The Boy Who Never Grew Up (31 page)

When she did she gave me a sleepy, sated grin. “He’s asleep. You a friend of his?”

I said I was.

“Want me to wake him?”

I said I did.

She clumped off toward the bedroom. I heard murmuring in there, followed by some playful giggling. A slap and some more playful giggling. Then he came shambling out, yawning, big and brown and naked except for the faded blue jean cutoffs he was buttoning. His shaggy blond hair was rumpled, his deep-set eyes bleary, his two-day growth of beard flecked with gray. He was tanned and weatherbeaten all over. His hide was like old leather. Nothing but rope underneath. His shoulders were broad, his belly flat and hard. There were long, jagged surgical scars on both knees and one on his right shoulder. He moved slowly and stiffly, like the wounded. Most of his toenails were black and dead looking.

He limped over to the refrigerator, pulled out a six-pack of Corona longnecks, and started his heavy breathing thing. “Guess I dropped off. That there Rosie—she plum wore Big Steve out. Found her at the market this morning. Never know what you’ll find there.” He tasted his chili, poured a jolt of Wild Turkey into it, and himself. Then he looked me up and down. “Want a pair of trunks or something?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then c’mon, Buck.”

Steep, wooden stairs took us down to the sand. It was much cooler down there with the spray coming off of the water. A pair of rickety lounge chairs were half buried in the sand by the water’s edge, where Lulu was having a grand time nosing around at the assorted sea life, paws and ears all wet and sandy. She snuffled happily at our arrival and bounded over to say hello. We sat. Trace opened two Coronas and handed me one. Most of the sun had dropped into the ocean now. The sky was turning from red to purple.

“See that thin gray line out along the horizon?” he said, squinting out at it. “Heat wave’ll break tonight. Be cold and foggy in the morning. I grew up around here. Surfed these beaches for almost forty years. You get to know the signs.” He shifted in his chair, wincing. “The old aches don’t lie, neither.”

“Get kicked by a lot of horses?” I asked.

“Horses, blitzing linebackers, and crazy ladies.” He took a swig of his beer and scratched at the wiry stubble on his cheeks. “I had nothing to do with shooting Abel.”

“So you said. Can someone vouch for you?”

“That part’s a little tricky.”

“I’m not the law.”

“But you talk to them.”

“If I have to. When I do, I choose my words carefully. Have they questioned you yet?”

He nodded. “Came out this afternoon.”

“Was it Lamp?”

“He a black guy?”

“No.”

“I told him I was swimming. He talked to some of my neighbors, then split. He wasn’t satisfied, but he did split.”

“They’ll be back. You can count on it, Trace. And you can’t duck it.”

“Well, shit.” His chest rose and fell. “Maybe you can impress upon him how touchy this is.”

“Maybe.” I sipped my beer. “But I have to know who you’re protecting.”

He told me. She happened to be one of the three biggest box office names in the world. Bigger than Pennyroyal. Bigger than Merilee. Her husband ran one of the major studios. They were, without question, Hollywood’s most glittering duo.

“I thought they were happily married,” I said.

“They are,” he assured me. “She just gets a little wild sometimes, comes looking for a jab from Big Steve. Hell, better me than some guy’d try to take advantage of her. I was with her. No lie. That’s their place over there.” He pointed down the beach to one of the grander sand castles. “I’d surely hate for this to get out. It’d hurt her bad. Wouldn’t do me much good either. Angry husbands don’t go out of their way to hire me. I haven’t worked in a year. I’ll lose this place soon if I don’t. Ain’t much, but it’s all I got.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “No promises.”

He shook his head sadly. “Big Steve just gets me into one scrape after another. He can’t turn a girl down. And I can’t make him. I figure I owe it to them. They deserve something sweet to remember in their old age, something that’ll put a smile on their pretty little face. Hell, that’s what I’m here for. Dumb, I guess.”

“I wouldn’t call it smart getting mixed up with Pennyroyal. As a career move, I mean.”

“You’re right,” he admitted readily. “Smoked me with Matthew. I knew that going in, too.”

“So to speak.”

He gave me a sleepy grin, crossed his scarred, knobby legs. “She’s a nice kid, Penny. Sweet little body, great skin. Awful serious. She don’t laugh much. I like to laugh. We’re real different that way.” He was silent a moment. “She also has a future. I don’t. But I’m crazy about that little girl. She’s one worth holding onto. Wish I knew how.” He glanced over at me. “You and Merilee been together a long time.”

“Off and on,” I said.

“She’s an impressive woman.”

“Only if you’re impressed by perfection.”

“I’m impressed by you. You must be all man.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“What’s your secret then?”

“My secret?”

“How do you manage it?”

“You wouldn’t, perchance, be yanking my frank, would you?”

“Hell, no,” he insisted. “Holding on to ’em is something I never learned how to do. I envy anyone who can. No lie.”

“There’s no real secret,” I informed him. “She just gives me plenty of room to be myself, and I give her plenty of room to be herselves.”

He scratched his stomach with a big brown hand. “And that works?”

“Not right now it doesn’t.”

“How come?”

“How about if I ask the questions?”

“Sure, sure,” he said easily, draining his Corona. “Go on.”

“Has Pennyroyal ever talked to you about her past?”

“What past? She’s twenty-five years old.”

“Those nude shots of hers.”

He shrugged, eyes on the ocean. “These things happen. Everybody gets used.”

“She said it was Toy who did the using—back when Toy was a pro.”

“That I didn’t know,” he said, surprised. “But I reckon Toy’s boned and fileted plenty of folks. Ol’ Toy’s a hard number. People who get what they want tend to be.”

A long, lovely young redhead in a blue spandex unitard went jogging past us on the hard sand. She blew Trace a kiss. He blew one back and watched her disappear down the beach, a hungry look on his chiseled, weatherbeaten face. “Gentle now, Big Steve,” he murmured. “Gentle, boy.”

“What does Norbert Schlom have against you?” I asked.

“Ask him.”

“I did.”

He looked at me. “What did he say?”

“You drink too much, you cost too much, and you’re too old. He said you’re used up.”

He laughed. “That pretty much covers everything—except for the real reason.”

“Is Toy the real reason?”

“Aw, hell no,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s got nothing to do with it. I’ve had her, sure. But that’s the sort of thing Norb gets off on, knowing that someone like me is fucking his wife. He’s into pain and humiliation. They both are. Hell, Harmon Wright used to pay her to take dumps on his chest. He got off on it. Norb does, too. Or so she says.”

“Did she and Abel Zorch have any kind of relationship?”

“She used to get him girls in the old days.”

“For what?”

“His parties. Abel was very big that way. Brought politicians and money men together from all over—Washington, Japan, the Middle East. Lots of deals got struck at Abel’s parties, while the liquor and the girls were flowing.”

“Would Toy have wanted him dead?”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“What’s the real reason, Trace?”

“Real reason?”

“Why won’t Schlom hire you?”

He turned chilly on me. “You like all the dirty details, don’t you, Buck?”

“Not particularly.”

“You get off on this? Go home and jerk off?”

“I go home and write. Pretty much the same thing.”

“Why you do this shit?”

“Pays the bills. And helps keep me insane.”

He tossed his empty beer bottle aside and opened us both fresh ones. He took a gulp and squinted out at the surf, breathing in and out. “It happened seven, eight years ago, when we was shooting the interiors for
Yeti II
at Panorama. Norb was still married to his first wife, Elaine, who looked remarkably like a sheep. His kid, Toby, took to hanging around the set over summer vacation. He’d just graduated from one of them eastern prep schools. Was off to Princeton in the fall. He was a good kid, especially when you considered who his old man was. Funny, in a quiet sort of way. Liked to party, too. Snort, drink, listen to heavy metal. One day, he turns eighteen. Damned if Norb don’t give him a red Lamborghini Countach. Sucker cost more than a hundred grand. Me, I decided to get him laid. Figured it was the least I could do for the little fucker. Had him out here for a little party. Some women I knew came over. We all got ourselves ripped on coke, and into a sandwich. That kid was laughing and grabbing and groaning and sucking. You never saw a hornier kid. He fucked four different women in a half an hour. He fucked like there was no tomorrow.” Trace paused. “Which there wasn’t. He went flying out of here about four in the morning, happy as can be, and crunched his Countach on Sunset. Don’t know if he fell asleep behind the wheel or what. It was a one-car accident. No skid marks … I felt like shit … Norb went berserk when they found the coke in his body. And when they found out where Toby’d been that evening …” Trace whistled softly. “Norb kept it all out of the papers, out of respect for Toby. Didn’t send the law after me. But he made sure he nailed ol’ Trace to the barn door. No studio in town would use me after that. They all stick together, y’know. He also managed to get me audited by the IRS. They cleaned me out of every penny I owned. I didn’t work for two whole years. Matthew rescued me with the Badger pictures. He was the only guy in town who’d give me a job. Now I can’t work for him either. I’m on my ass. Norb, he just won’t let me get back up. I’ve paid, man. I surely have. But Norb is not one to forgive and forget. Neither was Abel. I begged him. You heard me beg him. That wasn’t easy for ol’ Trace. But it was no use. He wouldn’t help me. People in this business, they delight in kicking a man when he’s down.”

“Zorch seemed to take a special delight in it. He told me he’d hated you for a long, long time. Why is that?”

Trace thumbed his chin ruefully. “How much you know about the movie business?”

“More than I care to.”

“I’m just a dumb ol’ football player,” he drawled, “but it’s been my experience that this whole crazy fucking business can be reduced to one simple little word. One word explains it all. I’m gonna give you the benefit of my experience and share that word with you, Buck. It’s
revenge
.”

“Revenge?”

“There was a time at SC, long ago, when I was what they called a big man on campus. I was the golden boy. The quarterback, the campus hero. I got the girls. I got the glory. I got it all. Abel Zorch, he was an unpopular little weasel. A twerp.”

“You knew him?”

“Never so much as met him. But he knew me. And envied me. And hated me—for being everything he wasn’t. That hate is what drove him to the top. Gave him his greatest ambition in life, which was to someday, somehow,
own
me. Me and every other golden boy and girl like me. This business, Buck, is run by dozens of little Abel Zorchs. Them studio execs, agents, producers—they’re all sweaty, unpopular, bitter little fucks. And now it’s their turn. They get to make all of us golden boys and girls jump through hoops. They decide who’s popular and who isn’t. Who’s pretty and who isn’t. Who gets their phone calls returned and who doesn’t. They make us grovel, submit, suck up to ’em. … They’re getting back at us, man. It means more to them than the money, the fame, the glamour. Having power over guys like me, girls like Penny, it’s what they live for. Penny, she’s trying to fight it. But it’ll never happen. Norb’s just telling her what she wants to hear so she’ll hand over her half of Bedford Falls. You don’t really think he’s gonna let her have any clout, do you? No way, man. She’s fooling herself big time, you ask me. But that’s part of this business, too. Big part.”

“Who do you think killed Abel?”

He yawned. “Shelley Selden.”

“Mister or Missus?”

“Mister. He’s Matthew’s protector, keeper, stooge. He’s devoted his whole life to the guy. If somebody got in that boy’s way, he wouldn’t hesitate to take him out—especially if Bedford Falls was at stake.”

“He hardly seems the type,” I observed.

“Don’t be fooled. That there teddy bear can turn into a real grizzly. He beat the shit out of some guy Johnny’s mom was living with one time when the guy got outta line. I seen him coldcock a caterer on the
Badger
set with my own eyes. Guy got lippy and,
pow
, Shelley punched his lights out. He can definitely blow.”

“That’s very interesting,” I said, thinking about the bandage Shelley had been wearing around his wrist. Had he tripped, like he said? “Let’s talk about Matthew. You’ve made more movies with him than anyone.”

“Seven, if you can believe that. First time I met him he was a pimply kid fetching coffee. Next time I saw him he was a pimply kid directing his own sci-fi film, and I was starring in it. If you’re looking for me to dump on him, I won’t. I got nothing but respect for Matthew. And gratitude. He made me star of five of the top grossing movies in history. Pretty amazing, when you think about it. I mean, shit, Bob De Niro I ain’t. Matthew’s the most single-minded man I’ve ever met. And that includes head football coaches. The man lives, breathes, eats, and sleeps his movies. I can’t honestly say I know him well. It ain’t like we ever raised hell together. He doesn’t do that sort of thing. And he likes to keep his distance from his actors.”

“He and Johnny seem close.”

“That’s really more of a father-daughter thing,” he said. “Any actor needs hand-holding on the set is dead meat with Matthew. He doesn’t like to rehearse, doesn’t like actors offering their input. I think that’s one of the reasons he always liked me—I did what he told me to. Actors, we’re props to him. I’ll give you an example: When we was looping
To the Moon
he added all kinds of sound effects to my big fight scene with the mutant—when I pull the dude’s arm out at the socket—so it’s real gruesome sounding. We’re sitting there watching it one morning and there’s this look of childlike bliss on his face. ‘No one’s ever done that before, Trace,’ he says to me. ‘Done what, Boss?’ I says, thinking he’s making an observation about my performance. ‘The bones,’ he says. ‘You can hear them break.’ Action stuffs what he lives for, and he’s a master. Storyboards everything. Has it all laid out in advance, like a big, live-action cartoon.
Yeti
was his greatest achievement, in my opinion. Shit, that picture was Operation Desert Storm. Planes flew us from Katmandu to a dirt airstrip at Lukla, this Sherpa village about nine thousand feet up. From there it was three whole days by trail up to our location. All the cameras, equipment, people, supplies, everything had to be taken up by these animals they call
dzoms
, which are half yak, half cow. We’re up there eight weeks at nineteen thousand feet, living in tents. It’s fifty below, wind’s howling, Olivier’s half dead. Me, I got frostbite in half my toes. Finally, I says, ‘Hey, Boss, why can’t we just shoot this fucker on a nice warm soundstage somewhere!?’ He says to me ‘No, Trace, that’s what was wrong with the original movie. You knew they weren’t really in the Himalayas.’ I says, ‘How?’ He says, ‘You couldn’t see their breath.’ My attitude was, hey, who gives a fuck? It’s just a movie. But to him, it’s more than that. He spent millions on the avalanche. He was obsessed with making it look authentic. Drove the Sherpas crazy. Kept telling ’em he wanted to bring all of this snow down on top of their village. They kept telling him hey, you can’t—you’ll bring down the whole mountain. And he’s like, hey, so what? I’ve seen it done in a million movies. But in those movies it was
fake
. In a studio. This was a real mountain. Real snow. Real village. He almost didn’t seem to realize that. Never was satisfied with that avalanche. He wanted to bring the mountain down, and they wouldn’t let him.” He laughed. “Whatever he’s doing, it’s always in his own head. Nobody else knows what he’s thinking. Even the
Badger
movies, which had very little action, it was strictly his spin on things that made ’em work.” He cleared his throat. “I hear there’s no part for me in the new one.”