Loser's Town (16 page)

He kept his eye on the office. Staff came and went all the time. He didn’t see anyone who fit Stella’s description, and he didn’t see the blonde. A small raven-haired beauty came up to the bar and ordered a drink. She gave Terry a smile. No ring, she was ordering a drink for herself. Unaccompanied or at least available. Terry smiled back. No you bastard, he thought, you’re working.

‘Wow,’ said the girl to him, ‘this place is crazy!’

First time, he thought, out of town, she’s not holding out for Russell Crowe, she just wants to meet a nice guy. I could do the ‘I’m-a-stranger-here-myself’ approach and discover we are kindred spirits. She won’t feel threatened, she’d be scared shitless of a player. Romance in the City of the Angels. Take her to see the La Brea Tarpits tomorrow and by evening we’re conveniently at the marina restaurant near the boat. And then.

He’d done this so many times that everything immediately fell into slots, like punchcards in an old computer. The girl waited for him to speak. Oh he wanted to speak. He thought about what they’d talk about, what she’d be like in bed. Thought about how her skin would feel and taste. And in the morning or earlier she’d bugger off back to the motel and catch the afternoon flight to Nebraska. Back to her high school sweetheart, her fiancée, her parents, her fat little sister with braces. Five years down the road she’d get drunk on wine and tell one of her girlfriends about Terry. They’d giggle.

The girl’s drink came. Terry still hadn’t said anything. The girl looked hurt. If you only knew, thought Terry. Horrible it was, knowing everything about her at a glance. One day there would be the mystery again. Or so he prayed daily. The girl picked up her drink, smiled awkwardly again, and disappeared into the crowd.

It was after midnight when he saw the blonde come out of the office. She stopped at the top of the steps, took a
managerial glance around the room, then made her way to the bar. She spoke to the bartender, inquired about stock, about sales. She made a circle of the room and spoke to the waitresses, looking to stop or anticipate any problems. She was good at her job. Serious, never smiled. Tough. And smart. She wasn’t gorgeous but there was something under the skin that you wanted to get at. Spandau had mentioned Stella’s hand on her hip. Stella’s woman? Spandau didn’t think so. But Terry could imagine a man like Stella wanting something he couldn’t have, something he couldn’t understand. Class, thought Terry. That would be just what Stella wanted most.

He watched her make her rounds then go back to the office. Okay then, she was here, when would she leave? The place closed at 2 a.m. She’d do some paperwork, maybe. Then drive home. Or maybe a boyfriend would pick her up? A husband? No, Terry hadn’t spotted a ring. Probably a boyfriend somewhere, but he wouldn’t pick her up. Stella wouldn’t like that. She’d drive home herself. She was that sort.

Shortly after last call Eve returned. She was angry.

‘It wasn’t him, the son of a bitch,’ she said.

Terry was half-listening. ‘What?’

‘It wasn’t Russell Crowe. It was some goddamn set carpenter. He lied to me, the bastard.’

‘He told you he was Russell Crowe?’

‘Well, not exactly. But he never said he wasn’t.’

Terry laughed. ‘It’s a vale of tears we live in, as me old
mother used to say. It could be worse. You could’ve let him have his way standing up in the lavatory.’

She gave him an angry look, since this was exactly what she’d done. Suddenly Terry said, ‘Let’s go.’ He took her elbow and moved her toward the door.

‘What the hell is this?’ said Eve. ‘I want a drink.’

‘You’ll be in mourning for your lost honor, and I wouldn’t presume to intrude upon it,’ Terry said to her.

He took her outside and led her to a taxi stand down the street and folded her into the car.

‘You men are all shits, you know that? And the fucking Irish are the worst of the—’

The cab pulled away. Terry waved to her as he watched her lips move.

The blonde didn’t come out until nearly 3 a.m. He’d been sitting in his dark car, parked down the street in the shadows, for over an hour, watching patrons, drunk and sober, paired-up and alone, stagger out of the club. He passed the time listening to his iPod and trying to think of the raven-haired girl instead of the blonde. It kept coming back to the blonde. He peed into a plastic jogger’s flask and, not for the first time, questioned the sanity of doing any of this.

He brought his mind round to Ravenhair naked and lying in his bed, but his mind slipped gears and he found himself curled up with the blonde in post-coital tenderness. This was a bad sign. It was almost comforting that, in all likelihood, she probably had a boyfriend at home. An
actor or musician. Hung like a Clydesdale and a degree in physics. And he’d be tall. She’d adore him and Terry wouldn’t stand a bloody chance in hell. Terry could just approach her and ask his bloody questions and she’d report back to Stella and Terry could collect his paycheck and go off and get shitfaced somewhere. Oh yes, thought Terry, I should have spoken to little Ravenhair.

It wasn’t hard to follow the blonde. She drove an old bright-yellow VW Beetle and stopped at all the lights, stop signs, railroad crossings and was generous in granting the right of way. Terry could have followed her on a bicycle, and was able to keep a safer distance behind than usual. It wasn’t far. She pulled up in front of a bungalow in West Hollywood and left the motor running. She walked up to the porch and knocked instead of rang. In a moment a woman in her fifties answered the door. The blonde didn’t go in. They spoke. The woman seemed to be scolding her, but gently. The blonde kept shaking her head. Finally the blonde went inside. A few minutes later she came back out carrying a sleeping child, a boy it looked like, maybe three or four years old. She put the boy in the back seat and strapped him in, talking to him all the while. She got in her car and drove away. The woman in the house stood at the door the whole time and watched. When the VW disappeared the woman closed the door.

Terry followed her down Sunset and north onto the 405. He kept at least a quarter mile behind her. She turned off at Ventura Boulevard and Terry slowed so he wouldn’t
creep up on her at the light. He came down a good ways behind her when she’d just made the turn onto Ventura and he eased in again a safe distance behind. There was no hurry. It was like following a yeti but he had to be careful.

Her house was in Sherman Oaks not far from Sepulveda. A place much like the one she’d just left: old, small, reasonably affordable. A backyard for the kid. She parked in the drive and carried the boy up to the porch, fumbled for her keys, dropped them and had to juggle the sleepy kid while she knelt to grab them. Terry had to resist the impulse to run up and help her.
I was just passing by, saw your plight, would you have dinner with me?
She got the door open and went inside.

Right, he’d done his job, he could stop off and have breakfast somewhere and then go home and crash. But what about the boyfriend? No other car parked in the drive. Nobody greeted her at the door, rushed out to help her with the child or the keys.

This, Terry admitted to himself, is where the insanity begins.

The street was dark and deserted. Terry got out of his car. He walked in the opposite direction then crossed and walked back until he reached the house. He clung to the side of the house and made his way toward a lighted room in the back. The kid’s bedroom. Terry watched her tuck him in, sit on the side of the bed. He couldn’t get back to sleep, he said. She sang, quietly, an old song. ‘Raglan Road’, for sweet Jesus’ sake. She kissed the boy, turned off the light and left the room.

In the living room she poured herself a drink from the small table in the corner. She sat on the couch – collapsed, really – and turned on the TV. The TV played for a few minutes but she never watched it, didn’t acknowledge it existed. Maybe the sound itself was some sort of company. She drank and stared into space and when she finished the drink she got up to get another. She stopped at the bar table but didn’t pour the drink and Terry thought, Good for you girl, it’s the path to hell. She set the glass down and went back to the couch, where she put her head back and closed her eyes and cried silently. Before Terry got back to the car he’d decided to phone Spandau in the morning and tell him to shove the whole case up his ass.

Nine

Bobby was ripping somebody a new asshole when Spandau came up to the trailer. You could hear him yelling halfway across the lot.

‘Yeah, shit, come in!’ Bobby said when Spandau knocked.

Bobby was in costume, sitting in a chair. May, his makeup artist, was leaning over him, making some adjustments to his hair extensions. Ginger was in the back talking on a cellphone. He waved to Spandau when he came in.

‘Shit!’ Bobby jerked in the chair.

‘Sorry,’ May apologized. ‘But this has got to get done. Otherwise they fall off in the heat.’

‘My fucking head is raw from these things.’

‘I know, sweetie, I know. Everybody complains. It’s not me. I’m being as gentle as I can.’

Spandau took a seat on the couch.

‘Look at this,’ Bobby said to Spandau. ‘Fucking hair extensions. My own fucking hair isn’t good enough. I look like a goddamn pansy.’

‘Hey,’ Ginger called out from the back, ‘I’m a pansy, so watch it.’

‘You’re a fucking vicious little bullfruit, that’s what you are,’ Bobby said to him.

‘Well, I’ve been called everything else. Bullfruit I kind of like.’

Ginger waited on the phone. Bobby jerked a few more times as May fixed his head.

‘And?’ Bobby said over his shoulder to Ginger.

‘Honey, I’m trying.’

‘You talk to the manager?’

‘He’s not there. I’ve got a call in to him.’

‘I can’t goddamn believe it. Do these fucks go to movies? I can’t believe it, I can’t even get into a goddamn restaurant.’

‘Well, no,’ said Ginger, ‘you can’t just drop into the fanciest restaurant in town with twenty people. Jack L. Warner on the best day he ever had couldn’t do that.’

‘It’s been a shitty day, I thought I’d invite everybody out, you know? Everybody’s tired, nobody wants to go home and cook.’

‘Dearest, no one is going home to cook. Do you honestly think Sir Ian is dragging his ass home to fry up some Spam over a hotplate? No, I don’t think so.’

‘It’s a fucking gesture.’

‘Yes, and it’s a very nice gesture. But if you think you can just show up with twenty-plus people – it’s way more than fifteen, honey, I don’t know where you come up with that number – then we have a problem. On the other hand, if you want to show up with a couple of people I can get you in anywhere. Everybody loves you, you’re the flavor of the year, they’ll feed you and you can sleep with the maître d’ if you want.’

‘Just get me in somewhere then. Me and Irina.’ To Spandau Bobby said, ‘You want to come? Bring a date? Or no, shit, we could invite Heidi. Heidi would love him.’

‘Oh God, no, not Heidi. What did this poor man ever do to you?’

‘Who’s Heidi?’ Spandau asked.

‘No, Heidi would be all over him.’

‘I know, honey, but give the poor man a break. Not everybody is after instant sex.’

May said, ‘I think Heidi is busy. But he’s just her type.’

‘Everybody is Heidi’s type,’ said Ginger.

Bobby laughed. ‘I’m telling you, let’s fix him up with Heidi.’

‘Who’s Heidi?’ Spandau asked.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Bobby. ‘You’ll love Heidi.’

‘You’ll hate Heidi,’ Ginger said to Spandau.

‘For fuck’s sake, don’t queer this, it’ll be great.’

‘Queering things is just my nature, I’m afraid,’ said Ginger.

With a flourish May put the finishing touches on Bobby’s hair extensions.

‘Done,’ she said to Bobby. ‘You’re gorgeous. You look like Lord Byron.’

‘Except for the club foot,’ amended Ginger.

‘Did Lord Byron have a club foot?’ asked Bobby.

‘Oh, honey,’ said Ginger, ‘it was like a sheep’s hoof.’

‘Jesus,’ said Bobby.

‘Who’s Heidi?’ asked Spandau.

The mobile rang. Ginger answered it. May waved to Spandau and left the trailer.

‘Oh, hi, Benny!’ said Ginger into the phone, clear enough for Bobby to hear. Ginger looked at Bobby. Bobby vigorously shook his head no.

‘He’s on the set right now. They’re working the poor thing to death. Can I have him call you when he gets off? . . . Oh sure, I’ll tell him. Bye.’ Ginger held up the phone. ‘That’s the third time he’s called today.’

‘I don’t want to get into this shit,’ Bobby said. ‘It’s like I got nothing fucking better to do than straighten out his fucking life.’

‘He says your mom is doing well.’

‘He wants more money. How much is it this month?’

‘He didn’t mention money.’

‘You ever known him to call me and not have it be about money? Fucking-A it’s about money. I bought him a fucking house. In Ohio it’s a fucking mansion, it’s like the fucking Taj Mahal. All he’s got to do is see that Mom
doesn’t fall down the stairs fucking drunk and kill herself. That’s it. For that he’s got a goddamn mansion and a salary like a fucking CEO.’