Sex and Violence in Hollywood (44 page)

“Okay, so what should I do? Just sit back and smile when she tells me I can’t see my girlfriend anymore?”

“Yes. You might not like it, but she doesn’t do anything without a reason, a good one. You can be very sure that if she doesn’t want you to see your girlfriend, then it’s for the best. Sometimes she doesn’t explain her reasons. She doesn’t have to.”

“She did this time,” Adam muttered.

“Probably because she wanted you to know she has no choice. Look, she’s in charge, you do what she says. You do that, and everything will be fine. Rona will win another high-profile case, you will come out of this a celebrity with the future of your choice ahead of you. But if you give her trouble...well, nothing good will come of it, Adam. Trust me on this.”

“Just let her run my fucking life, huh?”

“Exactly. Be thankful you still have one. And stop swearing, or you’ll be broke before the trial. This conversation alone has cost you three hundred dollars, and we’re not done yet.”

“Don’t tell her,” Adam said.

Lamont chuckled. “No way that’s gonna happen.”

“If you’re so afraid of her, then why take a chance pissing her off by telling me all this?”

“Four hundred dollars. And I only did that because you’re cute.”

Adam’s eyebrows rose.

“Don’t panic, don’t have a sexual identity crisis, or anything, jeez-Louise, I know you’re straight,” Lamont said. “You’re so straight, my teeth envy you. But still cute.” He turned to the suitcase, removed an unfamiliar laptop computer. “Rona wants you to start writing everything down. Your impressions, your reaction to the legal system, your hopes, your dreams, your passions, your pains, anything that comes to mind. Write it down on this.”

“That’s not my laptop. I asked for my laptop.”

“Your laptop has a cellular modem. Rona doesn’t want you on the internet.”

“Why does she want me to keep a journal?”

“She wants material for the ghostwriter to work with so the book can be written quickly.”

“Ghostwriter? Hey, if anybody writes a book about me, it’s going to be me!”

“You’re a writer?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m sure Rona will want your input. But the final decisions are hers.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

“Do you write scripts?”

“Fiction.”

“Your publisher?”

“Well, my fiction hasn’t been published, but—”

“Then you’re not a writer.”

“Yes, I am. I’ve written three—”

“I don’t care what you’ve written. Anyone can do that. If it’s good enough to be published, then you’re a writer. Rona has some of her biggest outbursts over little things like that, so be careful. As I was saying, I didn’t bring your laptop because of the modem. Rona wants me to remind you that you are to communicate with no one until she says otherwise. If you want to reach someone, tell me, or Rona herself.”

“I can’t use my phone?”

“Haven’t you tried it yet? When you pick up in here, the phone rings next door, you’re connected to whomever is over there playing Solitaire or watching dirty movies.”

“You mean...I’m stuck here? I can’t go anywhere, talk to anyone, I can’t even dress myself?”

“But what a way to start your writing career, huh?”

“What do you mean?” Adam asked.

“Writing a courtroom drama about yourself! Publishers will assassinate each other over it. You’ll be like a young Dominick Dunne. Only hip, and without those little pervert glasses. And all the exciting events will actually have happened to you. You won’t be writing about it, you’ll be writing of it.” He glanced at his watch, turned and hurried toward the door. “I have to go.”

“Better shave first, Lamont,” Adam said.

He stopped, touched his face. Turned to Adam with panic in his eyes.

“There are razors in the bathroom,” Adam said. “Help yourself.”

From the bathroom, Lamont shouted over the hiss of running water. “I really appreciate that, Adam. I’m going straight to her office from here, you saved me a lecture and some points.”

“No problem,” Adam said.

“Okay, now remember,” Lamont said as he came out of the bathroom a few minutes later with a smooth, clean face. “If you want to get in touch with someone, let me know.”

“You or Rona, right?”

“Yeah, but I know her schedule, her moods, what sets her off and makes her happy. You don’t. It’s always safer to talk to me first, even if it’s just to run something by me.”

“How do I reach you?”

“You won’t need to. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other. I’ve really gotta fly. No swearing and drop the attitude, you’re working on those, right?”

“Shit, yeah.”

As soon as Lamont was gone, Adam got the satchel from the floor, put it on the bed. Knelt beside it as he pulled on the zipper, opened it wide. The satchel was Carter’s, probably older than both their ages combined, tan leather, brittle and cracked. Faded X-Men decals on the sides. Carter had put them there in the fifth grade, when he’d started using the old satchel to carry around all his X-Men paraphernalia. Lately, he had been using it to carry sketchbooks, projects in progress. It was that satchel Carter grabbed when they decided to go sit in a coffee shop at two or three in the morning.

In a zippered compartment inside the satchel, Carter kept a small handheld PC, about the size of a VHS cassette, equipped with a cellular modem. If someone had searched the bag carefully, the computer would not be there. But it was so small and slender, it might have survived a cursory glance.

Adam smiled as he closed his hand on the lightweight slice of plastic, unnoticed by Horowitz. He e-mailed Alyssa, instructed her to meet him in the Movies chat room at Yahoo. Then he waited, with no idea how long it would be before Alyssa found his e-mail. He channel-surfed with the television remote for a while. The Superstation was showing a marathon of the old black-and-white series, The Outer Limits. Adam tossed the remote aside and lay back on the bed. Got comfortable so he could watch the show while he waited. And promptly fell asleep.

* * *

He awoke four hours later, washed his face. Switched from the Superstation to Letterman on CBS. His computer—actually Carter’s—was still online, and he had mail. Two notes from Alyssa. The first was excited, asked where he was, what had become of him, and why the strange e-mail address. The second, sent less than five minutes ago, simply said she was still waiting for him in the chat room he had specified.

Adam had neglected to tell her not to e-mail him, and wished he had. If Horowitz discovered the computer, he did not want to give her any proof that he had contacted anyone. He especially wanted to avoid involving Alyssa.

He went to Yahoo, logged onto the Movies chat room.

She was there, using the nickname he had given her. Adam was Nick666 and Alyssa was Nora666. There were sixty-two people in the chat room. Usually, more than half were kids much more interested in shouting obnoxiously in capital letters—“BRITNEY SPEERS IS THE MOST BODAYSHUS BABE WHO EVER LIVD!”—than in reading what anyone posted. In the rush to be the funniest, hippest, most informed or disgusting, no one would notice them.

Alyssa posted, “I miss you so much! I’m so sorry about Carter I didn’t even know what happened till I got out there I didn’t think I’d ever stop crying! Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m better now that I’ve got you online.”

They chatted for two hours. Adam did not want to end their conversation. She knew him, he could be himself with her. His life was suddenly filled with strangers. Alyssa was the only part of his real life that remained. But he knew if he did not end the conversation, neither would she, and they would still be chatting when the sun rose behind the smog in the morning.

“I have to go,” he typed. “Need to get up early in the morning.”

“To do what?”

“Prepare for the trial. Whatever that means. Won’t be able to see each other for a while.”

“How long is ‘a while?’”

“I don’t know. However long it takes. I’m sorry, Alyssa, it’s not up to me. My life is in the hands of an uptight Munchkin who smokes beige cigarettes that smell like burning goat turds.”

“LOL!” Alyssa replied. It stood for “Laughing Out Loud.” “You mean R.H.?”

“Yes. You know how, at a circus, a little tiny car will pull into the ring, and then about a hundred little midget clowns pile out of it? Well, she’s the one at the wheel kicking them out because they refused to wear the clothes she wants them to wear. She’s got me wearing Armani suits. As long as you don’t tell ANYBODY, we can stay in touch this way. Don’t even tell Brett. And don’t talk to the press. You’re not obligated to answer ANY questions. By the way, have you heard from R.H.?”

“Heard from her? No. Should I?”

“Eventually. She’s going to tell you I can’t see you anymore—but DON’T BELIEVE IT! It’s a long story, I’ll tell you everything later. Don’t tell her about chatting with me. Just act upset and get rid of her.”

“There’s no way I can see you? I miss you so much!”

“I think about you all the time. Every second.”

“You’re all I can think about, too. I want you on top of me, I want you inside me.”

Someone using the nickname Barnstormer said, “Get a room, Nick and Nora. This is a family chat room!”

They agreed to meet in the chat room at noon the next day. If he was not there, Adam told her to keep checking until she found him. He did not know what his schedule would be yet, so he wasn’t sure when he would be able to get back online.

They declared their love for one another in front of sixty faceless strangers, and said their goodnights. Adam went back to sleep thinking of Alyssa. And hoping that if he dreamed that night, it would be of her and nothing else.

FORTY

Adam dreamed of kissing Alyssa.
They stood in a naked embrace, sucking each other’s tongues as if for life. She pulled away from him and said, “Adam. Wake up.”

He tried to pull her to him again, but his arms slid through her as she disappeared.

“Time to wake up, Adam!” The voice was female, but not Alyssa’s.

Adam looked down. Horowitz stood where Alyssa had been, squat and naked and frowning, but somehow—and this made Adam cringe—not unattractive.

“Breakfast is getting cold,” Horowitz said.

The dream vanished and Adam opened his eyes. Horowitz’s face hovered over him like a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. He realized he was lying naked under a sheet, on his back with a tingling erection pointing at the ceiling. He rolled over and grabbed the blanket, pulled it over himself. Sat up and hugged his knees. “Out of one nightmare and into another,” he said, groggy. “This is like a Brian DePalma movie.”

“Shower and dress quickly,” Horowitz said.

Adam looked at his bedside digital clock. The green numbers changed to 4:59 a.m. “It’s only five o’clock,” he said. “I’ve got another—”

“No, you do not. Get up immediately.” She walked to the open double doors, turned to Adam. “We have a big day ahead of us.” Leaned toward him slightly, a doorknob in each hand. “Actually, you have a big day ahead of you. There has been a development that requires our immediate attention. Now, hurry and come to breakfast.” She pulled the doors closed as she backed out.

“Son of a bitch,” Adam said as he got out of bed.

“I heard that,” Horowitz called from the next room.

He rolled his eyes on the way to the shower. Muttered under his breath, “You...you...treacherous twat.”

“I heard that, too.”

He froze, cringed, and gooseflesh bubbled on his shoulders.

* * *

Two months after his arrest, Adam Julian was all over television. For the first three weeks, one of his few outings showed up on television repeatedly. Newscasters spoke over footage of Adam leaving his hotel, entering the courthouse for his arraignment, leaving the courthouse after his arraignment, or entering his hotel. In the clips, he wore a gray Armani suit with a plum-colored shirt and black-and-gray tie. Adam was afraid people would think he never changed his clothes. For three weeks, it was all the public saw of him, except for the high school photograph some news outlets used occasionally. Both CNN and Court TV used the footage in promos of their ongoing coverage of the story. CNN’s was a grainy black and white, in slow motion, accompanied by melancholy strings and ominous, dirge-like drums. Court TV was calling their coverage “Murder in Beverly Hills,” which made no sense to Adam because the actual murders had taken place off Marina del Rey.

The trial would not start until February, but it was already a highly-anticipated television event. Right after Adam was arrested, Michael Julian’s movies began to show up everywhere. They ran on premium channels, broadcast networks, and all points in between. Two of them, neither intended to be a comedy, showed up on Comedy Central. TV Land was planning a marathon of episodes Michael had written for various television action series. Even American Cinematheque had scheduled a retrospective of Michael’s movies to be shown at the Egyptian.