Object of Desire (16 page)

I didn't know what he was asking, but then it hit me. So
that
was the funny cigarette Troy had been smoking, and that was why his eyes had looked so red. “I didn't know,” I said. “I didn't know that's what it was.” I felt like an idiot.

Mom had been right to call me that after all.

Detective Guthrie believed me. “We could charge Troy with a lot of things,” he told me. “Drug possession, underage driving, endangering the health of an elderly person. Not sure how your grandma would've responded to breathing in all that secondhand marijuana smoke if we hadn't gotten her out in time.”

I felt sick. Troy hadn't endangered Nana.
I
had.

“Next time, buddy,” the detective was saying, looking at me, “call us, okay?”

He replaced his hand on my shoulder. I nodded.

He led me to a police car, and I slid in back. In seconds Mom was inside as well. She was still sobbing into her hands, big, heaving sobs. She didn't look at me.

“Your son was trying to help, Mrs. Fortunato,” Guthrie said, getting into the front seat. “He's kind of wet and smelly, but he's fine. He knows now not to try to do things on his own. I hope you realize that now, too, Mrs. Fortunato.”

She didn't reply, just sobbed all the harder into her hands.

I understood why. All this commotion—and in the end, Becky still wasn't coming home.

I looked out the window. I saw a couple of officers retrieving the bag of money from the Dumpster. I saw Troy being put into one cruiser and Nana into another. I felt sick again, as if it were all my fault.

And it was. Just
how
it was my fault, I wasn't quite sure anymore, but I knew it was. It was me who had gotten the call this morning, who hadn't asked the questions I should have asked. It was me who'd let Mom go off on her own. Now all I had to do was look over at her to see how bad a decision that was, how utterly disappointed she'd turned out to be. So completely crushed.
I
had let that happen.
Me.
It was my fault.

I had let her down in so many ways. I'd never told her what I'd seen the morning of Becky's disappearance. Now it was too late to tell. Mom would hate me forever if I told her now. But would that matter, really? She hated me already. I could see that. I could see from how she cried that she wished it had been me who'd gone missing—
me,
not Becky, not her precious daughter. Despite all the fighting and arguing they'd done, Becky was still her favorite child. I was just the stupid idiot son who'd let her down. That was why Mom cried as hard as she did.

I rested my forehead against the glass of the police car as we were driven home. The sky got grayer, and finally it began to sleet. I knew then that Becky was never coming back. And I knew that for the rest of my life, I would carry the blame.

T
he house, as I knew it would be, was magnificent. A marble gate opened electronically when the driver of the car tapped a button on some kind of car phone. Out of the tinted car windows, I discerned the last pink rays of the sun illuminating the city, the spires of downtown L.A. glowing in the far distance. Ahead of us was the house, perched on a hill, with its orange tile roof and marble columns, a curving staircase leading up to a pair of antique-looking mesquite doors. The driver stopped the car. I popped a breath mint into my mouth.

“Jesus, Danny,” Randall had gushed, not twenty minutes earlier, as he'd looked out at the car Gregory Montague had sent to pick me up. “Look at that car!”

“What kind is it?” I'd asked, too nervous myself to peer outside. “A Jaguar?”

“Not a chance,” Randall had replied, looking at me with eyes like poached eggs. “That's a goddamn Aston Martin.”

I had no idea what an Aston Martin was, but from Randall's stunned expression, I knew I should be impressed. I took one last glance in the mirror. I spiked my hair with a bit more gel and made sure my tiny crucifix earring was in place in my right ear. My bolo tie with the turquoise gemstone hung straight down from my collar. My black jeans were skintight, showing off my butt to the best possible advantage. My black leather boots were buffed to a high gloss, with silver caps on the pointy toes.

The doorbell rang and I jumped. “Do you want me to get it?” Randall called. I told him no, hurrying myself to open the door. A Mexican man in a black pin-striped suit stood there. “Danny Fortunato?” he asked. I nodded. “I've been sent by Mr. Montague,” he said. I nodded again, yelling good-bye to Randall. The driver held open the door of the shiny silver car for me. I slid into the backseat, nearly overcome by the pungent scent of leather. I settled in for the ride up Laurel Canyon and into the Hollywood Hills. The whole time I didn't speak a word.

Mulholland Drive followed the jagged ridgeline of the hills that led into the Santa Monica Mountains. The many twists and turns left me just the slightest bit nauseous. I closed my eyes. How had I gotten to this point? I remembered gathering my nerve, after nearly a month, to call the number on the card Gregory Montague had given me. And why the hell
not
call? He was an agent, after all, and I was an actor. I needed work. I certainly wasn't getting any on my own. So I'd picked up the card, which had been sitting on my bureau all those weeks, and dialed his number. It was obvious now I stood no chance with Frank, his hunky friend. I ought to at least get something out of that disastrous meeting on Hollywood Boulevard.

Montague remembered me. Yes, indeed, he was very interested in talking with me. Would I be willing to come to his house the next night? He'd send a car.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Randall had asked.

I'd made a face. “You're the one who got me into this! Why are you second-guessing now?”

“Just want to make sure you're sure.”

I'd nodded. I was sure.

“Welcome to Mulholland Pines,” the driver said as he opened the car door for me. I stepped outside into the fading sunlight. Enormous, fragrant pine trees spiked into the air all around me, tinted with the same pink glow that bathed the Los Angeles basin below. I mumbled my thanks to the driver and looked up at the house. I swallowed hard—downing my breath mint in the process—and began the long ascent up the stairs.

There was no doorman, no butler, no housekeeper, as I'd expected. Gregory Montague himself opened the door. He was wearing a gold satin smoking jacket with a paisley design, a white shirt with an open collar, and blue jeans. He was barefoot.

“Well, Danny, it is good to see you again,” he said. “Welcome.”

He gestured me inside. I stepped in, looking up at the vaulted ceiling, the chandelier of colored glass. There were white lilies everywhere, and their perfume was nearly intoxicating. The floor was high-gloss parquetry.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Gregory asked. I saw his eyes drop from my face to my crotch. I was pleased I'd worn tight jeans.

“Not right now,” I said.

“Fine.” He gestured for me to follow. “Let's talk in here.”

He led me down a short hallway to a study. It was lined with bookshelves, though most were empty. In the middle of the room, a curved pink sofa sat in front of an enormous television set. Plaid pillows were scattered randomly across the floor. It was the kind of room I imagined rich people to have, the kind of room I'd always wished for myself. On the wall were dozens of photos. I glanced quickly at some of them. Gregory Montague with President and Mrs. Reagan. Farrah Fawcett-Majors. Ron Howard. Bill Murray. Jennifer Jason Leigh. Cher. I wondered if they were all Gregory's clients. The photos seemed recent. In all of them, he had the same beaming white smile and bushy white eyebrows and surprisingly thick shock of white hair.

“Please,” he said. “Sit down.”

I took a seat at one end of the curved sofa as he pulled shut the sliding wood door of the study. I folded my hands in my lap.

“Any auditions lately?” he asked.

I shook my head no. “Nothing I could get into.”

He sat at the other end of the sofa, appraising me with his cold blue eyes from under those enormous eyebrows. I pegged him to be about fifty. He wasn't unattractive. Indeed, in his day, he might have been quite handsome. He had a strong jaw and very high cheekbones. If Katharine Hepburn had ever done herself in male drag with a white wig and fake white eyebrows, she might have looked very much like Gregory Montague.

“So that's why you decided to give me a try,” he said to me.

I shrugged. “Anyone just starting out who is serious about making it in this business would be a fool not to respond when a well-known agent gives out his card.”

Whether or not Gregory Montague was well known or not was a matter of some discussion. Yes, he was listed in the directories of agents I'd looked at, with an address and a phone number, but no one I'd asked had ever heard of him. He didn't appear to be affiliated with William Morris, CAA, or ICM. But the photos on his wall seemed to suggest he knew some big names. After all, President and Mrs. Reagan!

“Well, I'd certainly like to do what I can for you, Danny,” Gregory said, leaning back into the cushions of the sofa now. The sash of his smoking jacket had come undone, and he patted his round, white-shirted belly as if he'd just had a good meal. “But you know, I can't just sign someone with no experience.”

“I've heard that song before,” I said. No way was he getting off that easy. My months in West Hollywood had hardened me. Emboldened me. No longer was I the hick who'd just stepped off the bus. I knew how the game was played. That was why I was there, after all.

I narrowed my eyes as I looked at him. “Every agent I've spoken to has said the same thing. You can't get a job in this town without an agent, but you can't get an agent if you've never had a job. So how come the acting pool doesn't just dry up? Sooner or later, you're gonna run out of people, and then, when you guys come looking for me, maybe my price is gonna be a lot higher.”

My little rant made Gregory laugh, as it was intended to do. “You have spunk, Danny,” he said.

I gave him an eye and a smirk. “That's what Lou Grant told Mary Richards just before adding that he hated spunk.”

Gregory's eyes twinkled. “Oh, I can assure you, I
adore
spunk.”

“Lucky me.”

He rose. “If I can't offer you a drink, might I offer you something else?”

“Whatcha got?”

He walked over to a small bar at the far end of the study. “Around here, liquid refreshment is never quite as effective for doing business.” He withdrew a small, thin silver case from a drawer.

I cocked my head at him. “But, we
will
do business, won't we?”

“Oh, indeed, Danny. Indeed we will.”

I smiled.

On the bar, Gregory was arranging two lines of cocaine. My heart beat a little faster, and I felt my mouth actually begin to water. It had been a couple weeks since I'd snorted coke, and suddenly I was starved for it. Two weeks of being good, of staying as close to Randall as I could and as far away from Edgar as possible, had made me only want that magic white powder even more. I stood from the sofa and tried to appear casual as I sauntered toward the bar.

“I find it helps the conversation,” Gregory was saying, offering me a little straw. “And helps get to the heart of one's talent.”

“Yeah, funny how it does that,” I said, accepting the straw. In seconds both lines were gone. Gregory was laying out more. They might have been intended for him, but I snorted them myself, faster than any Hoover vacuum cleaner. My host simply smiled.

“Oh yes,” Gregory said, finally doing a line himself, “there are many, many opportunities for a beautiful boy like you.”

I laughed. The rush was spreading through my body. I could taste some of the powder at the back of my throat. I felt happy and confident and, yes, beautiful. I stood back, leaning against a bar stool, my pelvis thrust forward, allowing Gregory to inspect the merchandise. It was the same cocksure feeling I had up on my box at the bar.

Gregory drew close. He ran a hand up my leg and over my ass. “Very beautiful indeed,” he purred in my ear.

“Do you really think so?” I asked in a little voice. Even high, even cocksure, there was still a little part of me that was afraid of the answer.

“Could there be any doubt?” he replied. He took my hand and placed it on his crotch. I felt a hardness there. I smiled.

I wriggled away from him. “Now I'd like a drink,” I said.

“Certainly. What can I get you?”

“Dewar's. On the rocks.” I thought that seemed like a classy choice. “So if we're gonna do business, let's get down to it. Tell me what you can do for me. I want to be
big.
” I moved in a little closer to him. “I'm serious, Gregory. This isn't just a lark for me. I want to be a huge star.”

Gregory was fixing my drink. “Movies or television?”

“I don't care.”

“Well, you should. Aim high, Danny. Don't you want to be Harrison Ford or Richard Gere more than you want to be Ted Danson or Michael Landon?”

I considered it. “I suppose. But a top-rated TV show would suffice. Like I could do
Family Ties
if Michael J. Fox decides to split permanently for movies.”

Gregory handed me my drink. I took a sip.

“Are these your clients?” I asked, gesturing to the wall. “Why don't you have Ron Howard put me in his next picture?”

“We need to start with getting some photos, Danny,” he said, ignoring the question and the suggestion. “A sexy portfolio of head shots and body shots.”

“Sure.”

He smiled. “Mind showing me what you've got?”

I held his smile for a few moments with one of my own.

“Of course,” I said and began undoing my bolo tie.

Gregory sat on the arm of the sofa and watched. I unbuttoned my shirt, exposing my slender, smooth, tanned chest. I pushed the shirt open just enough to allow for a glimpse of my nipples, hard little cones that revealed my anxiety. I hooked my thumbs in my jeans and posed, imagining a photographer aiming at me with his camera.

“Well, go on,” Gregory said.

I looked at him. “Maybe we ought to keep a little mystery.”

He laughed at me. “Come on, Danny. I could go down to Santa Monica Boulevard some night and see more of you than this.”

I moved in close. “I'm serious about wanting to be an actor.”

“I know you are, sweetmeat.” His big white eyebrows twitched, and his blue eyes twinkled. “And I'm just as serious. Believe me.”

I placed my hands on his shoulders and held his gaze. “I just don't want to…you know, do something for nothing.”

He laughed. “I doubt a boy like you ever does something for nothing.”

“I'm not a whore,” I said, feeling suddenly indignant. “I dance. I strip. But I'm not a hustler.”

Gregory slipped his arms around my waist and kissed my nose. “But you've been paid for it. Can you tell me you've never been paid to have sex?”

I couldn't tell him that. I just looked away.

“Oh, maybe you're not leaning up against the wall at Numbers, but if a man wants you, he can find a way to have you.” He ran his hands up and down my exposed chest. “And who wouldn't want you? You're beautiful, Danny. Simply stunning.”

“Stop it,” I said, uncomfortable. “I am not.”

“But you are. Those beautiful, perky nipples. Those tight, little boy abs. Those saucy blue eyes.”

“Please stop.” I felt weird. Maybe it was the coke. But suddenly I felt faint. I would've fallen down if Gregory wasn't holding me up.

“You knew what coming over here meant, didn't you, Danny? You knew what you were doing when you agreed?”

“Yes,” I answered, dizzy. “Yes, I knew. But I'm still serious about being an actor. Still serious about wanting your help.”

“And you shall get my help.” He popped open the top button of my jeans and pulled down my zipper, grinning up at me with that toothy Katharine Hepburn smile. “We help each other, Danny boy. That's how we do things in Hollywood.”

He knelt down in front of me. Out of my white briefs, he pulled my cock, gobbling it up as quickly as a kid going down on an ice-cream cone.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Good thing I got hard easily. All a guy had to do was look at my cock, and I got a big, old raging hard-on. It didn't matter if the guy was hot or sexy. Just looking at my cock and wanting it in his mouth were enough to give me a boner. That was the reason I was so popular with Edgar's customers, why they came back for more. I just closed my eyes and let my cock do all the work.