Plus One (18 page)

Alex felt his stomach turn over. A long moment passed.

“I'm sorry, but screw Lester Price,” he heard himself say. “This house is not a crash pad. And I am not going to spend another day playing lookie-loo with Mr. Dreamhouse. We are getting this house. Lester Price has got to get out of the way.”

• • •

A call to Benjamin's agent confirmed it: They were now considering multiple offers. Given “certain pressures from creditors,” the seller
was seeking to avoid a protracted negotiation. They would therefore accept “best and final” offers and make their decision within the week.

Figgy's disappointment that the house was being “poached by a goddamn
actor
” quickly shrank into shrugging acceptance. On the phone from the writers' room, where she was in hour six of an all-nighter addressing notes from the network on episode four, Alex heard her sigh heavily, the fight draining out of her. “It was a nice dream while it lasted. Oh well.”

“So we drop out?” Alex said.

“Honey, do you have any idea how much movie actors make? This house is
chickenshit
to Lester Price. He spends more on scotch and pinball machines.”

Alex knocked the receiver on his forehead and grimaced. A small part of him knew he should be relieved. The pressure was off. After all, the house was still outrageous, irrational, ridiculous, way beyond anything they needed or could afford. But he couldn't just let it go—not like this.

“I'm sorry, we can't let Les Price win this,” he finally said. “This house is everything he isn't—it's gracious. It's domestic. We'll fill it up, make it happy. It should belong to us.”

“Sweetie, talent always gets the goodies.”

“This isn't a gifting suite,” Alex said, remembering Huck's story about the hotel rooms where Emmy nominees had their pick of luxury goods. “He can't just waltz in and scoop it up.”

Figgy sighed again, her breath making a distorted hiss on the phone. “I can't do this now,” she said. “See what Colby says. If you guys really think it's worth trying, take a shot.”

And so, after a few frantic phone calls, the offer was upped to over asking.
Same difference
, Alex thought, the figures spinning in his brain like lotto balls.
They were only upping the amount by, what, point-two? Point-three?
They were all just digits now, swirling symbols that had some distant relationship to real money but
that seemed now more like little blunt instruments to beat back an encroaching threat.

Money, Alex knew, wouldn't be enough to beat Lester Price. Extra steps were required.

Over two feverish, teeth-grinding nights, he devised a black-ops campaign. Huck had said Price was unusually concerned with security—he'd amassed an impressive arsenal of spy gear, including motion sensors, an electrical fence, and a koi-pond moat around his Malibu compound. The nine-foot wall at Sumter Court was clearly a plus. But perhaps, Alex thought, Price was unaware of other potential vulnerabilities? Perhaps a few looming breaches in privacy might be brought to his attention?

“Huck, just text him,” Alex said into the phone, trying not to plead. “He has a right to know that TMZ Tours has a fleet of double-decker buses that stand roughly twelve and a half feet above street level. He
deserves
to know that while the current TMZ route does not include Sumter Court, their routes change frequently… based on tips from any schmo with a cell phone!”

“I am
so
not getting involved,” Huck said. “A guy's house is like his girlfriend—they may be bitchy or fugly or prone to drink six margaritas and pin you to a wall and try to grab your balls—but you
don't
bring that shit up. Ever.”

Alex soldiered on. “Do you really want Scandinavian tourists with black socks peering into your boy's cabaña? Tourists with telephoto lenses and spec scripts? Isn't this a
security
issue?”

“Listen, Alex, I'm rooting for you. I am. I like an underdog. But I'm not getting involved.”

Fine—he didn't need Huck's help. Alex had already brainstormed other ways to break through the protective scrim surrounding Lester Price. His first move was the simplest: a single email to the tip account of StarHomes-dot-com, the dishy and heavily trafficked blog that covered open houses in prime L.A. neighborhoods with the sort of intensity and attention to detail
that Alex noted had entirely disappeared from coverage of things like public schools and local government.

Apparently, the people behind
StarHomes.com
didn't even live in L.A.—Alex heard it was compiled by interns at a startup in Tempe, Arizona. You'd never know it from “Price Eyeballing Park-Adjacent Crash Pad,” a three-paragraph item that appeared the day after Alex's tip. The blog duly reported that Lester Price was bidding on a three-bedroom house with sumptuous interiors and lush grounds at such-and-such address, alongside a complete floor plan and a street-view photograph. All that was missing was a Google map.

It was almost too easy.

On the Wednesday before the Benjamins were to make their final decision, Colby learned that Lester Price had arranged for a final visit, to show the house to his girlfriend. As it happened, Colby had a listing for a split-level modern just up the hill—the two houses were so close, in fact, that you could see the balcony of the empty house from the backyard. Alex got busy with the kids' art supplies and a sheet of butcher paper. He took no small measure of pleasure picturing Lester Price stepping out onto the patio of the home he felt sure would soon be his and spotting, not one hundred yards away, a ten-foot banner printed with the cheerful greeting:

“WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD LESLIE SYCHAK!”

• • •

Les Price dropped out the next day. Apparently, he'd decided his place in Malibu was fine. “Too many freaks east of Fairfax,” he told the agent.

“What'd I tell you?” Colby said when he called with the news. “You didn't think I'd pull this off, did you? Going toe to toe with high-profile Hollywood competition—it's what I do. It takes some
pretty crafty maneuvering, let me tell you. The Mr. Dreamhouse thing—corny, right? But I hope you can see now Alex, where the title originates, right? Right?”

Alex thought for a second about pointing out that all his “crafty maneuvering” consisted of lending Alex a spare key to a vacant house so he could hang a banner. He didn't even know about the blog. For that matter, neither did Figgy. She was so busy, and anyway Alex thought it best to spare her the details—especially his agreement to finalize financing and inspections in just ten days.

A thirty-day inspection period was quick. Ten days was insane. But Colby had urged Alex to go forward—he'd heard Zooey Deschanel and the director McG had both called his office to get a showing of that fabulous house they'd seen on Starhomes-dot-com. “Get the accepted offer on paper,” he said. “The terms are tight, but we'll get it done. I can hustle the mortgage guys. And you know how inspections go—they'll clomp around, poke their flashlights all over, and be on their merry way. Don't worry: It'll go fine!”

Alex tried to wait up for Figgy to come home from the set so he could catch her up on the news. When she finally arrived, the clock radio read two a.m., and Alex was passed out with the light on.

“Huge fight over wardrobe,” Figgy said, collapsing into bed. Apparently, Katherine was feeling “unsafe on set” and had demanded that five members of the crew be replaced for “looking at her in a predatory, offensive way.” Today she'd gone to the network with complaints about the latest script, which she found “sitcommy and hammy and nothing I want my name associated with.”

“So today the network decides we need to handle our quote-unquote ‘talent issues' and in waltzes Dani Dooling. Non-writing producer, total glad-hander, lasted seven or eight seasons on that NBC show about the trampy pharmaceutical reps?
She launches into this whole spiel about ‘process' and ‘inclusion'. The Diva Whisperer, they call her. She's only supposed to handle Kate, but I've seen this act before. The network brought her in to take over, give them a show runner who'll roll over, take every one of their notes.”

“Honey, stop,” Alex said. “It's your show, remember? They can't replace you. Not so soon after the Emmys, right? You're the show runner. The
creator
.”

“Apparently,
creator
counts for jack. I'm so depressed. I ate an entire tub of Red Vines today.”

Alex reached over and put his hand on her arm. “It's not
all
bad,” he said. “I have some good news. Our offer was accepted today. Formally. On the house.”

Figgy's eyes got wide. “What about Les Price? He didn't outbid us?”

“I guess our offer was just more attractive,” Alex said.

Figgy wiggled up close. “We
beat
Les Price?” she said, grinning. “How the hell did we
do
that?”

“I dunno,” he smiled, loving the mysterious aura he'd cast around himself. “Just a little crafty maneuvering.”

Figgy let out a big breath and turned onto her back. “I am so turned on right now.”

• • •

Alex met up with Colby at the house the next day to sign the offer and do a walk-around with Rex Benjamin. Alex wandered around the front yard for close to an hour while Mr. Benjamin was upstairs on the phone. When he finally appeared, he shoved a handful of papers toward Colby and took Alex's hand in a ridiculously tight grip. “Back again,” he said. “Wanna see what you're getting into? You'll want to see the sprinkler timers before anything. Trust me.”

Alex raised an eyebrow to Colby and followed Mr. Benjamin out the back door into the garden. Colby flashed a thumbs up. That was it? He'd expected some sort of ceremony—if not bugle calls or an exchange of family crests, maybe a nice WASPY gin and tonic on the patio. Instead, it seemed Mr. Benjamin intended to seal the deal with a tutorial on sprinkler timers.

“The raccoons ate all my koi,” Mr. Benjamin said, pointing to a fountain on the patio. He stopped at a patch of overgrown rose bushes. “Judy was supposed to prune these. She's let them go. She's either upstairs getting crispy in that goddamned tanning contraption or running around
labeling
everything. For the auction people—she's putting prices on every doily and serving spoon.”

“Those label makers
are
pretty addictive,” Alex offered. “I love the way you can change the font—”

“
Women
, you know?” he said, ignoring him. “She's not taking any of this very well. I keep telling her: Yes, we had expectations. But whatever happens,
we're
the same—they can't change that. They can't get you in
here
,” he said, tapping his temple with a muscular index finger. “Judy seems to think we're finished now, that all bets are off. All bets are
not
off.”

“Oh no—not off at all,” Alex said, leaning in toward the sprinkler box. He felt something on his face. It made a horrible crinkling sound and seemed to wrap around his cheek. He reared back.

“Shit—spider!” he yelped.

“Hold still,” Mr. Benjamin said, stepping forward and plucking a tangle of filmy web from his face. “It's just a goddamn
web
.”

His voice rang with authority. He had the sort of voice that belonged in a boardroom or a court chamber. Alex slid down that voice, into the upstairs bedroom in better times, where Mr. Benjamin was undoing his cufflinks after a night out, kicking off his wingtips and running a hand through his thick head of silver hair. Over at the vanity, Judy perched in a slip, dabbing off her
foundation and readying herself for the heaving, one-sided bout of lovemaking that Mr. Benjamin would soon initiate. She'd yield, lay open for him, do what was necessary. She was his bottom, his base, his support. She took care of her man; he expected it, deserved it.

Alex brushed off his shirt and picked a strand of web from his cheek. “Sorry—just surprised.”

Mr. Benjamin turned his attention on Alex. He seemed to take him in for the first time. “So I understand your wife is in television—what line of work are you in?”

Alex swallowed. “Advertising—but I recently left a job,” he said. “I was working on a big testicular cancer campaign. Not pro-testicular cancer, of course. Anti. It's a charity!”

The tendons on Mr. Benjamin's neck twitched. “And now? What are you doing now?”

“Looking after the wife and kids,” Alex said. “Also early stages on a new project. Still working out the nuts and bolts. Centered on punk rock, if you know anything about that. Early eighties L.A. hardcore, the Misfits, Circle Jerks,
that
whole milieu, seminal stuff, really under-appreciated.”

Had Alex really just managed to group together testicular cancer, the Circle Jerks, and the word “seminal” in his career recap? He wouldn't blame Mr. Benjamin for thinking Alex made his living in gay porn.

“I see,” was all he said.

• • •

Alex couldn't help wondering if things would've gone differently if he and Mr. Benjamin
hadn't
had that exchange in the bushes. If he hadn't left Mr. Benjamin with the impression that he was leaving his family estate in the hands of a flinchy punk who used words like “milieu” and complained of a weak stomach when taken to the spare refrigerator to view the bags of venison Mr.
Benjamin brought home from Wyoming.