Revision of Justice (3 page)

“I was until they took my picture away from me last month.”

He said it pitifully, the way drunks can get in the blink of a bleary eye.

When I said nothing, he pushed the subject.

“You must have read about it in the trade papers.”

“I guess I missed it.”

“Locked me out of the damned editing bay!”

“Hardly seems fair.”

“
Thunder’s Fortune
is now in the hands of some other bloke.” His grin grew crooked, sad. “Or some bloke-ette.”

“You’re a director, then.”

“Not just any director, mate. Dylan fucking Winchester! Brilliant young director from Down Under. Only he’s not so young anymore and he doesn’t look too fucking brilliant at the moment, does he now?”

He laughed uneasily and swigged from the can. The Foster’s frothed over onto his beard. He belched, wiped a meaty hand across his mouth, kept talking.

“Your movie’s too fucking long, they said. Behind schedule. Over budget. But that wasn’t the reason they took it away from me. I’ve been behind schedule and over budget on every fucking studio picture I ever made!”

He thrust his hairy chin at me, fixing me with his bold, dangerous eyes.

“You want to know the real reason?”

“Sure.”

“Raymond Farr is the reason.” The humor had drained from his voice like blood from a dead man’s face. “Raymond fucking Farr! And when I find the little prick, I’m going to kill him!”

He flung the empty beer can at the bathroom door, hard enough to leave a mark. Then he turned and stomped away down the hall, out into the mass of bodies, leaving the spicy aroma of his Montecristo Number 2 behind.

I picked up the can and set it on a small table next to a Mickey Mouse telephone. The bathroom door was locked, and I picked up a different aroma, the sweet scent of burning marijuana, so I didn’t bother to knock.

Instead, I leaned against the wall and drank my wine, studying Paul Newman’s anguished face on a poster for
The Verdict
and digesting Dylan Winchester’s unexplained fury at the man named Raymond Farr.

No more than fifteen minutes had passed when I saw Dylan Winchester again.

This time there was a pane of glass between us, framed by tall window curtains of heavy dark velvet that reminded me of
Rebecca
.

I was standing in the shadows of the breakfast room, on the southern side of Cantwell’s house. The lights were off and I was working on my second glass of Pinot Grigio while I took in the view.

A thorny hedge of cactus had been created down the slope, decades ago if the density of its growth was any indication. I could just make out the shapes of beavertail, barrel, and prickly pear, with a scattering of smaller, pincushion cacti at their base.

Beyond lay darkness, all the way down the canyon to the illuminated windows of other homes, which led to an explosion of lights in the distance, city after city, as far as the eye could see.

Suddenly, off to my left and below, Winchester emerged from the deepest shadows of the yard, looking even more agitated than before. His fancy Cuban cigar was gone and his head was down, but his beard and mane of auburn hair were unmistakable.

He hurried toward the side of the house, into the fringe of the light, looking like he wanted to get away as quickly as possible.

Then a younger man appeared from the same dark section of the yard, several steps behind. He was slim and blond, wearing shorts and sandals and a rather smug look on his pretty face.

He dashed after Winchester, grabbing at him, the way Winchester had grabbed at me in the hallway only minutes before. Winchester shook him off, disappearing around the side of the house while the younger man stared sulkily after him.

Before another minute passed, he turned away, toward the flickering light of the patio, and the lively silhouettes of men and women socializing there.

I glanced at my watch: 9:32 I couldn’t very well keep putting Templeton off—“hiding,” as she had put it with a fair degree of accuracy. I drained my glass, refilled it, and wandered back into the party, carrying the bottle with me.

The wine had begun to do its job. The cacophony around me, which had sounded so maddening earlier, had settled into a pleasant hum, and the packed bodies began to feel almost comforting, even sexy.

I spotted Templeton in the living room, taller and darker than any other woman in sight, standing with Christine Kapono in a knot of chatty types gathered around bowls of chips and guacamole dip.

As I made my way toward them, I saw Dylan Winchester yet again, through an arched window that looked out across the yard to the street. He was behind the wheel of a black Mercedes convertible, pulling out fast.

“You’re back among the living.”

It was Templeton, greeting me as I approached, with Kapono at her side. I raised my glass to them both, feeling the glow.

“Ladies.”

“Come,” Kapono said. “I see two friends I’d like you to meet.”

We followed her to the middle of the room, where I found myself face to face with the tightly coiled woman who had slipped past me in the hallway, making a hasty departure from Dylan Winchester. Next to her was a dapper, white-haired gentleman old enough to be her grandfather, who held a stemmed glass of red wine in his well-manicured fingers, one of which was adorned with a gold wedding band.

“Roberta Brickman and Leonardo Petrocelli,” Kapono said, “I’d like you to meet Alexandra Templeton and Benjamin Justice.”

Then, quickly, like a warning: “Alex is on assignment for an
Angel City
piece on the industry.”

“We’ll have to watch what we say, then, won’t we?”

Roberta Brickman seemed to be looking more at me than at Templeton when she said it. Her voice was cool and controlled now, which fit the rest of her—the elegant, conservative clothes, the flawless coiffure. She appeared to be in her early thirties, with intelligent brown eyes and a well-shaped face that might have been attractive had it not been so pinched and severe.

Kapono informed us that Brickman was an agent with International Talent Associates, in Kapono’s estimation one of the major “players” in the industry. Leonardo Petrocelli, she told us, was a “screenwriting master, the kind you don’t find too many of anymore.”

Petrocelli, trim and courtly, raised his bushy eyebrows in acknowledgment, along with his glass of red wine.

“Surely you’re not here looking to make connections or pitch ideas,” Templeton said to him.

“Why not, dear—because of my age?”

“Because of your experience, Mr. Petrocelli. I assume you’re well established in the industry.”

“At one time, Miss Templeton. Unfortunately, that doesn’t count for much when you’re dealing with studio executives two or three generations behind you. These young agents and producers today—mention the word ‘classic’ and they think you’re talking about
Animal House
.”

Everyone laughed except Brickman, who managed a pained smile.

“Present company excluded,” Petrocelli said, bowing slightly in her direction. He winced, and raised himself upright with effort, struggling to conceal it.

“And you, Roberta?” Templeton asked. “Conspiring with Leonardo on a new film project?”

“As a rule, Alexandra, I don’t talk to the press.”

“Why is that?”

“I prefer the attention go to my clients.”

Translation:
Because the media are always looking for an angle, usually negative. Talking to you can do me no good, but could do me harm. So why bother?

Templeton decided to test the agent’s resolve.

“Have you picked up any clients at one of Gordon’s parties?”

Brickman smiled tightly.

“Not that I recall.”

“Roberta’s always made herself accessible to new writers,” Kapono said, sounding like a publicist. “She even returns phone calls.”

“An agent who returns phone calls,” Petrocelli said. “They should give you a special Oscar for that, Roberta.”

“It’s simply good business.”

“Is that what screenwriting is?” I asked. “A business?”

“For some, it’s buying and selling product, Mr. Justice. For others, it’s trying to make the films they want to make. But, yes, bottom line—it’s a marketplace.”

“Sad but true,” Petrocelli concurred.

He offered us a weary, knowing smile.

“Perhaps you’d like to share your insights with Templeton,” I said, “for the article she’s putting together.”

Petrocelli studied me carefully.

“If I’m not mistaken, Mr. Justice, you’re a reporter yourself.”

“Not for some time.”

“In the eightiees you wrote for the
L.A. Times
. Mostly investigative pieces, I believe.”

“That’s right.”

“Pulitzer problem, if I recall correctly.”

“You do.”

“I thought I recognized the name.”

From the silence that fell momentarily over the group, it seemed as though the others now recognized it as well.

“Maybe we should talk about it sometime,” Petrocelli said. “It might be the premise for a good movie.”

There wasn’t a hint of meanness in his voice. It was all said matter-of-factly, with the kind of frankness writers and reporters display so easily when discussing others, but rarely when discussing themselves.

“It was a series of articles, actually.”

I heard the tension in my voice, and didn’t like it.

“On AIDS, wasn’t it?”

“It was about two gay men who were lovers. One was dying. The other was caring for him. Not my usual nuts-and-bolts reportorial style.”

“Quite touching, if memory serves.”

“And largely fiction, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Which is why they made you give the Pulitzer back.”

“And why you haven’t seen my byline since.”

“At the heart of every tragedy, Mr. Justice, there’s invariably poignance. As I said, perhaps a film. If not for theatrical, then maybe for HBO or Showtime.”

“Frankly, it’s not something I enjoy dredging up.”

Petrocelli’s face softened with sympathy.

“I suppose not. Forgive me if I spoke out of turn.”

We’d stumbled into one of those awkward moments that can shatter the artifice of a social gathering like a hammer on glass. Kapono moved quickly to pick up the pieces.

“Leonardo, I believe you’re out of wine.”

“So I am, dear.”

I held out my bottle.

“Pinot Grigio, Mr. Petrocelli?”

“Thanks. I’m a burgundy man.”

Kapono reached for his empty glass.

“I tucked a bottle away for you in the kitchen, Leo.”

“While you’re at it, if you should run into Raymond Farr—well, tell him I’d like a moment of his time, if it’s possible.”

“Raymond Farr,” I said. “That’s a name that keeps popping up.”

I glanced at Brickman. The muscles around her mouth tightened into a grotesque version of a smile.

“He does seem to get around, doesn’t he?” Petrocelli said. “Just before you joined us, Roberta was telling me that—”

“Raymond is a former assistant of mine.”

Brickman regarded me harshly, the way she had when she’d caught me eavesdropping in the hallway.

“According to Dylan Winchester, Farr was also your client.”

“That would be an overstatement.”

“Ah.”

“I’ve neither seen nor heard from him in some time.”

“We’ve each independently been trying to reach Farr by phone,” Petrocelli said. “All we get is his infernal answering machine. Doesn’t anybody in this town answer their damn telephones anymore?”

“I’d hoped to clear up some old business with him,” Brickman said. “I thought perhaps I’d find him here tonight.”

For someone so press-shy, she was suddenly volunteering more than her share of information.

“He’s a party regular, then?”

“A former student of Gordon’s,” Kapono said. “He worked at ITA until—”

Brickman silenced her with a glance sharp enough to cut the Hope diamond.

“Until what?” Templeton asked pleasantly, in the even manner of a reporter who smells an interesting lead.

“Until a few weeks ago,” Brickman said, her voice as frosty as her lacquered hair.

“And Dylan Winchester?” I asked. “An ITA client?”

“Until recently.”

“Interesting.”

“Not really. Clients jump agencies more often than they change therapists.”

Brickman’s monotone pelted me like small, cold stones.

With noticeable relief, Kapono turned toward the doorway.

“Look who’s here!”

There was a commotion in the foyer as the youthful crowd parted to clear a path for the new arrival.

He was a pudgy, florid-faced, middle-aged man dressed incongruously in an orange-and-white baseball uniform, complete with cap and cleated shoes. The words
Tinseltown Tyros
were stitched across the chest, and his snug baseball pants were smudged with grass stains and infield dirt.

In the crook of one arm he carried a grocery sack, an economy-sized bag of taco chips peeking out the top; under the other arm, a well-used outfielder’s mitt.

The young people around him raised their bottles and beverage glasses, offering high fives and calling out his name, all in earnest pursuit of his attention.

Gordon Cantwell, the absent host, had finally made his entrance.