Revision of Justice

I must express…

My enormous gratitude to Alice Martell, my smart, hardworking agent; Irv Letofsky and Pat H. Broeske, for their helpful Hollywood say; Tom Meyer, for supplying the beer; and John Langley, for providing the cigar.

My special thanks to novelist Melodie Johnson Howe and the students in her UCLA Extension mystery writing workshop for their invaluable feedback on the early chapters of this book.

As ever, my love and appreciation for Pietro, for always being there, and being himself.

In Memory of Vito Russo

Alexandra Templeton and I made our way up the narrow, twisting streets of Beachwood Canyon, toward a party I didn’t want to go to, on a night, like most, when I wanted to be left alone.

In the distance, moonlit against the dark hills, the Hollywood Sign looked as innocent as a picture postcard.

“Promise me you’ll try to have a good time, Justice.”

She stretched out a slim brown arm and opened her pink palm to catch the passing breeze.

“You know I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

Her sly brown eyes slid in my direction.

“Then at least promise me you won’t try to have a
bad
time.”

“You’re asking a lot this evening.”

She smiled a little, which made her more beautiful than she already was. Then she closed her eyes and tipped back her head, letting her black braids hang free and the warm air bathe her long, slender neck.

With each turn in the road, the letters spelling out
H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D
loomed larger across the canyon, like a beacon of hope for the lost and lonely.

Then the famous landmark disappeared as we hit a stretch of road that ran straight for what looked like half a mile. I pressed down on the gas pedal, and the old Mustang rose like a slow rocket, leaving behind a sea of city lights.

Templeton grew quiet, which was usually my role.

“Thinking about What’shisname?”

Her eyes remained closed, her lips pressed together.

“We don’t have to talk about him, if you don’t want to.”

“Why so curious, Justice?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Frankly, he’s not worth it.”

“You sound a little pissed off.”

“We dated for a few months. I caught him two-timing me. It’s history.”

“I never liked the guy much, anyway. Terrible choice on your part.”

She opened her eyes and sat up, suddenly full of sass.

“You only met him twice, Justice. Of course, for a recluse like you, that’s a deep friendship.”

When I didn’t say anything, her mood shifted again, losing some of its spunk.

“What was so bad about him, anyway? That is, before I discovered he was a deceitful, two-timing sonofabitch.”

“I didn’t like the way he was always flaunting his heterosexuality.”

She smiled serenely.

“Mmmm. I did.”

“So you do miss him.”

She sighed, settled back, and stared out the pitted windshield, across the rust-ravaged hood. “It’s nice when you have someone in your life you care about. Instead of just your work.”

“At least you’ve got that.”

I had the top down and we could hear dogs barking from the deep shadows of the canyon and the desolate tinkle of music from one of the houses that clung awkwardly to the hillsides like would-be suicides waiting to jump. I’d always found the canyons above Los Angeles to be lonely places, and I liked them for that. Templeton considered them picturesque and romantic.

We saw a lot of things differently. Maybe it was because I had more than a dozen years on her, and had seen things, both as a reporter and as a man, that she hadn’t yet seen even in her worst nightmares. Or maybe I was just a jaded ex-reporter who drank too much and spent too much time feeling sorry for himself.

“So here we are,” I said, “two souls without mates, on our way to a party full of strangers. What could be more fun?”

I glanced over at her.

“That’s why you were so insistent that I come along tonight, isn’t it? So you wouldn’t have to be alone so soon after breaking up with What’shisname?”

“Frank. His name’s Frank.”

She hadn’t answered my question.

“Templeton?”

“Not exactly.”

She was avoiding my eyes.

“What exactly does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

“I’m working on a freelance assignment. For
Angel City
. I’m having some problems with it. I hoped you might be able to give me a hand.”

My eyes went back to the road.

“An article for
Angel City
.”

“It’s a Hollywood piece, nothing very heavy.”

“Oh, Templeton.”

“You know how I’ve wanted to move up from the crime beat at the
Sun
. Get into general features. Break into the magazines.”

“Better money. More prestige. More depth and style to the writing.”

“And a wider range of subject matter.”

“So you’re writing a Hollywood piece for a fatuous monthly like
Angel City
? That’s progress?”

“
Angel City
is not fatuous. Trendy, maybe. But not fatuous.”

“Debatable.”

“I could use some help on this, Justice. Do I have to grovel?”

“Of course you have to grovel.”

Her lips stretched into a smile that had
fuck you
written neatly between the lines.

“So what’s the problem, Templeton?”

“I’m in over my head. Can’t get a handle on the story.”

“You said Hollywood. Be more specific.”

“It’s a trend piece, on the screenwriting trade. The ruthless competition, awesome money, success stories, shattered dreams. That kind of thing. Four thousand words and a sidebar, due in two weeks.”

“It sounds like you’re all over the place with it. What’s your focus?”

She hesitated, which told me a lot.

“The intense competition, I guess.”

“Not much of an angle.”

Her brow furrowed in thought.

“How about—how far some people will go to get their hands on the hottest new script.”

“It’s an improvement. Still a bit vague, though—and rather lightweight.”

Templeton met my blue eyes straight on.

“Think of it as a story about greed, power, and reckless ambition. Is that worthy enough for Benjamin Justice?”

“At least I hear a theme.”

She faced forward again, crossing her arms over her shapely chest.

“God, you can be a pompous ass.”

“Enough with the compliments, Templeton. Let’s get back to the problem.”

“As you’ve already articulated with such incomparable brilliance, I can’t figure out how to tell the damn story.”

“No focus. No framework.”

She suddenly sounded weary, her defensiveness gone.

“The piece is a mess, Justice. And I’ve got a deadline breathing down my neck.”

“And Harry, too, I’ll bet.”

Harry Brofsky—my former mentor at the
Los Angeles Times
and now her editor at the less prestigious
Los Angeles Sun
—worked with a paltry budget and a minuscule staff. He also frowned on outside freelance work.

“And Harry, too.”

The road twisted, and my headlights caught the yellow eyes of a scrawny coyote just before it slipped away into the dry chapparal. The Hollywood Sign was in front of us again, then gone with another turn of the wheel.

I glanced at my watch, which told me it was a few minutes before nine. I felt them ticking away.

“And this gathering we’re going to?”

“It’s a networking party. Lots of aspiring screenwriters, Hollywood wannabes. A few agents, maybe a producer or two.”

“God, I can hardly wait.”

“I figure I might pick up some colorful background material, maybe connect with some good sources. Gordon Cantwell’s publicist suggested we come.”

“I should know who Gordon Cantwell is?”

“Teaches screenwriting, has a book out. Started back in the early seventies when the marketplace became wide open for original screenplays and the money started getting big. He’s made quite a success of it.”

“Writing scripts? Or teaching people how?”

“The latter, from what I gather.”

“What’s his gimmick?”

“He offers a technical approach to screenplay structure that he calls the Cantwell Method. It’s apparently had quite an impact on how screenwriting is taught and executed, on how contemporary movies are written.”

“One of those writing gurus, with ambitious young groupies lapping up his every word.”

“He has his following, but from what I hear, his time has pretty much come and gone.”

“Maybe we’ll be the only ones at the party.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Justice. Cantwell’s been hosting this thing every month for more than twenty years. It’s become something of a Hollywood institution. Anyone can attend, and a lot of people do.”

“And where do I fit into this mad social whirl?”

“I’m going to meet Cantwell around nine. We’ll do a get-acquainted interview of fifteen or twenty minutes, during which he’ll tell me how much he’s done for his screenwriting students and plug his book on screenplay structure ad nauseam.”

“And
moi
?”

“You’ll wander around, not talking much. Sipping white wine in that pensive, controlled way you have. Seeing everything while revealing nothing. You’ll take endless mental notes that you’ll commit to memory and later share with me. Snatches of conversation, colorful details, telling anecdotes—the stuff of great feature writing. All of which I’ll use to craft a smashing piece and launch a glorious freelance career.”

She’d managed to get a smile out of me, which wasn’t easy.

“I see you’ve got it all figured out.”

“I consulted the Psychic Hotline.”

I glanced at a street sign as we sped by.

“I didn’t.”

“Turn right at Ridgecrest.”

We passed a road sign showing a forbidden match and cigarette, reminding drivers of the fires that plagued these canyons when the winds blew hot and dry. Moments later, another street sign loomed. I swung the wheel hard, turning onto Ridgecrest Drive, where the pointy silhouettes of thorny cactus fronds jutted out daggerlike from the roadside.

The nose of the Mustang was now pointed directly at the Hollywood Sign, which looked big enough and close enough for us to reach out and touch.

“Cantwell’s publicist told me the sign was just across the canyon from his house.”

“We must be getting close, then.”

I said it tightly, drawing a concerned look from Templeton.

“You’re sure you’re all right with this, Justice?”

“You brought a bottle?”

“In the backseat, with my purse.”

“That should help.”

Her eyes stayed on me, but I kept mine on the road, thinking about the party that was only minutes away, then of parties long ago, in better times. Finally, inevitably, of Jacques. My mind must have stayed on him awhile, because I heard Templeton beside me, a million miles away, asking if I was paying attention to a single word she was saying, asking me if I was losing my nerve.

“I’ll be all right.”

We reached the end of a line of parked cars, from which partygoers trudged the rest of the way on foot. Most clutched bags shaped like bottles, and a few toted what I would later learn were freshly printed film scripts. One earnest-looking young woman carried a knapsack filled with them on her back.

I eased the Mustang to the shoulder of the curbless road and shut off the engine. I didn’t get out right away. Instead, I sat staring out at the night ahead, feeling empty and anxious.

Templeton reached over to run her fingers through my blond hair. It was thinning on top but still thick in back and it felt good to have her fingers there, now that she knew me well enough to know I had no interest in going to bed with her.

“You’re thinking about Jacques, aren’t you?”

Yes
, I wanted to say,
I’m thinking about Jacques
.

About the way he had of turning a dull party into a wonderful adventure, total strangers into instant friends. How he got me to stop drinking when I’d had too much, saying just the right words, something no one else could do. His quick and honest laugh, the smile that came with it, and the flash of humor in his dark, Latin eyes. What it had been like, tumbling into bed with him at the end of the night, when the world disappeared and he became my world, safe and welcoming and warm.

“Let’s go in,” I said, “before I change my mind.”

We got out, leaving the top down. Templeton grabbed her purse and a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the backseat. I hadn’t tasted alcohol yet that day, and when she handed me the bottle in exchange for my keys, my hands were shaking a little.

We started hiking with the others.

Up ahead, across the road, an ancient woman descended, dragged by a shopping cart heavy with reclaimed bottles. She was peering suspiciously over her shoulder, back up the road at an oddly shaped house where the party was apparently in progress.

A wild tangle of white hair made it difficult to see much of her face. She wore a battered pair of running shoes and a full-length coat, old and heavy, despite the warm August air.