  “I never knew that,” she said. “That you felt that way.”

  I said, “So I wasn’t there for you. Fine. A marriage should grant you the right to be uselessly self-absorbed for a period, like, say, nine days before your spouse goes jumping in the sack with someone. It’s not as if I didn’t have opportunities. I was on a movie set, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Yeah, as the writer.”

  I had to laugh.

  She bit her lip, tipped her head. Smoothed a hand across the varnish. “Look at this walnut, Patrick. Chocolate brown, open-grained, even-textured. We quartersawed it to pick up a prettier angle on the annular rings. You know how hard it is to get wood this fine? Problems everywhere. Splits. Shakes. Decay. Pitch pockets. Honeycombing. Blue stain from fungi.” She knocked it with her knuckles, hard. “But not here. I chose the best.”

  “But?”

  “Give me your hand.” She ran my palm slowly across the tabletop. I sensed the faintest bulge toward the center. “Feel that? That’s warp. Look overhead.”

  I did. The heating vent, breathing from the cornice down onto the table.

  Her eyes were waiting for mine when I lowered my head. “Seam of stored moisture in the wood, maybe. You can’t catch everything.”

  I said, “I’d never noticed it.”

  “It catches the light differently, bends the sheen. I see it every time I come down the stairs. And here”—she traced my fingertips across the slight bump of a dark circle—“we varnished over a knot. It was smooth here just three months ago. Having a knot in there’s a risk, too, but some defects make it more beautiful. You want uniform, go to IKEA.” She took my other hand, too. “You can’t see all the flaws. But it’s a good goddamned table, Patrick. So why throw it away?”

  “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  “Technically.” She pressed my hands together, like I was praying, except hers were clasped over mine, gentle across my bruised knuckles. As she leaned forward, her dark hair curved to crowd her face. “This isn’t good for either of us. Whatever steps we have to take, I’m willing to take them with you. But I’m not doing this anymore. Whatever that means for you, I’ll have to find a way to live with.”

  She shoved out her chair, stretched across the lacquered surface, and kissed me on the forehead. Her footsteps moved up the stairs, and the bedroom door closed quietly.

  CHAPTER 10

  I had an excess of energy, the kind that tends to overtake me the morning after a wakeful night. Desultory, slightly frantic, edged with desperation. For four dizzy hours, I’d fussed under a twist of blankets on the couch, distracted by stairway creaks, bobbing tree-branch shadows, the dark yard beyond the semi-sheer curtains. Ariana’s last words to me had left me with plenty more to gnaw on in my more lucid moments of unsleep. She’d called me out on the inevitable: Stay or leave, but do one properly. Even in those brief spells where I’d drifted off, I’d dreamed of myself lying on the uncomfortable couch, frustrated and unable to sleep. Several times I’d gotten up to peer out the windows and check the yard. Just after 6:00 A.M., when the L.A. Times landed, I’d searched it anxiously but found no DVD lurking inside.

  Now I positioned my camcorder by the front window of our tiny living room, angling the lens out onto the porch and walk. I’d tucked the tripod behind a potted palm so the camera was lost among the blunt-tipped leaves. The strategically drawn curtains left only the necessary slice of view. Slurping my third cup of coffee, I checked the setup yet again and pressed the green button, recording onto the well-advertised 120-hour digital memory.

  Ariana’s voice startled me. “Is that what you’ve been doing down here?”

  “I woke you?”

  “I was up already, but I sure heard you thunking around.” She yawned, finishing it with a feminine roar, then nodded at the hidden camcorder. “Giving them a taste of their own medicine?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’ll call the alarm guys today.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a vote of confidence.”

  She shrugged.

  I went up to my office, where I shuffled my lecture notes into the soft leather briefcase I’d bought to look more professorial. When I came back down, Ariana was leaning against the sink, a desert mariposa behind her ear. Vibrant orange. I contemplated this. The color of lily she wore in her hair gave away her mood. Pink was playful, red angry, and lavender, lavender she saved for when she was feeling particularly in love. So . . . not in a very long time. In fact, for months she hadn’t gone with anything but white, her safety color. I’d forgotten which mood orange broadcast, which ceded my advantage.

  Ariana shifted her grip on her coffee mug, uneasy under my gaze. I was still focused on that orange bloom. “What?” she asked.

  “Be careful today. I’ll keep my cell phone on, even during class. Just . . . watch out for anything weird. People. Anyone approaching your car. Keep the doors locked.”

  “I will.”

  I nodded, then nodded again when it was clear neither of us was sure what to say next. Feeling her eyes on my back, I headed out to the garage and knuckled the button. The door shakily rose. I dropped my briefcase through the open passenger window and leaned over, my hands on the sill. Her words from last night returned to me—I’m not doing this anymore.

  In a sealed clear plastic bin on one of the overburdened shelves, I could make out Ariana’s wedding dress through its transparent wrapping. Like her, modern with traditional flourishes. Again came the seesaw tilt, betrayal and pain, anger and grief. That goddamn in-good-times-and-in-bad gown, preserved for a future we might not have.

  I walked outside, past the trash cans, and peered in the kitchen window. Ari sat in her usual spot on the arm of the couch, clutching her stomach as if to quell an ache. Mug resting on her knee. She wasn’t crying, though; today her face expressed only disillusionment. She plucked the flower from her hair and twirled it, staring into the orange folds as if trying to read the future. Why did I feel let down, pushed away? Did I want her to cry every morning? To prove what? That she was still hurting as much as I was? I hadn’t known it, not consciously, and revealed to me, it felt petty and foolish.

  Given the DVDs, I didn’t want to startle her if she looked up. Just as I was about to step back, she crossed to the kitchen door. Contemplated it. Then she unlocked the dead bolt and set it again, firmly.

  I stood there a moment after she’d disappeared upstairs.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Formosa Cafe was a Hollywood haunt long before Guy Pearce’s Ed Exley mistook Lana Turner for a hooker there in L.A. Confidential. At the bar beneath black-and-whites of Brando, Dean, and Sinatra, I gulped a scotch, gathering my courage. At least I had fortifying company. The throw of buildings that composed Summit Pictures loomed in the west-facing windows, as did a tall-wall ad for They’re Watching—Keith Conner’s overblown face adhered to the side of the executive building. From Bogart to Conner with a half turn of the head. Exce
pt Bogart was an eight-by-ten and Conner a high-rise. Poetic injustice.

  The six-story ad dwarfed the passing cars. They’d redone it—I could tell from the missing square of banner at the bottom that revealed the old version beneath. Keith squinting in inflated close-up, ready to take danger head-on, had replaced the image of the hazy figure descending into the subway. Principal photography on the movie had barely finished, and a trailer hadn’t even been cut yet, but the early buzz had jumped Keith to the next tier, made him worthy of an ad campaign built around his face. He was now an A-lister in waiting. Which was partially my fault.

  The barkeep paused from topping off the mixers to collect my glass. Recognizing me as a former regular, he’d waved me in, though they’d yet to set up for lunch. He didn’t ask if I wanted another.

  Using my cell, I called the Summit switchboard. “Yes, can I please have Jerry in Security?”

  Jerry and I had become friends when I was at the studio every day during preproduction. We’d met in the commissary and before long were having lunch together a few times a week. Of course, we hadn’t spoken since things went sideways.

  Each ring sounded like a countdown. Finally he answered. My voice was dry when I said, “Hey, Jerry, it’s Patrick.”

  “Whoa,” he said. “Patrick. I can’t talk to you. You may have noticed that you’re in the middle of a lawsuit with my employer.”

  “I know, I know. Listen, I just want to ask you something. I’m across the street at Formosa. Can you give me two minutes?”

  His voice lowered. “Just being seen with you could land me knee-deep.”

  “It’s not about the lawsuit.”

  He didn’t respond right away, and I didn’t push it. Eventually he blew out a breath. “It’d better not be. Two minutes.”

  He hung up and I waited, my heart pounding. After a time he scampered in, giving a nervous glance around the empty restaurant. He slid onto the stool next to me with no greeting, none of the gruff conviviality cultivated by his stint in the marines.

  “The only reason I’m here is because we both know you caught the raw end,” Jerry said. “Keith is a prick and a liar. He tangled us all up. Be honest with you, I can’t wait to get out of this racket.” An irritated gesture at the window and studio lot beyond. “Get back to real security. An honest dishonest living.”

  “I heard you guys just signed Keith for two more.”

  “Yeah, but the idiot’s doing some bullshit environmental documentary next. Mickelson tried to get him to wait until he had another hit under his belt, but it had to be now.” He smirked. “I guess Mickelson told him the environment’ll still be up shit creek in two years. I don’t think that won him over.” His broad shoulders lifted, then fell. “But he’s with us after that.” He reached for my untouched glass of ice water and took a long sip. Peeked at his watch. “So . . . ?”

  “Someone’s been messing with me. Videotaping me. Came into my house at night, even. I was thinking it might be someone from the studio going off the tracks. I know you’re overseeing the investigative files. Anyone you think has taken an extracurricular interest?”

  “No, man.” The relief was audible. “Look, this lawsuit’s a mess, but it’s not anything they don’t deal with all the time. It’s business.”

  “This business at least,” I said. His stare stayed level. Uninterested. “So as far as you know,” I asked, “no one here seems bent out of shape enough to want to make it personal?”

  “As far as I know. And I know pretty far, Patrick. I monitor e-mails, sweep for bugs, interface with Legal, all that shit. You know how this type loves security. I’m the in-house tough guy and the good daddy all in one. Someone chips a nail, they call me bawling. A valet’s gaze lingers on the wrong set of legs, I have to go have a conversation. That kind of bullshit. It’s a complicated world now. But one thing’s still like the old days—if they wanted you ruffled, I’d be the guy they’d call.”

  I wasn’t sure what I expected. Certainly Jerry wasn’t going to come clean if the studio was running a harassment campaign. But I looked him in the eye and I believed him. Whatever was coming down on me, it wasn’t studio business.

  He glanced nervously at the door. “Anything else?”

  “Can you tell me Keith Conner’s new address?”

  “What do you think?” he said. I held up my hands. He asked, “You really believe Keith Conner would sneak into your house?”

  “Not personally, but he’s got plenty of money and underlings and what looks like a vindictive streak. I need to talk to him.”

  “I think that’s the only thing his lawyers, your lawyers, and our lawyers all agree on. You don’t talk to him. Ever.” He shoved back from the bar and walked out.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Is Keith Conner as hot in person?” Front row, blond, sorority sweatshirt. Shanna or Shawna.

  “He is fairly handsome,” I said, pacing in front of the class, chewing gum to cover that nerve-settling morning scotch. Some tittering up and down the rows of stadium seating. Introduction to Screenwriting—you couldn’t cross city limits without enrolling. “Now, are there any questions about screenwriting?”

  I glanced around. Several of the kids had digital camcorders on their writing tablets and atop their backpacks. Even more students typed notes on laptops equipped with embedded cameras. A guy in the middle used his phone to snap a picture of his buddy next to him. I tore my attention away from the myriad cameras and found a raised hand. “Yes, Diondre.”

  His question was something about talent versus hard work.

  I’d been distracted all day, finding myself searching out hidden meaning in student remarks. During the break I’d gone through past assignments to note how many fails I’d handed out. Only seven. None of the students had seemed to take the grade personally. Plus, anyone who was doing poorly was still well within the deadline to drop the class, which had to cut the odds further that my stalker was an aggrieved student.

  I realized I hadn’t been paying attention to what Diondre was saying. “You know what, since our hour and a half’s up, why don’t you stick around and we can get into that?” I made the little half-wave to dismiss class. You’d think it was an air-raid warning the way they dispersed.

  Diondre lingered behind, clearly upset. He was one of my favorite students, a talkative kid from East L.A. who usually wore baggy Clippers shorts, a do-rag that even I knew to be dated, and a crooked smile that inspired immediate trust.

  “You okay?”

  A faint nod. “My mama said I’ll never make it, that I ain’t no filmmaker. She said I’d just as soon be a Chinese acrobat. You think that’s true?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t teach Chinese acrobatics.”

  “I’m serious. Man, you know where I’m from. I’m the first person in my family to finish high school, let a-lone go to college. All my relatives are up on my shit for studying film. If this is a waste of time, I gotta give it up.”

  What could I say? That despite fortune cookies and inspirational posters, dreams aren’t sufficient? That you can dig down and do your best but in real life that’s still not always good enough?

  “Look,” I said, “a lot of this comes down to hard work and luck. You keep at it and keep at it and hope you catch a break.”

  “Is that how you made it?”

  “I didn’t make it. That’s why I’m here.”

  “What do you mean? You done writing movies?” He looked shattered.

  “For now. And that’s okay. If there’s one piece of advice I’d offer, and you shouldn’t listen to it anyway, it’s to be sure this is what you want. Because if you’re pursuing this for the wrong reasons, you might get there and realize it’s not what you thought it was.”

  His face was pensive, empathetic. Pursing his lips, he nodded slowly, took a few backward steps toward the door.

  “Listen, Diondre . . . I’ve been receiving some weird threats.”

  “Threats?”

  “Or warning
s, maybe. Do you know of any students who’d want to mess with me?”

  He feigned indignation. “And you askin’ me ’cuz I’m black and from Lincoln Heights?”

  “Of course.” I held his stare until we both laughed. “I’m asking you because you’re good at reading people.”

  “I dunno. Most of the students are fine with you, from what I’ve heard. You don’t grade too hard.” He held up both hands. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Oh.” He snapped his fingers. “I’d watch out for that little Filipino kid. What’s his name? Smoke-a-bong?”

  “Paeng Bugayong?” A small, quiet kid who sat in the back row, kept his head down, and sketched. Figuring him for shy, I’d called on him once to draw him out, and he’d taken an aggressively long time before finally offering a one-word response.

  “Yeah, that one. You seen that kid’s drawings? All fucked-up beheadings and dragons and shit. We joke he gonna go V Tech up in here, you feel me?”

  “V Tech?”

  “Virginia Tech.” Diondre made a pistol of his hand and shot it around the empty chairs.

  “In my day,” I said with a grimace, “we called it ‘postal.’ ”

  “Goddamn it,” Julianne said. “Someone broke the swing-out thing.”

  “INCONSIDERATENESS ABOUNDS. AND THE FATE OF MR. COFFEE HANGS IN THE BALANCE.”