The Boy Who Never Grew Up (18 page)

“Not for me,” he replied, offhanded. “I quit the team after the first game.”

“How come?”

“Didn’t like it.”

“How come?”

“No real reason,” he said defensively.

“I think there is,” I suggested.

“I don’t care what you think!” he snapped. “It’s my life and it’s my book. I quit the team,
period.
Just leave it at that.”

I did for a moment. Then I said, “Why can’t you tell me about it, Matthew?”

“Can we get out of here now?” Matthew demanded, growing agitated. “Can we get on the freeway and get out of this place?”

“As soon as you tell me why you quit the team.”

“I
told
you—it wasn’t for me! Now would you please start this damned car?!”

“I’ll find out the reason, Matthew. One of the Shelleys will tell me, Bunny will tell me—”

“No one will tell you. They don’t know why.
Nobody
knows why.”

“So there is a reason.”

“There is not! How many times do I have to tell you?! I just
quit,
okay?!”

“Matthew, let’s have a small reality check here. You’re thirty-eight years old. You’re the single most successful director in the history of the planet. What possible difference can it make why you quit your high school basketball team?”

He didn’t answer me. Just sat there, breathing quickly in and out. Faster and faster. Until he abruptly bolted from the car and vomited on somebody’s front lawn.

When he was done he got back in, and I got us back on the freeway. I pushed him no farther. I was satisfied for now. It wasn’t exactly a breakthrough, but it was a start.

We didn’t go straight back to Bedford Falls. On the way he had me stop off in Northridge at Malibu Grand Prix, a go-cart raceway. Fairly elaborate one, too. The track had hairpin twists and turns. The go-carts looked just like Formula One race cars. I imagine it was quite the place if you were eleven years old, or Matthew Wax. He bought himself a fistful of tickets, pulled on a helmet, and took off into the bright, hot sun. A few kids who’d cut school were out there, too, but mostly Matthew had the place to himself.

I found myself a shady spot in the bleachers and watched him. He drove his go-cart racer skillfully and hard. After his first lap he waved to me. From then on he stayed totally focused on the course. And his thoughts. He had a lot on his mind. Some people lose themselves in drink when they do. Some in drugs. Some in sexual liaisons. This was Matthew’s escape. I jotted down some notes while he drove. What he’d told me about his childhood that morning. What he hadn’t told me. I was anxious to talk to his sister. And to Bunny. I was sorry I couldn’t talk to Lou Wax about it as well. But probably not as sorry as Matthew was.

Afterwards, we stopped for lunch at a Denny’s on Ventura Boulevard. Matthew ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake from our waitress, who recognized him and stared. He was still lost in thought, eyes watching the traffic on Ventura outside the window next to us, fingers absently working his Silly Putty. I ordered a Denver omelet and hash browns. Then I sat there, waiting him out.

He took a deep gulp of his shake when she brought it. Then he unloaded. “The thing is,” he declared forcefully, “if you’re an ugly goon when you’re fifteen, you’re an ugly goon for the rest of your life. Until the day you die. You’re always a goon. Even if lots of years go by, even if you get married and have a kid, even if you’re more successful than you ever thought you’d be in your wildest dreams—you’re still that same goon who everybody laughed at. It never changes. It’s who you are.” With that he took another gulp of his shake and sat back in the booth, spent.

I sipped my iced tea. “You’re saying you quit the basketball team because people laughed at you?”

He shook his head, exasperated. “Why do you keep asking me about that?”

“Because you won’t answer me about that.”

“You’re missing my whole point, Meat.”

“Sorry. I get a bit dense sometimes.”

“What I’m saying is that nothing ever changes.”

“How can it—if you don’t let it?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you keep dwelling on every hurtful adolescent fender bender then yes, you’re right. You are your past. But that’s your own choice. And your own mistake. Because you’re
not
that person anymore, except in your own head. We’re living in the present. Whatever happened before doesn’t matter anymore. You have to put it behind you.”

“I have,” he said broodingly.

“Bullshit.”

“I have,” he insisted. “Here, here, I’ll give you a perfect example—an invitation came to me at the studio a few weeks back. My high school graduating class is having its twentieth reunion. A big dinner dance at the Sheraton Panorama City. And it didn’t even faze me one bit. I just shrugged it off and tossed it in the trash. Because I’m not that person anymore, just like you said.”

“You’re going,” I informed him.

He instantly turned pale. “I’m what?”

“You’re going to your reunion. This is one dance you’re not going to miss.”

“Forget it. No way.”

“You’re going,” I assured him. “And I’m going with you.”

“I am
not
going,” he argued, his voice rising. “You can’t make me go. I hate those people. The day I graduated I swore I’d never see any of them ever again. I won’t go. You hear me? I won’t go!”

“You have to go, Matthew. You have to get over this thing—whatever it is.”

He went back to watching the cars out on the street again. “I won’t go.”

“Fine. Then I’ll go without you. And I’ll find out what happened.”

“I refuse to allow it!”

“You can’t stop me, Matthew.”

“Look, Meat, I have a great idea—let’s just forget this whole book, okay? I obviously didn’t know what I was getting into, and you obviously are a loose cannon. Really, I can’t remember the last time I met such a stubborn, domineering pain in the—”

“Careful,” I said demurely. “You’re going to make me blush.”

“Let’s just forget it, okay?”

“Okay, Matthew. If that’s how you feel.”

He sighed. “It’s
not
how I feel. I—I just … why is this so important?”

“Because you’ve made it so important.”

He thought this over, nose twitching, eyes blinking repeatedly behind his glasses. Before he could say anything more his beeper went off again. “Damn. That’s the third time. I’d better find out what she wants. You mind?”

“Go right ahead.”

There was a pay phone outside of the restrooms. He loped off toward it.

The waitress brought our lunch while he was gone. I waited for him to come back before I dove in.

He returned quickly, flopped down in the booth, and stared at his food. “Better hurry up and finish, Meat,” he said numbly. “We have to get back.”

“What happened?”

“The
Enquirer
got hold of Pennyroyal’s nude shots. They’re rushing them into print.”

“I thought Shelley had the only set of negatives.”

“He did. Somebody broke into his office and stole them out of his desk.” His eyes filled with tears. “Where does this end, Meat? Can you tell me that? Where does this end?”

“I have to give the press a statement.” Shelley Selden sat slumped behind his desk, distraught. “I have to tell them something,
anything.”

We were all seated in his paneled office in the executive suite of the big white building. Matthew, Sarge, Bunny, Shadow. Shadow was still half asleep—he’d been on the gate all night and only just gone to bed when Shelley called him. Lulu lay at my feet making low, unhappy sounds and shooting murderous looks at Bunny. One salmon patty too many, evidently.

There was a fireplace in Shelley Selden’s office, a leather sofa, armchairs, a long conference table of polished walnut. His desk was also walnut. A fine piece, except for where the bottom drawer had been smashed open. It was a sedate office, the office of a judge or college president. Matthew’s office next door looked more like a playroom, with all of the pinball machines and toys he had crammed in there. The executive suite was on the building’s second floor, directly across the hall from the screening room. An outer office for secretaries, a waiting area, and Sarge’s office made up the rest of the suite.

Sarge sat cross-legged on the floor shooting worried looks at Matthew, who seemed to have withdrawn inside himself. He sat sprawled in an armchair playing with his Silly Putty, gazing off into space and saying not one word. His face was a blank.

“What you gonna tell them?” she asked Shelley.

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” he replied irritably. “Except that we had nothing to do with it, and we don’t know how it happened.”

“They won’t be satisfied with that,” she pointed out.

“Hey, I know that,” he acknowledged, helping himself to a handful of jelly beans from a big jar on his desk. “And who can blame them? Everybody’s going to think we leaked them ourselves to get back at her.”

“Is the
Enquirer
saying how they got them?” I asked.

“Nope,” he replied. “Just that they’re authentic and that they’ll be printing them tomorrow, suitably touched up.
Playboy
and
Penthouse
are already in a major bidding war over who gets the X-rated version.” He shook his head ruefully. “Zorch was on the phone screaming bloody murder at me. He’s threatening to sue us.”

“Why don’t he sue
them
?” Sarge wondered. “Get some injunction to stop them from publishing the pictures?”

“That never works,” argued Shelley. “All it does is give them more publicity, which is exactly what they want. Besides, Zorch is the very person who did this. Zorch had them stolen. Zorch leaked them. It’s Zorch!” he cried, pounding the desk with his fist. His bandaged wrist didn’t like that. He massaged it, wincing. “Zorch did this. I know he did.”

“Why would he?” I asked. “His client is in the middle of a bitter custody battle. He wants her to look like the good little mother. Why smear her this way?”

“He doesn’t care about Pennyroyal,” said Shelley. “All he cares about is heat. And he’s getting plenty.”

I wondered. That wasn’t what Zorch had said to me at Spago. He’d said the Japanese wanted him to turn down the heat. Had he and Schlom just been blowing smoke at me?

“Shameful,” said Bunny, her lips tightly pursed. “My grandson’s mother posing naked in the newspapers. This will never go away. Somebody will always remind Georgie of this. Always.”

Matthew shifted restlessly in his chair at the mention of Georgie’s name.

“I blame myself for this,” said Shelley bitterly. “I should have put the negatives in my safety deposit box at the bank the second Zorch got involved. That’s what I should have done. But I thought they were safe here. I mean, shit, my desk is always locked when I’m not here. So is my office. And we have damned good security, don’t we, Shadow?”

“Yessir,” said Shadow, yawning. “That we do.”

“We have a fence topped with razor wire around the entire lot,” Shelley said forcefully, as if he were waging an argument with someone. “We have floodlights, three guys patrolling on electric carts, a man on the front gate twenty-four hours a day. We’re talking
Mission Impossible
for somebody to get on this lot who doesn’t belong here. I don’t understand how it happened. I just don’t.”

“You mentioned to me in New York that Zorch’s private detectives were getting onto the lot,” I reminded him.

“They were,” Shadow acknowledged. “But we’ve tightened up since then. No visitor gets through the gate without we phone up the department they’re visiting to confirm it. They’re issued a pass, and they have to return it when they leave so’s we can account for everybody. No strays. No stragglers.” He turned to Shelley and said, “Be best to let the Culver City Police handle it from here.”

“No police,” said Shelley sharply. “You let the police in, you’re letting the press in—where one goes the other follows. We’ll have reporters swarming all over the lot. No way. We keep this thing in the family. It’s our mess. We clean it up ourselves.”

“Zorch was aware that the negatives existed?” I asked.

“Of course,” Shelley said, reaching for more jelly beans. “Pennyroyal warned him all about them. That’s how come I’m so sure he’s responsible. He must have had one of his detectives do it. Or maybe some sleazy reporter.”

I could think of one such reporter right off. Someone who no one could keep out if she wanted in. Someone who would do anything to climb atop the bestseller list.

There was a tapping at the door. Shelley’s secretary poked her head in. “Excuse me, we’re holding an urgent call for you, Mr. Hoag.”

“Take it right here, Hoagy,” offered Shelley, pushing his phone toward me. “Put it through, Brenda.”

It rang a moment later. I picked it up.

“Mr. Hoag? It’s Abel Zorch.” He sounded upset. Very upset. “Are you free to talk?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“We must talk.”

“Okay.”

“It’s
vital
.”

“I said okay.”

“Can you make it up to my house this evening? Six-thirty?”

I said that would be fine. He gave me his address. Then I hung up. Shelley was looking up at me expectantly.

“Reporter,” I explained. “They’ll try anything.” I came around his desk to get a better look at the drawer. The wood was dented and splintered, the lock shattered. It looked like a pry bar had been used on it. “Any idea what time this happened?”

“After I got you settled in your bungalow I worked a little longer in my office,” Sarge said. “Came in here about one-thirty to leave some budget projections on the desk. It looked fine then.”

“How did you get in here?” I asked.

She frowned. “What you mean?”

“Wasn’t his door locked?”

“I have keys to everything,” she informed me, a bit defensively.

“Who else does?” I asked.

“The Shadow does,” said Shadow. “Other guards, custodians …”

“What time do they generally clean?”

“Between seven and nine in the evening,” he said.

“Did you spend the night here?” I asked Sarge.

She nodded. “On my sofa. Locked up before I went to sleep. The hall door was locked. Shelley’s door was locked. Both of ’em. I’m sure of it.”