“He tried,” he said, backing off.
“You want me to call the cops?”
McCall stared at me with amused contempt . . . a nasty little “I’ve got you, you sonofabitch” smile crossing his lips.
“He’s in enough trouble as is,” McCall said. “Just throw him off the lot.”
Then he turned and started talking to the photographer, asking his name, asking for his card, saying: “So you managed to get all that?”
Meanwhile, the guard strong-armed me toward my car.
“That’s your Porsche?”
I nodded.
“Nice car. Now, sir, I’m gonna offer you a special onetime deal. You get in your car and get lost, and we’re going to forget this whole damn thing. If you come back . . .”
“I won’t come back.”
“I’ve got your word on that?”
“I promise.”
“Okay, sir,” he said, slowly releasing me from his grip. “Let’s see you act on that promise and leave quietly.”
I opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel and started the engine. Then the security guard tapped on the window. I rolled it down.
“One last thing, sir,” he said. “You might want to think about changing your clothes before going anywhere else today.”
It was only then that I realized I was still in my pajamas.
TEN
THERE IS NO ESCAPING the laws of cause and effect . . . especially when a photographer is present to record you assaulting a journalist while dressed in your pajamas.
So it was that—two days after I made the front page of the LA Times—I found myself back in the news . . . with a photograph on page four of its Saturday edition, showing me berating Theo McCall. My face was contorted into an expression of deranged wrath. I was clearly clawing his suit. Then there was the matter of my nighttime attire. Outside the bedroom, pajamas conjure up images of the loony bin. Worn by a clearly unsettled individual in the parking lot of the NBC Studios during daylight hours, they indicate that the gent in question might have a few psychological issues worth exploring under professional care. Certainly, had I been able to study the photograph with critical detachment, I would have reached the following conclusion: this guy has clearly lost it.
Beneath the photo was a short item, under the headline:
FIRED SELLING YOU WRITER ATTACKS JOURNALIST IN NBC PARKING LOT
The story was straightforward—the facts of the NBC incident, the role of McCall in my downfall, a brief précis of my crimes against humanity, and the fact that NBC security allowed me, after being cautioned, to leave the lot once McCall declined to press charges. There was also a quote from McCall himself: “I was simply trying to tell the truth . . . even though that truth clearly enraged Mr. Armitage. Fortunately, NBC security intervened before he could cause me physical harm. But I do hope, for his own sake, that he seeks serious help. He is obviously a deeply troubled, disturbed man.”
May I kiss the hem of your shmata, Dr. Freud (and yes, that is a borrowed line). But I really didn’t have time to worry about McCall’s mental assessment of me, as I had several far graver problems on my hands. It seems that the freelancer who caught me roughing up the clown managed to get his photo on the wire services. So the story went right around the country (everyone loves a good “once he was famous, now he’s gaga” story). It even found its way north to the vast chilly expanses of Canada . . . more specifically, to Victoria, British Columbia, where Sally saw the story in the local rag. And she was not amused. So not amused that she rang me at nine thirty Saturday morning and, without even a hello, said, “David—I’ve seen the story . . . and I’m afraid that, from this point on, we’re history.”
“Can I try to explain?”
“No.”
“But you should have seen what he was saying about me on Today . . .”
“I did see it. And quite frankly, I agreed with a great deal of it. What you did was positively insane. And I do mean insane.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Sally, I simply lost my temper.”
“No—you lost your mind. How else did you end up in the NBC lot in your pajamas?”
“Things just got a little on top of me.”
“A little on top of you? I don’t think so.”
“Please darling, let’s talk this through before—”
“No chance. I want you out of the apartment by the time I’m back tomorrow night.”
“Hang on a minute, you can’t order me to leave. We’re co-tenants, remember? Two names on the lease.”
“According to my lawyer—”
“You’ve already been talking to your lawyer this morning? It’s a Saturday.”
“He hadn’t gone to shul yet. Anyway, considering that I’m in crisis . . .”
“Oh cut the fucking melodramatics, Sally.”
“And you say you’re not disturbed . . .”
“I’m upset.”
“Well, that makes two of us . . . only you’re the one who, according to California law, can be regarded as a physical danger to the co-lessee, which, in turn, allows the co-lessee to get a court order against the other party, barring them from occupying the same premises.”
Long silence.
“You’re not really going to do that, are you?” I asked.
“No—I won’t get the court order, as long as you promise me to be out of the apartment by six p.m. tomorrow night. If you are still there, I will call Mel Bing and get him to put the legal wheels in motion.”
“Please Sally, can’t we . . . ?”
“This conversation’s closed.”
“It’s not fair . . .”
“You brought it on yourself. Now do yourself a favor and go. Don’t make things any worse for yourself by making me get the courts involved.”
With that, the line went dead. I sat on the sofa, reeling with shock. First my name gets smeared. Then I get fired. Then I make the papers, looking like I’m auditioning for the role of Ezra Pound. Then I get handed my eviction notice—not only from my apartment, but also from the relationship for which I broke up my marriage.
What fresh hell was next?
Of course, it had to come courtesy of my dear ex-wife Lucy, via her own legal eagle, Alexander McHenry. He called me around an hour after the torpedo from Sally.
“Mr. Armitage?” he said in a professional, neutral voice. “It’s Alexander McHenry from the firm of Platt, McHenry and Swabe. As you may remember, we represented . . .”
“I remember exactly who you represented. I also know that if you’re calling me on a Saturday morning, you have unpleasant news to impart.”
“Well . . .”
“Cut to the chase, McHenry. What’s Lucy upset about now?”
I knew the answer to that question, as I figured the San Francisco Chronicle had also run the story about the parking lot incident.
“Well, I’m afraid your ex-wife is most alarmed by your behavior yesterday in front of NBC. She is also particularly distressed at the amount of publicity that the incident received, especially as regards how Caitlin would handle the news.”
“I was planning to talk to my daughter personally this morning.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible. Your ex-wife feels that, in the light of your actions yesterday, you could be considered a physical risk to herself and your daughter . . .”
“How can she believe that? I have never, never harmed—”
“Be that as it may, the fact is you did attack Mr. McCall in the NBC parking lot. You have just been released from your contract with FRT after being exposed as a plagiarist—a tragic incident that, as any psychologist would verify, could easily destabilize a man’s mental state. In short, you could be considered a serious risk to your ex-wife and child.”
“What I was trying to say before you interrupted me is that never once have I harmed my wife or child. I lost my temper yesterday, end of story.”
“I’m afraid that’s not the end of the story, Mr. Armitag
e. Because we have taken out a banning order against you making any physical or verbal contact with Lucy or Caitlin—”
“You cannot keep me from my daughter.”
“It’s done. And I must inform you that, should you attempt to contravene the order—either by trying to see Caitlin or Lucy, or even phoning them—you run the risk of arrest and possible imprisonment. Are you clear about that, Mr. Armitage?”
I slammed down the phone and collapsed on the sofa, my head in my hands. Let them take away whatever the hell they wanted . . . but not Caitlin. They couldn’t do that to me. They just couldn’t.
There was a heavy knocking at the door.
“Come on, David. I know you’re in there, so open the fucking door.”
Alison.
I went to the door and opened it halfway.
“What are you doing here?” I asked her quietly.
“I think the expression might be trying to save you from yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are. And you looked wonderful this morning in the LA Times. Loved the pajamas. Just what an agent wants to see her star client wearing in a parking lot, while trying to beat up—”
“I didn’t try to beat him up.”
“Oh, that makes everything just hunky-dory again. Are you going let me in or what?”
I stopped blocking the door and went inside. She followed. I sat down on the sofa and stared at the floor.
“Fuck it,” I said. “Fuck it all.”
“Is this just a reaction to the NBC thing?”
I told her about the fallout from that picture in the papers—and how Sally had evicted me from both our relationship and the apartment, and how Lucy was cutting me off from my daughter. Alison said nothing for a long time. Then, “I’m getting you out of town.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m hauling you out of Dodge to somewhere quiet and safe, where you can’t do any more damage.”
“I am okay, Alison.”
“No, you are not. And the longer you hang around LA, the better the chance that you are going to turn into a total freak show.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“It’s the truth. Like it or not, you are now out of control. And if you continue to be publicly out of control, it’ll make great copy for the papers and will permanently put you out of commission as regards any future work . . .”
“I’m sunk already, Alison.”
“I’m not going to even get into that argument. When does Sally want you out of here?”
“By six p.m. tomorrow.”
“Okay, first things first. Give me your key to this place.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll be packing up all your stuff tomorrow.”
“I’ll take care of that.”
“No, you won’t. We’re leaving here in thirty minutes.”
“To where?”
“A place I know.”
“You’re not about to Betty Ford me, are you?”
“Hardly. I’m taking you to a place where you can’t get into trouble, and where you’ll have time to recuperate a bit. Believe me, what you really need right now is sleep and time to think.”
I thought: Like it or not, she is right. I felt piano-wire taut and seriously wondered if I could make it through the weekend without giving in to the urge to do something final and messy . . . like jumping out a window.
“All right,” I said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Go pack a bag or two. No need to take any books or CDs—there’ll be plenty where you’re going. But you’d better bring your laptop, just so you can stay online. And then take a shower and shave off that damn half beard of yours. You’re starting to look like a member of the Taliban.”
Within half an hour, I was washed, clean shaven, wearing fresh clothes, and lugging two large duffel bags and a computer case down to Alison’s car.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” she said. “We’re going to be driving up the Pacific Coast Highway for about two hours. I’ll go in my car, you go in yours. But promise me you won’t suddenly do a vanishing act and drive off into oblivion . . .”
“Who do you think I am? Jack Kerouac?”
“I’m just saying . . .”
“I promise you, I won’t go AWOL.”
“Good—but if we get separated, call me on my cell.”
“I’m a good tail,” I said.
As it turned out, I was able to follow her straight up the Pacific Coast Highway, eventually turning off at the small town of Meredith. We passed a narrow street of shops (including, I noticed, a bookstore and a small grocery), then continued down a winding two-lane blacktop until we came to an unpaved driveway, which weaved its way through a dense little wood before dead-ending at a cottage of whitewashed wood, fronting a small pebbly beach, upon which lapped the waters of the Pacific. The cottage itself stood on less than a quarter acre of land . . . but the coastal view was pretty damn sublime, and I liked the sight of a hammock strung up between two trees, allowing the occupant to recline yet simultaneously enjoy the ocean view.
“Not a bad spot,” I said. “Is this your little secret retreat?”
“I wish I owned it. Nah—it belongs to Willard Stevens, the lucky bastard.”
Willard Stevens was a screenwriter client of Alison’s who (like my boozy defender, Justin Wanamaker) had been hot stuff during the movie-brat era of the seventies but now made a tidy living as a rewrite man.
“So where’s Willard?”
“In London for three months, doing a polish on the new Bond film . . .”
“Three months for a polish?”
“I think he’s planning to spend a little time on the Côte d’Azur while he’s at it. Anyway, he gave me the key to this place while he’s away. I’ve only used it once. And since he won’t be coming back for another ten weeks . . .”
“I am not spending ten weeks here.”
“Fine, fine. It’s not a padded cell. You’ve got your car. You’re free to come and go as much as you want. All I ask is that, initially, you spend a week up here. Call it a little holiday—a chance to take stock, to clear your head away from all the bullshit back in town. So will you promise me to hang here for a week?”
“I haven’t seen the inside of this place yet.”
Within two minutes of walking inside, I committed to the week. The cottage had stone walls, a stone floor, comfortable furniture. Lots of books and music and films on DVD.
“This will do just fine,” I said.
“Glad you approve. Anyway, there’s only a phone—and the television deliberately gets no stations, because Willard decided he didn’t want to watch anything here except old movies. But his film library’s pretty damn good. And, as you see, there’s plenty to read and to listen to. And the tuner on the stereo does pull in the local NPR affiliate, if you want to keep up with the news and with Car Talk. And you probably saw the grocery store in the little town. The nearest big supermarket’s about fifteen miles away, but you should find everything you need . . .”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I said.
“Now listen,” she said, planting herself on the sofa and motioning for me to sit down in the armchair. “I need a couple of assurances from you.”
“No, I won’t wreck the place. No, I won’t disappear—”
She interrupted, saying, “And no, you won’t set foot inside the Los Angeles city limits. And no, you won’t call FRT or Warners or anyone else in the business. And no—and this is the biggest no of them all—you won’t make contact with Sally or Lucy or Caitlin.”
“How do you expect me not to talk to my daughter?”
“You will talk to your daughter . . . but only if you let me handle it. What was the name of your divorce lawyer?”
“Forget that loser. He let Lucy’s gal disembowel me.”
“Okay, then I’ll call my legal eagle and ask him to find us a Nazi. But again, I’ve got to emphasize this—”
“I know, if I call Cai
tlin, I’m going to turn a catastrophic situation into an Armageddon situation.”
“Bingo. Also: I’m going to talk to your accountant guy . . . and get a complete up-to-date position on your tax liability and other fun stuff. And tomorrow, before the six p.m. deadline, I’ll get all your stuff out of the apartment and into storage, and I’ll deal with Sally on little things like your share of the deposit, the furniture you bought together, etc.”
“Let her have everything.”
“No.”
“I blew it with her. I blew it with everybody and everything. And now . . .”
“Now you’re going to spend at least a week doing nothing but taking long walks, reading in the hammock, reducing your daily booze intake to a glass or two of decent Napa wine, and trying to sleep well. Are we clear about all that?”
“Aye, aye, doctor.”
“Speaking of doctors, one final thing, and don’t scream about this: a therapist named Matthew Sims is going to be phoning you around eleven tomorrow morning. I’ve booked him for fifty minutes, and if you like him, he’ll do a daily session with you on the phone. Take it from me: as therapists go, he’s no bullshit—”
“He’s your therapist?”
“Don’t act so surprised.”
“It’s just . . . I didn’t realize . . .”
“Honey, I’m a Hollywood agent. Of course I have a therapist. And this guy gives good phone, and I think you know that you need to be talking to someone right now.”
“All right, I’ll take the call.”
“Good.”
“Alison . . .”
“Yeah?”
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
“Yeah, I think I did. Now I’m afraid I’ve got to turn around and head back to town. I’ve got a heavy date tonight.”
“Anyone exciting?”
“He’s a sixty-three-year-old retired chief financial officer for one of the studios. He’s probably just had a triple bypass and is also in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. But hey, I’m not going to say no to a little action.”
“Jesus, Alison . . .”
“Listen to you, Mr. Prude. I may be fifty-seven years old, but I am not your mother. Which means I am allowed to have sex—”
“I’m saying nothing.”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Page 22
