The Bones (22 page)

But he does none of these things. Instead, he drives to Brentwood. Pulling into the driveway of his new house, he gets out
of the car and walks through the front door, where he gazes into the formal dining room and sees a meticulously arranged display
of furniture that looks as if it had been relocated from the palace of a Viennese archduke. He immediately wonders at the
number of zeros he is going to see on his Visa bill as a result of Stacy's newly high-end taste in interiors, but then realizes
this is not a thought that will bring anything positive into his life right now, so he goes into the kitchen, where he finds
his wife making rigatoni for Dustin, who is sitting on the marble countertop near the double-wide Sub-Zero refrigerator watching
cartoons on the plasma TV screen mounted in the corner.

When Stacy hears Lloyd enter, she looks up, and in that instant that takes place when two spouses have had a fight and then
not seen each other for the day while they both decide whether to pursue their respective grievances, she notices what he's
wearing and squeals with delight.

"Lloyd! You look amazing! Doesn't Daddy look amazing?" she asks Dustin, who is too enthralled by the antics of an animated
rat to look up. Then, to Lloyd: "Thank you
so much
for going shopping with Kevin. I know you were really mad and, okay, I don't blame you, I think maybe, you know . . . " Here
she looks at Lloyd with a crinkly smile of relief. (Relief he hasn't left? Relief he hasn't killed her?) But she doesn't finish
her thought. Was she going to apologize? Lloyd wonders. That would call for a national holiday, Stacy never being one for
apologies, full speed ahead. As she kisses him on the mouth, then takes his hands and places them on the denim stretched tight
across her gym-built ass, Lloyd has the thought that it is not easy being Stacy, to live a life where everything must be designed,
lit, and stage-managed, where the opinions of others matter so much more than your own and where perception trumps reality;
the show that is Stacy must go on, ticket sales must be maintained, despite the flagging energy of the one-woman cast for
whom each performance is increasingly like a Wednesday matinee on a snowy February day. The concentration it takes to maintain
the presentation that is her existence produces waves of stress that come and go, flitting through her nervous system, a continual
thrum of low-level anxiety. The genuine joy Lloyd sees in Stacy's face as she looks at his new clothes almost makes him feel
for her.

"What do you think of the dining room?" Stacy asks. "Cam Rousseau was here this afternoon and she had the movers help her
with the feng shui. Don't you love it? I wanted to surprise you."

"You bought some nice stuff," Lloyd says in a manner that could be interpreted any number of ways.

"So did you from the looks of things."

A sheepish smile that Lloyd cannot restrain crosses his lips, despite his best efforts, since he doesn't want to provide her
with the least bit of satisfaction. He quickly gets it back under control. Stacy isn't looking at his face, however. She's
still looking at his clothes, which she regards as nothing less than a complete capitulation to her worldview.

"Hon, tell me, did you like Kevin?"

"Where did you find that guy?" Lloyd asks.

"Daryl recommended him. He buys all of Robert's clothes."

"He was a real character."

"I knew you'd like him."

"I didn't say I liked him." Then, to his son: "Hey, bud, what are you watching?"

"TV," Dustin replies, unwilling to shift his attention from the screen. And with that the Melnicks are back on track, their
marital train roaring toward a new and radiant future redolent of promise and possibility, the declared cargo of joy and forgiveness
camouflaging the shipment of resentment being furtively transported to a place where the erstwhile combatants would warehouse
it for future use.

***

From her own days as a user, Honey learned never to throw drugs out, since in her experience there may come a time when you
need them again. Frank was aware of this philosophy, having watched her try to straighten out many times but never actually
discarding a stash since, she explained, she wanted to keep it handy for when they entertained. So in the hours after the
Kirkuk
taping Frank had staged a daring search-and-rescue operation in Honey's purse and heroically liberated both his crack pipe
and dwindling supply of rock. When they arrived home and Honey collapsed into the exhausted sleep of a five-year-old who has
spent a day having her circuits overloaded at Six Hags, Frank put
Sketches of Spain
by Miles Davis on the CD player in the living room and smoked up the rest of the crack. He got so high he had to drink the
better part of a bottle of Courvoisier to come down and passed out before he had the chance to return the evidence to Honey's
purse.

The next morning finds Frank sprawled across the floor of the living room, his right cheek pressed hotly against the shag
carpet. The left side of his head, starting at the orb of his eye and continuing in a throbbing arc to the area just above
his ear, feels as if it has been crushed by the kick of an irate mule, his mouth like it has been used as a bedouin encampment
replete with tents and camels, and his tongue sports a viscous coating that will need to be removed with sandpaper and turpentine.
He attempts to open his eyes and finds this simple action impeded by the dried gloop that has sutured his eyelids shut. Exerting
monumental effort, Frank is able to will enough strength into his right eyelid to overpower the gluelike excretion and open
it infinitesimally, but the ruthless morning light causes it to snap shut with the velocity of a mousetrap. The tentative
equanimity with which he had grown to accept recent events has vanished, and Frank Hes in this position for the next several
minutes wishing his whole absurd life would be over.

"Good morning, Frankie Bad Boy," Honey chirps.

The sound of Honey's voice causes such an aural assault on the inner precincts of Frank's delicate eardrums his entire body
seems to wince, and the wincing sets off a further chain reaction, making it seem as if every one of his cells were nefariously
conspiring to cause him eternal and irreversible pain. He tries to lie as still as he can.

Frankie Bad Boy was what Honey called him when she was in an extremely good mood, and the sort of behavior on Frank's part
that would ordinarily render her hysterical is by virtue of her temporarily buoyant disposition transformed into something
she finds forgivable if not endearing. "How are you feeling?" This is said in a chipper tone laced with a subtext of awareness,
letting him know she's up on his shenanigans but will not be affected by them today. Honey is still so energized by her adventures
of the previous evening that if she walked into the room and discovered Frank lighting his hair on fire, she would ask him
if he wanted to toast marshmallows. That she physically assaulted him in his dressing room is clearly not something she's
thinking about. "Frank?" she repeats sweetly, her previous queries having gone unanswered.

He manages a gentle groan that is nonetheless strong enough to register as an earthquake in his delicate brain. Gathering
every fraction of faded strength still lingering in his body, he manages to croak, "What?" Actually, it sounds more like "Wha
. . . " since hitting the consonant at the end of the word requires more vigor than Frank can muster.

"I'm going out to pick up some things for the house. I'll make you a pot of coffee before I leave," she pipes.

Honey gets into her car and instantly fishes out Bart's note. The second she pulls away from the curb, she starts dialing,
her fingers nearly trembling in anticipation of beginning a flirtation with a movie star. On the third ring she hears a recorded
voice-—
This number is no longer in service. If you think you have reached a wrong number, please try again.
Honey tries two more times and gets the same recording. She can't believe Bart would give her the wrong number on purpose.
Well,
she charitably thinks,
he must have a lot on his mind,
and she begins her round of errands, still hopeful. It's going to take a lot more than Bart Pimento's screwup to excise the
spring from Honey's step today.

By the time Frank is able to remove his cheek from the carpet, rise first on an elbow and then to one knee, before, in a superhuman
effort, finally reasserting his status as a biped and staggering toward the kitchen, where he intends to unleash the coffee
on his damaged system, Honey has been gone for an hour. Frank manages to pour himself a cup and make it to the kitchen table
without toppling over, a small victory under the circumstances.

He has been sitting there for fifteen minutes with one hand supporting his head letting the bitter black liquid massage his
battered brain cells and, like thousands of tiny loofah-wielding Ukrainian immigrant masseurs, beat them back to life. Suddenly,
the deafening blare of a fire engine siren shrieking two feet from his ear startles him. It takes Frank a pained moment to
register this as the ringing of his telephone. With an effort, he moves his eyeballs in the direction of the caller ID: Nada.
He answers it.

"Yeah," Frank says, his voice emanating as if from someone lying deep in a cave.

"Frank Bones please," says an unidentified male. Clearly, this is not Tessa, Frank realizes, relieved he will not have to
engage in his usual coy badinage.

"You got him, babe."

"Hold for Robert Hyler."

A moment later Robert comes on the line. He skips the schtummy and pops the champagne. "Harvey Gornish called and he loves
the show. He thinks Dubinsky is a visionary."

"Really?" At this news Frank's hangover evaporates like morning mist on a warm June day.

"I just got off the phone with him. And listen to this: he loves Honey!"

"I knew she'd kill," Frank lies.

"But just 'cause Harvey likes something doesn't mean they're gonna pick it up. They have to test it. But it can't hurt."

"What did he say about me?"

"He loves the show!" '

"Does he love the Bones?" Frank asks; let's get to what matters here, please.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah—you, the show, Honey, Dubinsky, the whole nine yards!"

Frank gets off the phone thirty seconds later, his headache having returned (the effect of good news on the human system sadly
temporary); but despite the throbbing pain that was clearly not leaving town without a fight, he feels much better about the
universe and the benighted, wind-blasted rock face he occupies in it; the approbation of the Harvey Gornishes of the world
something he requires to solidify the tenuous hold he maintains; without it he knows he will lose his grip and tumble to oblivion.

Several cups of coffee later, Frank manages to get into the shower, where the warm water edges him ever closer to temporary
sobriety. He gets dressed without trying to pull his pants on over his head and soon finds himself sitting alone in the living
room, where after a few minutes of staring into space he picks up the phone and dials.

"Sparky, it's Bones. You want to shoot some pistols?"

Sparky is seated in the passenger seat of Frank's Caddy as the two of them cruise down the 405 toward the LAX Gun Club. The
diminutive dealer is looking at Frank and shaking his head, not saying anything. Sensing his friend's opprobrium, Frank glances
over at him, eyes still bloodshot behind his shades.

"What?"

"Bones, you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Does it have to do with Honey? Because I'm not answering those."

"I want to know something about Honey, I'll ask Honey. Here's what . . . and I don't mean any disrespect."

"Ask the fuckin' question, Sparky. You're getting on my nerves."

"You're a famous comic, right? You just did a pilot for Lynx, you're gonna be a TV star . . . "

"Yeah, so?"

"So what the fuck are you doing driving this shit-ass spookmobile?"

"Spookmobile?" Frank repeats, laughing. "You're calling my ride a spookmobile?"

"Don't get me wrong, Bones. I love my black brothers. But listen, you are what you drive in this town. And you're trying to
make some kind of oblique cultural statement with this piece of shit we're riding in, some seventies superfly, pimp-by-association
thing, right?"

Frank thinks about this for a moment. "Fuck you," he responds halfheartedly.

"Yeah, fuck me," Sparky says. "But I'm your friend so keep listening. The Caucasians who run the world see you and they're
shaking their heads saying poor Frank Bones can't afford a white man's car."

"You're a fuckin' racist."

"I'm no fuckin' racist, man. I got every CD Prince ever released including the ones that were only sold on the net. What I
am is an astute observer of social mores."

"Social mores?"

"I observe them and then I interpret them for my obtuse friends, such as yourself. Anyway, I looked under your hood the other
day, Frank. This car don't have long to live."

The two spend a few carefree hours at the Gun Club happily shredding paper targets with Sparky's new Ruger. When they are
nearly out of ammunition, Sparky turns to Frank and says, "You're getting a good paycheck on this pilot thing?"

"It's alright."

"So you can actually afford a new car?"

"Don't patronize me when I'm holding a loaded firearm, babe."

"I got a proposition. Let's have a little competition, and if I win, we're going car shopping for you and you're gonna retire
the Caddy."

"And what do I get if I win?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, Frank. You ain't gonna win."

A little over an hour later, Frank and Sparky walk into the Hummer dealership of Beverly Hills, where they are attended to
by a former U.S. marine who introduces himself as Mike and looks uncomfortable in his sports jacket.

The purchase of a particular car always reveals much about the purchaser. A middle-aged man in a Porsche is generally assumed
to be compensating for declining virility. A young mother in a Volvo wagon is saying: Style? Phooey! The safety of my children
is paramount. Someone in a PT Cruiser is implying: I may not have much money but I'm cooler than you. As for the Hummer, the
message sent out for the world to hear is: Get the fuck out of my way or I will crush you like a bug. This makes it the perfect
vehicle for someone who can afford the steep price tag but still feels impotent in subtle ways. It's not a coincidence that
Robert Hyler, a man all-powerful in his professional life, wanted to test-drive one given his relationship with his wife.
In the case of Frank, someone with precious little control over the circumstances of his life and whose whole professional
career rests in the hands of others, a Hummer is an obvious fit.