The Boy Who Never Grew Up (14 page)

“You interest me, Mr. Hoag,” Zorch remarked, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Why?”

“You obviously don’t care what anyone else thinks of you. That makes you unpredictable. And potentially dangerous. Are you?”

A waiter appeared at my elbow. “More wine, sir?”

“If you insist,” I said.

The waiter didn’t pour. Just stood there, cackling. I finally looked up at him. I didn’t have to crane my neck very far. It was Joey Bam Bam, rocking back and forth on his heels like a hobbyhorse with a perm.

“I thought you were going to stop following me, Bam Bam,” I said.

“I did stop following you,” he said, grinning at me. “
You’re
following
me
.”

“My mistake.”

“Romola is dying to meet you,” he said, indicating a table across the room where four other miniagents in dark suits sat with the latest in a never-ending series of six-feet-tall, ninety-pound teenagers with silicone breasts and collagen lips. “Great bunch of guys for you to meet, too. Come on over and say hello.”

“We’re discussing business right now.”

“Sure, sure. Sorry to interrupt.” He lingered there next to me, begging with his eyes like a hungry stray.

I sighed inwardly. “Joseph Bamber of the Harmon Wright Agency, say hello to Abel Zorch and Norbert Schlom.”

He shook their hands, beaming. “Mr. Zorch—a pleasure. Mr. Schlom—an ultrathrill, sir. I happen to represent Johnny Forget.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Schlom, his jaw working on a piece of paper. “How’d you get stuck with that little fuckhead?”

“I’ll be in touch with you, sir, if you don’t mind. I have a number of exciting ideas to discuss. Are you a fan of Romola? She happens to be—”

“Disappear,” commanded Schlom.

“Yessir.”

And he did.

Our pizzas arrived. Toy Schlom and Geoffrey with a G returned with them. We made small talk about the heat wave while we ate, Toy eating with great appetite and pleasure. She swallowed nothing. Each time she finished chewing a mouthful of food she raised her napkin to her mouth and coughed discreetly into it. That season’s newest diet. Several other women at Spago, including Romola, were also spitting their designer cuisine into their napkins.

We were discussing our main course selection—Lulu and I were leaning toward the grilled tuna—when Pennyroyal Brim and Trace Washburn walked in. That’s the wonderful thing about Spago. You just never know who you’ll run into there.

Trace led the way, moving through the room with the self-assured ease of someone who was used to being a star. He limped slightly. Four years of calling the signals at USC followed by ten more of stunt work will leave you slightly battered. But even at fifty he was still very much the Malibu beach boy he’d always been—tall and rangy and narrow-waisted, his shaggy blond hair only slightly tinged with gray, his chiseled face weathered by the sun and handsome as ever. He grinned easily. A big, sleepy grin, his deep-set eyes twinkling roguishly. He wore an old denim shirt, faded jeans with patches on them, and elkskin cowboy boots. He carried his bottle of beer loosely by the neck, and was somewhat drunk.

America’s sweetie pie trailed after him, done up like the world’s cutest little business executive in a double-breasted gray pin-striped pantsuit with padded shoulders, peaked lapels, and no blouse—no nothing—under it. A very sexy look. Pennyroyal Brim happened to be very sexy. She was about five feet five, slim and curvy, and she knew how to move. True, there were probably three or four women around town who had nicer bodies. But there were none who had her face. There weren’t faces like hers anywhere. She had the clear, porcelain blue eyes of a baby—sweet, innocent, and trusting. Her nose was a little girl’s snub, her mouth a pink, perfect rosebud, her complexion so flawless it glowed. She wore her long, golden hair parted down the middle and brushed loose. She had on no makeup of any kind. None was needed. The woman already sparkled, especially when she smiled. It wasn’t because of her famous dimples. It wasn’t because of her shiny white teeth. It was
her.
She was the girl-next-door of every man’s dreams. Young and clean and oh, so sweet. She was pure magic.

“Pretty Penny, dear child,” Zorch called out to her. “Come join us.”

She stiffened at the sound of her attorney’s voice, then murmured something to Trace, steeled herself, and marched over, Trace now tagging along.

“I’m glad you’re here, Abel,” she said, in that unexpectedly deep, hoarse voice of hers. “We have to—”

“We were just about to order, dear,” he said brightly. “Sit and eat with us.” Our table seated six—there was one empty chair. “I’ll have Bernard bring us over another chair.”

“Don’t bother,” muttered Schlom, glaring up at Trace with his yellow rat’s eyes. “We’re fine just like we are.” Clearly, the actor was not welcome at either Norbert Schlom’s studio or his dinner table. I wondered why.

In response, Trace launched into his heavy breathing thing. “Well, shit, Norb …” he panted. Trace Washburn was a distinguished graduate of what Merilee called the Clu Gulager School of Acting, in honor of the fifties TV Western performer who patented the heavy breathing technique. First take a deep breath. Then pause. Then speak on the exhale. Result: you always sound as if you’ve just ridden in off the dusty trail, parched and weary. Other noted alumni included Kris Kristofferson and Gary Busey. I can’t tell you if they did it even when the cameras weren’t rolling. Trace did. “You almost make a …” Pant, pant. “Make a guy feel … unwelcome.”

Schlom refused to look at him. Just stared straight ahead. Toy sipped her wine, coloring slightly.

Trace took a swig of his beer, then squinted at me. “I know you, Buck?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Zorch made the introductions. Trace’s hand was leathery and strong. I got no handshake from Pennyroyal, or smile. Just a grim nod.

“Abel, we have to talk,” she said urgently.

“Of course, dear. Have a seat.”

She shot a nervous glance up at Trace.

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, darlin’ … don’t mind me. I’ll do some … mingling.” He looked around, caught sight of Romola seated with the young guns of HWA. “Down, Big Steve!” he exclaimed to his nether region. “Whoa, boy! Down, Steve!” Cassandra wasn’t exaggerating—he definitely talked to it. Grinning, he started off in Romola’s direction.

“Trace?” said Pennyroyal, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “Behave yourself, okay?”

He took her small hand in his and kissed it affectionately. “I always behave, darlin’. Always.” And off he limped.

She sat, reached for one of Zorch’s cigarettes, and lit it. “Look, Abel, this sucks,” she said, pulling on it tensely. Her hands were shaking.

“What does, dear?” asked Zorch mildly.

“I have fifty photographers parked outside my house day and night, climbing my fence, following me everywhere I go, calling me a whore, lying about me.”

Zorch shrugged. “If you’re mediocre, people will leave you alone your whole life.”

“And where did this ‘best sex I ever had’ shit come from?” she demanded. “I never said it. Any of it!”

“I honestly don’t know, dear,” he replied with oily sincerity. It was a wonder the man didn’t slide right off his chair onto the floor.

“Abel, I can’t stand this anymore!” There was desperation in her voice. The lady was stressed out, no question. “You’re turning me into
Madonna
!”

“
I’m
turning you?” he responded coldly. “You’re a big girl now, Penny. Too big to play blame games. I am merely your legal advisor. I work for you. If you wish for this to stop, then say so.”

“I want it to stop,” she declared. “I want it to stop
now
!”

“As it happens,” Zorch said graciously, “Norb and I were just discussing that very notion with Mr. Hoag.”

“Unsuccessfully,” I pointed out.

She shot a quick look over at Trace, who was busy hitting on Romola with the easy confidence of a Hall of Fame slugger. Then she turned to me. “You’re the one who’s working for Matthew?”

“I am.”

“How is he?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t exactly call him great.”

“Tell him hello, will you?” She swallowed, her pink, perfect lower lip quivering slightly. “Tell him Georgie is fine.”

“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

She glanced at Zorch, who shook his head. “No,” she said hoarsely. “I can’t.” To him she said: “I’m really, really unhappy, Abel. I mean it.”

“Not to worry, dear,” he said soothingly. “It’s normal to feel that way at this stage. Just leave everything to me.”

“I have,” she said miserably. “And everything sucks.”

“Of course it sucks, darlin’,” Trace broke in as he returned to us. “What’d you expect from the Iguana? C’mon … our table’s ready.”

“In a second, Trace,” she said.

“You’re wasting your time,” Trace insisted, panting. “You won’t ever get a straight answer out of him—he’s incapable of one. He and Norb both … Isn’t that right, Norb?” Schlom glowered at him in angry silence. Undaunted, Trace turned and eyeballed the man’s wife. “You’re looking mighty foxy tonight, Toy,” he said with easy familiarity. “Mighty foxy, indeed.”

“Thank you, Trace,” she said quietly.

Schlom could take no more. He threw down his napkin and galumphed off to the men’s room. Two agents popped up and raced off after him. Whoever said it’s lonely at the top didn’t know the movie business. Studio chiefs don’t even pee alone.

“When are you going to grow up, Trace?” Toy scolded.

Trace drained his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his big, brown hand. “Never, I hope.”

“It isn’t so, Trace,” Zorch fumed. “What you said. And I resent it. I’m being totally straight with Penny. I’m totally straight with everyone. I happen to be a man of my word.”

Trace laughed harshly. “Oh, yeah? Then tell me this, man of your word … how come I can’t get in the door at Panorama?”

“You know why,” Zorch replied, under his breath.

“So I was a bad boy,” Trace admitted easily. “Big fucking deal. All the bad boys are working. Dennis works. Ryan works … Why can’t I work?”

“You know why,” Zorch repeated.

“You could fix it with him,” Trace suggested.

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” countered Zorch, his cup spilling over with false modesty.

“He’s right, Abel,” Penny said. “You could.”

“Hey, you want me to beg, I’m begging,” Trace persisted. “Put in the word for me, man. I’m starving.”

Zorch smirked. He was enjoying this.

Frustrated, Trace grabbed him by his ugly green necktie and pulled. Hard. “Damn it, why won’t you let me work, you weasel!?”

Zorch sputtered, arms flailing helplessly. The actor had cut off his air supply.

Pennyroyal rushed over and threw herself between them. “Trace, let him go,” she commanded.

Trace did. He was pretty obedient. And she was pretty gutty.

“C’mon, let’s go eat,” she said to him softly.

She led him off to their table. He went willingly. No one in the place paid much attention to the outburst. They were used to emotional scenes at Spago.

Zorch fingered his throat, shaken. “I hate that man,” he said bitterly.

“He doesn’t seem particularly fond of you either,” I observed.

“I’ve hated him for thirty years.”

“That’s a lot of hate.”

“I could not be happier that he’s on his ass,” he added, sneering at him. “Fuck him. Fuck
him
.”

“Why
can’t
he work for Panorama?” I asked.

Zorch and Toy exchanged a look.

“That’s a long, sad story,” Toy replied. She got no further—somebody was approaching our table. Not her husband. Not Trace.

It was Johnny Forget.

He was weeping uncontrollably. His black leather motorcycle jacket was half off one bare shoulder. His nose was bleeding. He was a mess. “
Why,
Abel?!” he wailed, his hairless chest heaving. “Why are you
doing
this to me?!”

“Doing what, John?” Zorch asked him calmly and patiently, as one would a child.

“You
know
what!” Johnny’s little boy voice was choked with emotion and rage. He sounded like a five-year-old who’d just learned the truth about Santa Claus. “You’re dicking me! You’re f-fucking that bimbo behind my back!”

He meant Geoffrey with a G, who took offense. And started to his feet. Zorch stopped him.

Johnny certainly took direction, I’ll say that for him. Matthew had suggested he confront his two-timing lover, and that’s what he was doing. It just so happened that the two-timer was Abel Zorch. Small town. Always has been.

“I am not dicking you,” Zorch assured Johnny. “I am having dinner with some business associates.”

“When are you gonna stop
lying
to me?!” Johnny cried at the top of his lungs.

That one drew a reaction from Trace across the room. “Give him hell, Badger!” he called out approvingly.

And brought Joey Bam Bam rushing over.

“May we discuss this later, John?” said Zorch irritably. Schlom was returning to our table from the men’s room.

“No! I wanna have it out
now
!” cried Johnny.

“Later,” Zorch said sharply.

“Now!”

“C’mon, pal, now’s not a good time,” Bam Bam advised, putting an arm around his troubled young client. “Man’s having dinner, talking business with Mr. Schlom. Right, Mr. Schlom?” He started steering Johnny away. “C’mon, John-John. Let’s hit the road.”

“Get your hands off me,” snapped Johnny.

Joey pulled back instantly. “Okay, okay, they’re off. See? They’re off.”

Johnny stood there gazing at Zorch, his eyes red and swollen, tears streaming down his cheeks. Zorch stared back at him. His own hooded eyes betrayed nothing.

“You’ll be sorry,” Johnny vowed, his voice quavering. “You’ll be sorry you did this to me.” Then he stormed out, Bam Bam on his tail.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Schlom muttered to his wife.

Toy shook her head in reply.

Zorch went back to discussing our main course, unfazed.

Ten seconds later there was gunfire. It came from outside. Several shots fired in rapid succession by a semiautomatic. It got very quiet in Spago. They were used to emotional scenes. They were not used to gunfire. Lulu moaned from under my chair. She hates guns. Then there was a screech of tires and Johnny’s Fat Boy went roaring off down Sunset.