An Accidental Affair (43 page)

Seated near the pool, surrounded by palm trees and waterfalls that defined our purlieu, my wife had a martini at her side. She was topless and had on a yellow bikini bottom. That meant that all of the staff was gone. Her hair was wet, slicked back into a ponytail. She’d been swimming. It had been a stressful day for her, a busy day for Hollywood. Johnny Bergs’s memorial service had been held earlier. So had Bobby Holland’s, only Holland’s was smaller, quieter, with no hysterical fans lining the streets.

I didn’t go to either. Regina didn’t ask me to go. I doubt if I was missed.

One man had accidentally fucked my wife and I’d intentionally killed the other.

Regina sat up and as I approached, she said, “I fired my assistant.”

Hands in my pockets, I stood in front of her. “Alice Ayres?”

“You know her name. I’m surprised.”

I paused. “You fired her or she quit?”

“I realized, that after all of these years, I couldn’t trust her.”

“What did she do?”

“Don’t play stupid, James.”

“My psychic abilities are offline, so I won’t know what you don’t tell me.”

She let a few dramatic seconds pass before she said, “Steve Martin.”

As the lights in the back yard illuminated the moment, we stared at each other.

She said, “The iPhone that you’re looking for.”

“You have it.”

“I have it.”

“I figured that out while I was gone. Why did you take it?”

“And you must remember to lock your phone. Always. You left it unlocked and sitting in the bathroom. If you had actually lost it, anyone could’ve found it. Do you have any idea what that would’ve cost us at this point? We would’ve lost everything two times over.”

“I need that phone back from you, Regina.”

“Well, I thought that it was the phone that you used to call that skank who came into your apartment. The one who came in like she was your whore. I was sitting on the bed and a naked woman ran in and jumped in the bed with me. Yeah, I looked for her number. I went through everything. I went through text messages. I went though e-mails. And none of it made any sense. I was wondering how your phone had e-mails that I had sent to my assistant and her e-mails to me. Then I realized that it wasn’t your phone. It was hers. But you had it with you.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I’m still a woman, James.”

“I’ve never doubted that you were a woman, Regina. Not for one moment.”

“I saw the videos. They were gruesome, but I watched them.”

“Not as gruesome as having to watch you with Johnny Bergs.”

“What I did wasn’t criminal.”

“By God’s law.”

She laughed. “When was the last time you heard about God putting somebody in jail? And if He did, there’d be nobody left to walk the streets. The 405 and the 10 would be wide open.”

I took a breath. “Where is the phone now?”

“Did you pay my assistant to spy on me?”

“Of course not.”

“She had the video of me. Of Bobby Holland. Of Johnny Bergs.”

“She had the video of Holland supplying you, Bergs, and his date with blow and E.”

“Bullshit. It’s a video of us snorting blow. No one will care where it came from. No one would give a fuck. Why would you keep something like that? Were you going to hold that over my head and control me? Were you picking up where Bobby Holland left off?”

“I killed Bobby Holland for you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Flattered.”

“I am flattered. I really am. You killed a monster so you could take its place.”

“I killed the Bergs because of you.”

“Why would you keep something that could once again ruin us?”

“Why would I want to ruin us?”

“Or just ruin me? I wouldn’t have had any idea that you had it.”

“I killed for you. Wasn’t that enough to show my level of fucking commitment?”

“Did you? Or did all of this come about because you can’t handle your own damn jealousy? Seeing me with Johnny Bergs really got under your skin. It meant nothing to me.
Nothing
. And knowing that Bobby Holland was my ex probably bothered you just as much.”

“Right. I’m going around Hollywood killing everyone you used to fuck.”

“But the thing that happened with Johnny Bergs made you lose it.”

“Was it intentional?”

“Would it matter?”

“Did you create another scandal? Was it fucking intentional?”

“Would it matter?”

“I guess it wouldn’t.”

“I’m tired of being manipulated.”

“I’ve never manipulated you, Regina.”

“The video of you and the Bergs. The shootout. I watched it all. Watched it a few times.”

“I need that, Regina.”

“It was amazing. I never would’ve guessed that you had that much rage inside you.”

“I need that in my hands and I want it stored inside of my safe deposit box.”

“No worries. I have already stored it inside of mine.”

“It belongs to me, Regina. I want it stored inside of my safety deposit box, not yours.”

“I’ll keep it. Your wife will keep it for you.”

“In case it ever comes back on me, I’ll need that to show that it was self-defense.”

She shook her head. “Wrong, James.”

“It would help exonerate me.”

“I told you that I was all the alibi that you needed. You should’ve destroyed it all.”

“What am I missing?”

“The Bergs followed you and attacked you.”

I nodded. “Five against one.”

“I saw that.”

“Self-defense.”

“It plays out well on the video.”

“They shot at me first and made threats.”

“It was horrible, but you did what you had to do. However, it was hard to tell who had guns in that light. The problem was the gun that you used to shoot them with, James. You should’ve used your own gun. You used Bobby Holland’s gun. And that traces back to Bobby Holland. Sure, it made it look like Bobby was at the scene of the crime. Sure it led the police back to the man that you drowned. There would be only one question that they would need to ask you at this point. And it would be one question that you couldn’t possibly answer. If you had to use that tape to defend yourself, it would do the opposite. How did you get a dead man’s gun? I’m sure that the police are doing their best to make their theories work. Bobby killing the Bergs and then going home and slipping and bumping his head and drowning in his pool as his whore slept poolside. The video of the shootout would tie it all up. They’d know that you killed Bobby and stole his gun. I’m sure that the Hungarian claiming Bobby was there all evening added to the confusion, but they still know that something isn’t right. Bobby killing five men before any of them had a chance to run more than a few feet? No way. He was a lousy shot with a gun. You’ve had professional training. You should’ve used your own gun, James.”

When she had finished, all I could say was, “Something is always left behind.”

She said, “And something is always done wrong.”

“We can delete all of the videos together.”

“Oh, I’ve already deleted mine. Mine is already deleted. Only yours remain.”

“Will you give me the iPhone so that I can delete the rest?”

“Of course I will. On our golden anniversary.”

“Golden is fiftieth.”

“I know.”

“On our fiftieth wedding anniversary?”

“In a little over forty-seven years, it will be my gift to you.”

I stared at her for a long while. The tension between us was disgusting.

In the end, I made the corners of my lips rise.

Her smile mirrored mine. “And one minor correction.”

“Okay.”

“It was four against one. The fifth one, you gunned him down like he was a dog.”

“Bloodlust.”

“The desire for extreme violence and carnage, often aroused in the heat of battle and leading to uncontrolled slaughter and torture. I think that’s the proper definition of the word.”

“Yes. Bloodlust.”

She shook her head. “Should’ve used your own gun.”

“Should’ve. But I had left it with you. Plus, a lot had happened that evening.”

She reached for my hand and took the tips of the fingers on my left hand.

“You’re mine, James. I told you how I felt about you from the start. I’ve admired you. I admired you long before you even knew that I was interested in you. All I want is you, James.”

“You have me now.”

“I own you.”

“That you do.”

“If I didn’t have you before, I have you now.”

We stared at each other a little while longer. My wife. Behind her that big swimming pool. Too much temptation. I left her, went back inside my office. I exploded and threw things.

When I was done destroying my office, my wife was in the doorway watching me.

“And by the way. I have five offers for movies. One by Spielberg.
Two of the others are Oscar-worthy. And my office has messages from David Lynch, Martin Scorsese, Joel and Ethan Coen, Steven Soderbergh, Terrence Malick, Abbas Kiarostami, Ang Lee, and Hayao Miyazaki. A few others have called too. This is going to turn out to be a wonderfully busy season for me.”

Sweat drained down my back. “That’s great, Regina. Congratulations.”

“My publicist and agent are begging to come back on board. They are kissing my ass like I’m Hazel Tamana Bijou. I’ll take them back, but at a reduced fee, and they will work harder than slaves. I’m tired of them living off me. And my asking price just went up two mil. I’ll be in front of Angelina Jolie and Sara Jessica Parker. I’m number one now.
I’m number one
.”

“Why so mean?”

“Being nice didn’t work. Everyone treated me like shit and abandoned me.”

“It’s all working out in your favor.”

“But no matter what I am offered, I want to star in
Boy Meets Girl
first.”

“No problem. You own me. Your name will be above the title.”

She stepped over the mess that I had made, and kissed me. When she was done, she went to my desk. She took a package out of her pocket, emptied medicinal powder, used her American Express Black card to make two white lines, rolled up a one-hundred-dollar bill, sniffed one line, then smiled at me. She wanted me to say something. She wanted a bigger fight.

She said, “You should try it.”

“You’re off the wagon.”

“It’s not as bad as you think. You should snort some off my ass. Get a new perspective.”

“So, you’re not going to rehab.”

She did the other line then reached inside her pocket and took out
a watch. It was Bobby Holland’s watch. She sat that timepiece on my desk as if that was now a gift from her to me.

She said, “I finally have control over my life. God’s grace and mercy covers me.”

A hint of benzoylmethylecgonine rested on the tip of her nose. Instinctively, I reached to her face and wiped away the product of the leaves of the coca plant. I stared at her as the nervous system stimulant took root. Her eyes lit up with the love for cocaine. I sat back down and watched her, then moved my eyes from her and faced my companion Underwood.

She asked, “What are you about to do?”

“I’m going to work on this script awhile.”

“Almost done?”

“In the final pages of the third act. I have to write this final tragedy.”

“I’m going to bathe. When you’re done writing, come to bed.”

“I’m going to be up a while.”

“And, baby, this isn’t a barn so please don’t leave your clothes scattered everywhere.”

Then she kissed me, eased her tongue inside of my mouth, and gave me so much passion. I held her and we kissed for as long as she wanted to, for minutes, but it felt like hours.

She whispered, “I do love you, James. I’m your number one fan. Always will be. But I have to protect myself the best way I know how.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t fucking trust you.”

She left my destroyed office singing and headed for the main house, framed by extravagance. She was on top of the world. Or maybe she was floating on lavish clouds. She gazed back at me and smiled her flawless, smoldering billboard smile. I smiled a loving smile in return. She blew me a kiss.
I love you
. I blew her one in return. Then the woman with the perfect body, the perfect legs, the perfect
breasts, the perfect ass, the prefect face, the woman from Montana, sashayed across our Ruritanian estate, a queen behind iron gates and high walls that surrounded her kingdom. She strolled across her land and went inside her eight-thousand-square foot castle.

Dead actor. Dead comedienne. Dead Bergs. Dead director.

Dying young had made many movie stars permanent legends. They never had to age or fall from greatness. If Phoenix, Dean, or Belushi had lived, they’d have faded into oblivion in due time. Same for Amy Winehouse. If we lived long enough, we were well all tossed aside. Dying stopped the clock. A lot of clocks had stopped on behalf of Regina Baptiste.

I sat at my desk and stared at the residue from her medicinal powder. It was the same substance that I had wiped away from the bathroom counter back at the apartment in Downey. Her assistant had brought her clothing and some blow to powder her nervous little nose. Her assistant didn’t have a choice. It was do it or lose her job. Regina Baptiste had done a line before she went to greet her crowd. Maybe that was when she had seen and stolen the iPhone.

My eyes went to Underwood, brain on fire, and fingers over the keys, but not moving.

And then I did type two words:
Red Rum
.

For a while I thought about Hazel Tamana Bijou. For a moment, again, I reached back.

I was angry with her for a while, again gnashing my teeth over what didn’t happen in the past, vexed over the present that I owned now. Hazel had been the fork in the road. If only her text message had come through on that night two years ago. If only she had called me once over the next nine days. One phone call from Hazel could’ve changed the course of mighty rivers.

I looked at the photo of my wife that was on my desk.

Then I typed faster:
Red Rum Red Rum Red Rum
.

Bobby Holland’s luxurious watch laughed in my face. Those
chortles reminded me that his computer was still in the trunk of the Bentley.